by Satyajit Ray
Why was Lalmohan babu carrying such a box? And why was there such a triumphant smile on his face?
Feluda spoke as soon as Lalmohan babu placed the box on a table and took a seat. ‘Good news from Bombay, I take it? Did you hear from them this morning?’
Lalmohan babu was taken aback by these questions, but the smile did not leave his face. Only his eyebrows rose higher. ‘How did you guess, heh heh?’
‘The siren at 9 o’clock rang an hour ago. Yet your watch is showing 3.15. It can only mean that when you wore it this morning, you were so excited that you didn’t even glance at it. Did you forget to wind it? Or has the spring gone?’
Lalmohan babu said nothing about his watch. He simply tossed one end of his blue shawl over his shoulder, like an ancient Roman, and said, ‘I’d asked for twenty-five. This morning my servant woke me with a telegram. Here it is.’
He took out a pink telegram from his pocket and read it out: ‘“Producer willing offer ten for bandits please cable consent.” I sent my reply, “happily selling bandits for ten take blessings.”’
‘Ten thousand?’ Even Feluda, who hardly ever loses his cool, was round-eyed. ‘Your story sold for ten thousand ?’
Lalmohan babu gave a smooth, velvety smile. ‘I haven’t actually got the money. I mean, not yet. I’ll be paid only when I go to Bombay.’
‘You are going to Bombay?’ Feluda still sounded amazed.
‘Yes, and so are you two. At my expense. I couldn’t have written that story without your help.’
What he said was perfectly true. Perhaps I should explain.
It was Jatayu’s long-cherished dream that a film be made from one of his stories. He was naturally keen on a Hindi film, as that was far more likely to make money. So he had started writing a story that he thought might be suitable for a Hindi film. He knew a man called Pulak Ghoshal who worked in the Bombay film world. He was once Lalmohan babu’s neighbour in Gorpar. Having worked as an assistant director in Tollygunj in Calcutta, he made a snap decision one day to go to Bombay. Now he was a successful director himself. Many of his films had already done very well at the box office.
Lalmohan babu’s story got stuck after the third chapter. When he began to feel that he wasn’t getting anywhere, he came to Feluda for advice. Feluda cast his eye over the unfinished story immediately, and said, ‘It is good that you got stuck at an early stage. If you’d plodded on and finished it, it would have been a complete waste of time. Bombay would have rejected it.’
Lalmohan babu scratched his head. ‘So what should I write that’s going to be accepted? At first, I’d thought of watching a few current films, and then base my story on those. There were long queues everywhere I went. One day I had my pocket picked while I was standing in a queue. The second day, I spent more than an hour just to reach the ticket window, and then they said they had a full house, no tickets. I could see tickets being sold on the black market, but each was for twelve rupees. I could have bought one, but in the end I thought, what if I spend all that money and then get a headache? I might have had to take a pain killer when I came out. So I just went home.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll give you a formula,’ Feluda reassured him. ‘Double roles are very popular these days, aren’t they?’
It turned out that Lalmohan babu didn’t even know what a double role was.
‘Sometimes, there are two heroes in a film, who look identical.’
‘You mean twins?’
‘Yes, they can be twins; or just two men who look similar, but are not related. They may look the same, but one of them is good, the other is evil. Or one is bold and strong, the other is meek and mild. Generally, that’s what you’d find in a film. You could be a little different, and instead of having just one pair of twins, you could have two. Hero number one and villain number one could be the first pair; and hero number two and villain number two could be the second. At first, the audience need not be told about the second pair. It can be a secret. Then . . .’
Lalmohan babu interrupted him. ‘Wouldn’t that make things far too complicated?’
Feluda shook his head. ‘You need enough material to last three hours. It’s no longer fashionable to show a lot of violence, there are new rules about that. So you have to tell your story in a different way. You’ll need an hour and a half to create a tangled web, and another hour and a half to straighten things out.’
‘So all I need are these double roles?’
‘No, there is more. Note it down.’
Lalmohan babu fished out a red notebook and a golden pencil from his pocket.
‘Smuggling, you need smuggling,’ Feluda went on, ‘Gold, diamonds, ganja, charas—it doesn’t matter what it is. Then you need at least five songs. One of them should be devotional, that will be quite useful. You will also need a couple of dances, and two or three chase sequences during which at least one expensive car should be shown rolling down a hill. Then you must have a fire. The hero has to have a girlfriend, she’ll be the heroine; the villain must have a girlfriend, too, except that she will be called a vamp. What else will you need? A police officer! Yes, a police officer with a strong sense of duty; flash-back for the hero; comic relief; quick changes in scenes and events, so that your story doesn’t get boring. Also, it will help if the story can take the major characters to the sea or into the hills because it’s not good for film stars to stay cooped inside a studio for very long . . . Did you get all that?’
Lalmohan babu was still writing furiously. He nodded without pausing for a second.
‘Last, but not the least—in fact, this is most important—you need a happy ending. However, if you can create tragic situations and jerk a few tears before the happy ending, it will work much better.’
Lalmohan babu went back that day with an aching hand. Over the next two months, his struggle to get his story completed led to the appearance of calluses on two of his fingers. Thank goodness Feluda did not have to leave Calcutta during those months. He was called in to help solve the mysterious murder of Kedar Sarkar, but he did not have to travel beyond Barrackpore to make enquiries. Lalmohan babu was thus able to call on us twice a week to consult Feluda. His novel, The Bandits of Bombay, was published a week before Durga Puja began. The story had all the ingredients of a Hindi film, but all within reasonable limits. If a film was made from that story, one thing was for sure. One wouldn’t have to reach for pain killers after seeing it.
Lalmohan babu sent a copy of the manuscript to Pulak Ghoshal even before it came out as a book. About ten days ago, Mr Ghoshal had replied saying he liked the story very much and wanted to start work as soon as possible. He would write the screenplay himself, and the dialogue in Hindi would be written by Tribhuvan Gupte. Every word that Gupte wrote was said to be as sharp as a knife, it went and hit the audience straight in the heart. In reply to that letter, Lalmohan babu had demanded twenty-five thousand rupees for his story (without saying a word to Feluda). The telegram he just showed us was in response to his letter. Perhaps he had realized that twenty-five thousand was a bit excessive.
‘Aaah!’ said Lalmohan babu, sipping hot tea, his eyes half closed. ‘Pulak told me they haven’t changed the original story. Most of the details that I—sorry, we—wrote . . .’
Feluda raised a hand and stopped him. ‘I’d feel happier if you didn’t say “we”. You wrote that story.’
‘But . . .’
‘No buts. Even Shakespeare took ideas from other people. But did anyone ever hear him say “our Hamlet” ? Never. I may have suggested some of the ingredients, but you were the cook. I cannot cook like you. I simply haven’t got your touch!’
Lalmohan babu grinned from ear to ear in gratitude. ‘Thank you, sir. Anyway, he said there were no major changes made to the story. Only a minor one.’
Oh? And what’s that?’
‘It’s the funniest thing. You’ll call it telepathy, I’m sure. You see, I’d mentioned a high-rise building with forty-three floors. My smuggler, Dhundiram Dhurandhar, lives in a flat in that b
uilding. You always tell me to pay attention to detail, so I found a name for that building—Shivaji Castle. I thought the name of a Maharashtrian hero would be most appropriate, since all the action took place in Bombay. Pulak wrote saying there really is a tall building in Bombay with the same name. And guess what? The producer of the film lives there! What can you call it but telepathy?’
‘Hm. What about the kung-fu? Are they keeping it or not?’ Feluda asked.
We three had gone to see Enter the Dragon. Lalmohan babu had instantly decided that his story must have kung-fu in it. In reply to Feluda’s question, he said, ‘Of course they are. I asked them specially. Pulak says they are getting a fight-master from Madras to handle the kung-fu scenes. I believe he was trained in Hong Kong!’
‘When does the shooting start?’
‘I don’t know. I’m going to write again to Pulak and get the date. Then I’ll arrange our travel. How can we stay here in Calcutta when they start shooting our—I mean my—story?’
I bit into a ‘diamonda’. I had had it before, but it had never tasted as delicious as it did that day.
Two
Lalmohan babu returned the following Sunday. Feluda had decided, in the meantime, that he’d offer to meet half the expenses for our travel to Bombay. He had made a little money recently—not only from the cases he’d handled, but also from writing. In the last three months he had translated two books written in English (both were travelogues written by famous travellers in the nineteenth century) and been paid an advance. I had seen him write before in his free time. This was the first time he had done it seriously.
Lalmohan babu rejected his offer outright. ‘Are you mad?’ he asked. ‘In the matter of writing, sir, you are my god and godfather. If I am willing to meet your expenses, it is only out of gratitude. Treat it as your fee!’
So saying, he took out two aeroplane tickets from his pocket and placed them on the table. ‘The flight is at 10.45 on Tuesday morning. We have to check in an hour before that. I will meet you at the airport.’
‘When is the shooting going to start?’
‘Thursday. They’re starting with the climax—that scene with the horse, a car and a train.’
Lalmohan babu had another piece of news for us. ‘Yesterday, Feluda babu, something interesting happened in the evening. A film producer here in Calcutta turned up at my house. He has an office in Dharamtala, he said. He’d got my address from the publishers. Said he wanted to make a film from my Bandits ! It seems no Bengali film has a chance, unless it shows the same things you see in Hindi films. I had to tell him my story was already sold, which seemed to disappoint him no end. Mind you, he hadn’t read the book himself, but had heard about it from a nephew. He was surprised to hear I’d written it without ever having visited Bombay. I didn’t tell him I couldn’t have done it without Murray’s Guide to India, and Felu Mitter’s guidance.’
‘Was he a Bengali?’
‘Yes. Sanyal. He spoke with a slight accent, said he was brought up in Jabalpur. And he was wearing some strong perfume—God, it nearly burnt my nose! I didn’t know a man could wear so much perfume. Anyway, when he heard I was off to Bombay, he gave me an address. Said it was his friend’s. This friend is supposed to be most helpful. I was free to contact him any time I wanted to.’
Although Calcutta can get quite cold in December, I’d heard that Bombay would remain warm. So we didn’t have to pack warm clothes, and everything we needed fitted into two small suitcases.
On Tuesday, I woke to find everything hidden in thick fog. Our neighbour’s house across the road was barely visible. Oh God, would our plane be able to take off on time? Strangely enough, by nine o’clock the fog lifted and a dazzling sun came out. VIP Road, which ran all the way to the airport, was usually more misty than the city-centre; but today the mist was negligible.
The plane was due to leave in fifty minutes by the time we reached the airport. Lalmohan babu was already there. He had even checked in—I saw a boarding card peeping out of his breast pocket. ‘I didn’t wait for you, please don’t mind,’ he said, ‘There was such a long queue, I thought if I didn’t check in quickly, I might not get a window seat. I’m in Row H. Who knows, you might get seats close to mine?’
‘What’s that packet you’ve got? Have you bought a book?’ Feluda wanted to know.
There was a brown packet tucked under Lalmohan babu’s arm. I had assumed it was one of his own books that he was carrying as a present for someone in Bombay.
‘No, no, I didn’t buy it,’ he told Feluda. ‘Remember Sanyal? The man I told you about? He came and gave it to me ten minutes ago.’
‘A present for you?’
‘No, sir. Someone will meet me at Bombay airport and collect it. He’s been given my name and description. Yes, it’s a book and is meant for a relative of Sanyal’s in Bombay.’ Then he smiled and added, ‘I say, can’t you smell an adventure in all this?’
‘That’s a bit difficult, Lalmohan babu,’ Feluda replied, ‘as the smell of Bharat Chemical’s Gulbahar scent has drowned everything else!’
I had got the smell as well. Mr Sanyal’s perfume was so strong that even the packet had picked it up.
‘You’re quite right, heh heh!’ laughed Lalmohan babu in agreement. ‘Sometimes, I have heard, people pass on all kinds of things like this— I mean, stuff that’s banned and illegal!’
‘Yes, that’s true. There’s that large notice hanging outside the check-in counter, warning against the danger of accepting a packet from a stranger. But then, Mr Sanyal is technically not a stranger; and I see no reason to think that his parcel contains anything other than a book.’
We could not get adjacent seats on the plane. Lalmohan babu took the window seat three rows behind us. The flight was more or less eventless—except when the pilot, Captain Datta, began announcing that we were flying over Nagpur, I happened to turn around at that moment. Lalmohan babu had left his seat and was heading straight for the rear of the plane. An airhostess stopped him and pointed in the opposite direction. Lalmohan babu turned back, walked the entire length of the plane again, opened the door of the cockpit and came out instantly, looking profoundly embarrassed. Finally, he found the door to the toilet on his left.
On his way back to his seat, he stopped by my side and whispered into my ear: ‘Take a good look at the fellow sitting next to me. Shouldn’t be surprised if he turns out to be a hijacker.’
I turned my head once more and looked at the man. If Lalmohan babu wasn’t absolutely desperate for an adventure, he would never have imagined his fellow passenger to be a hijacker. The man looked far too meek and mild.
When we landed at Santa Cruz, Lalmohan babu had already taken out the brown packet and was clutching it in his hand. We made our way to the domestic lounge and were looking around, when a voice suddenly said, ‘Mr Ganguli?’ We turned to our right to find a man in a dark red terylene shirt looking eagerly at a south Indian gentleman. It was he who had asked the question. The south Indian man looked faintly irritated, shook his head and went on his way. Lalmohan babu approached red shirt.
‘I am Mr Ganguli and this is from Mr Sanyal,’ he said in one breath.
Red shirt took the packet, inclined his head, said ‘thank you’ and left. Lalmohan babu, having done his duty, looked relieved and dusted his hands.
Our luggage emerged half an hour later. It was 1.20 when we collected it. By the time we reached the city, it would be nearly two o’clock. Pulak Ghoshal had sent a car to meet us, and told us its number. It turned out to be a mustard-coloured Standard. Its driver was both smart and cheerful. He could speak Hindi and English and didn’t seem to mind at all that he’d been hired to drive three strangers from Calcutta. On the contrary, judging by the salute he gave Lalmohan babu, it appeared that he was quite gratified by his assignment. It was he who told us that we were booked at the Shalimar Hotel in the city. Pulak Ghoshal would meet us there at 5.30. In the meantime, we could keep the car and were free to go where we liked.
We left the airport. As soon as our car left the highway and took a road to go to the city, Feluda spoke to the driver. ‘See that taxi in front of us? MRP 3538. Follow it, please,’ he said.
‘Hey, what’s going on?’ Lalmohan babu asked.
‘Simple curiosity about something,’ Feluda replied.
Our car overtook a scooter and two Ambassadors and slipped behind the Fiat taxi Feluda had indicated. The passenger on its back seat was visible through the glass. It was the man in the red shirt.
My heart gave a tiny lurch. Nothing had happened, I didn’t even know why Feluda wanted to follow that taxi; yet I felt a bit nervous, I suppose because the whole thing was so unexpected. Lalmohan babu said nothing more. He knew there was no point in asking Feluda to explain his behaviour. The real reason behind his action would be revealed at the right time.
Our driver drove on, keeping close to the taxi. We began taking in all the sights of a new city. One thing that struck all of us was the presence of large hoardings and posters of Hindi films on virtually every road. I couldn’t remember having seen such a thing, in such large numbers, in any other city. Lalmohan babu craned his neck to read what was written on many of them. Then he said, ‘There are so many names . . . but the writer of the story is hardly mentioned on these! Don’t these people use writers?’
‘Lalmohan babu,’ Feluda told him, ‘if you are expecting to make a name as a writer, then Bombay is not the right place for you. Stories aren’t written, but manufactured here. It is a commodity, a consumer product, like any other. Who would know the name of the person who actually makes Lux soap, tell me? At the most, one might know the name of the company. You should simply be happy that you are being paid for your pains. Take your payment, and keep quiet. Forget about recognition.’