by Satyajit Ray
‘But . . . but . . . what about the murder?’ Mr Bhattacharya cried desperately. ‘I did not kill Jeevanlal!’
‘No, I know you didn’t,’ Feluda spoke scathingly. ‘I did. The murder was also my idea. What I did manage to kill and destroy, Mr Bhattacharya, was your greed, your deception and your cunning. Your career in fraud is over, for everyone in this village will soon learn what you achieved today. Tell me, have you ever heard of anyone speaking to the soul of the living? Come in, Jeevan Babu!’
As a collective gasp went up, Jeevanlal entered the room through the front door. A piercing scream tore through Mr Bhattacharya’s lips, and he scrambled to his feet. The constable quickly put handcuffs on him.
Inspector Pramanik had only one complaint to make. ‘Why did you make us dredge two lakes, Mr Mitter? We wasted such a lot of time!’
‘No, no, please don’t say that. It was necessary to pretend that Jeevanlal had really been killed, and that we were looking for his body. How else could we have exposed Bhattacharya so completely?’
It turned out that Feluda had planned the whole thing to the last detail. When he and I left the ‘body’ and Bholanath and Lalmohan Babu went back to the house, Jeevanlal had got up and slipped into an old store room in the house. His grandmother had seen him, but Feluda had managed to cover it up quickly. In the evening, he had stolen out to make his way to Mr Bhattacharya’s house, so that he could hide among the bushes and come out at the right time; but, rather unfortunately, we were walking through the bamboo grove at the same time, which made him dive into the old temple and pretend to be a corpse once again.
After dinner that night, Tulsi Babu came up to Feluda and said a little ruefully, ‘Are you cross with me, Mr Mitter?’
‘Cross? Of course not. If anything, Tulsi Babu, I am most grateful to you. If you hadn’t told that man my name, he wouldn’t have dared to make up a puzzle about my initials, and I would have had no reason to wonder if his powers were genuine. You helped me a great deal.’
Jeevanlal Mallik turned up a few minutes later. ‘My father is speaking to me again!’ he said, beaming.
‘What did he say?’
‘When I went and touched his feet this evening, he spoke to me with an affection he hasn’t shown for years. He even asked me how our business was doing, and seemed really interested. I could scarcely believe it!’
Lalmohan Babu was busy dealing with the head of a fish. Now he finished chewing and opened his mouth.
‘Then . . . er . . . tomorrow? . . .’ he asked tentatively, looking at Tulsi Babu.
‘Oh yes. It’s definitely going ahead. Everything’s ready.’
‘Very good. My speech is ready, too. Felu Babu, will you please cast an eye over it?’
The Secret of the Cemetery
One
Three days after Pulak Ghoshal’s film completed twenty-five weeks in the Paradise cinema in Calcutta, a second-hand Mark 2 Ambassador drove up to our front door, blowing its horn and making a terrible racket. It was no ordinary horn. What it played, very loudly, was an entire set of musical notes.
Pulak Ghoshal was a film director in Bombay, and his film running at the Paradise was based on a story written by Lalmohan Babu. We knew Lalmohan Babu was thinking of buying a car to mark the occasion, but did not realize that it would happen so soon. Actually, he had done more than buy a car. He had also appointed a driver as he could not drive himself. He had no wish to learn to drive, either. In fact, he made that comment repeatedly, so much so that one day, Feluda was obliged to ask him, ‘Why not?’ Lalmohan Babu had then offered an explanation. Apparently, five years ago, he had started taking lessons, using a friend’s car. After only two days, he had got into the car with a wonderful plot in his head. But, as he was switching to the second gear from the first, the car had given such an awful jerk that the plot for a new novel had flown straight out of his head, never to return.
‘I still regret its loss, I tell you!’ Lalmohan Babu sighed.
His driver—clad in a white shirt and khaki trousers—got out and opened the door for Lalmohan Babu, who tried to hop out onto the pavement, caught his feet in the trailing end of his dhoti and nearly lost his balance, but the smile on his face remained in place. Feluda, however, was looking serious. He opened his mouth only when all three of us were seated inside.
‘Until you change that horrible horn to something more simple and civilized, your car cannot be allowed to enter our Rajani Sen Road,’ Feluda told him.
Lalmohan Babu looked a bit rueful. ‘Yes, I knew I was taking a risk. But when the fellow in the shop gave a demo . . . well, it was just too tempting. It’s Japanese, you know.’
‘It’s ear-splitting and nerve-racking,’ Feluda declared. ‘I had no idea Hindi films would influence you so quickly. And the colour of your car is equally painful. Reminds me of south Indian films!’
‘Please, Mr Mitter!’ Lalmohan Babu pleaded, folding his hands, ‘I will change that horn tomorrow, but allow me to keep the colour. I find that green most soothing.’
Feluda gave up and was about to order some tea, when Lalmohan Babu interrupted him. ‘We can have tea later. Let’s first go for a drive. I won’t feel satisfied until I’ve given you and Master Tapesh a ride in my car. Where would you like to go?’
Feluda raised no objection. He thought for a moment and said, ‘I would like Topshe to see Charnock’s grave.’
‘Charnock? Job Charnock?’ asked Lalmohan Babu, pronouncing the first name as ‘job’.
‘No,’ Feluda replied.
‘No? Are there other Charnocks?’
‘Yes, I’m sure there are, but only one Charnock founded the city of Calcutta.’
‘Yes. That’s who I . . . I mean . . .’
‘His name was Job—pronounced Jobe. A job is work for which you are paid. Jobe is a man’s name. Most people mispronounce the name. You should know better.’
Feluda’s latest passion was old Calcutta. It started with a visit to Fancy Lane, where he had to go to investigate a murder. When he learnt that the word ‘fancy’ had come from the Indian word ‘phansi’, meaning death by hanging, and that two hundred years ago, Nanda Kumar had been hung in the same area, Feluda became deeply interested in the history of Calcutta. In the last three months, he had read endless books on the subject, looked at scores of pictures and studied dozens of maps. As a result, even I had gained some knowledge, chiefly by spending two afternoons at the Victoria Memorial.
According to Feluda, although Calcutta was a ‘young’ city compared to Delhi and Agra, its importance could not be undermined. It was true that Calcutta did not have a Taj Mahal, or a Qutab Minar, or the kind of forts one might see in Jodhpur and Jaisalmer, or even a famous alley like Vishwanath ki gali in Benaras.
‘But just think, Topshe,’ Feluda had said to me, ‘one day, an Englishman was sitting by the Ganges in a place that was really a jungle, packed with flies, mosquitoes and snakes, and this man thought he’d build a city in the same place. And then, in no time, the jungle was cleared, buildings were built, roads were made, rows of gas lights appeared, horses galloped down those roads, palkis ran, and in a hundred years, the new place came to be known as the city of palaces. What that same city has now been reduced to does not matter. I am talking simply of history. Now, some people want to change the street signs, rename them and wipe out history. But is that right? Or, for that matter, is it possible? All right, admittedly, what the British did was purely for their own convenience. But if they hadn’t, what would your Felu Mitter have done today? Try to picture the scene . . . your Feluda, Pradosh Chandra Mitter, private investigator . . . bent over a ledger, pushing a pen and working as a clerk in some zamindar’s office, where the term “fingerprint” would simply mean a man’s thumb impression on a document!’
We went to BBD Bagh, which was known as Dalhousie Square at one time, named after the same Lord Dalhousie who was once the Governor-General of India, well known for annexing Indian states and introducing the railways and the telegraph. Job Charnock
’s tomb—said to be the first brick structure built in Calcutta—was in the compound of the two-hundred-year-old St John’s Church in BBD Bagh. Lalmohan Babu saw it and said, ‘Thrilling!’ But that might have been partly because of the dark, ominous clouds in the sky and the rumble of thunder. He stared at a marble plaque on the tomb and said, ‘Look, it’s not even “Job”, it says “Jobus”. Why is that?’
‘Jobus is the Latin version of Job,’ Feluda explained, ‘can’t you see whatever’s inscribed on that plaque is in Latin?’
‘No, sir. All I can see is that it’s not English and it makes no sense to me. Why does it say D-O-M above his name?’
‘It stands for Dominus Omnium Magister. It means God is the master of all things. Look at the words beneath. May I draw your attention to one in particular? Marmore. You know the Bengali word marmar, don’t you? That and this “marmore” mean the same thing— marble. What is more interesting is that the word marmar hasn’t come from Sanskrit. It is a Persian word. However, if you say marmarsaudh—meaning a marble column—that’s really funny because “saudh” is a Sanskrit word. So we mix Persian and Sanskrit words quite happily in our own language without even realizing it. Take, for instance—’
Feluda could not complete his lecture for, even as he was speaking, a fierce dust storm started without the slightest warning. (Lalmohan Babu called it ‘apocalyptic’.) I had never seen anything like it before. All of us ran blindly towards Lalmohan Babu’s green Ambassador and scrambled into it. The driver, Hari, started it instantly and began speeding towards the Esplanade. For the first time, I saw Shaheed Minar totally obliterated by a sheet of dust. I couldn’t guess the wind speed because all the windows were firmly shut. But I did see a long, thin wicker stand—the kind that chanachur-walas use—come spinning in the air from the direction of the maidan, strike against the top deck of a double-decker bus in front of us, and fly away the next instant towards Curzon Park.
As we approached Park Street, we realized that the trams weren’t running because a tree had fallen across the tramline. Feluda had wanted to show us the old cemetery in Park Street, but the storm made him drop the idea. If we had gone, we might have witnessed a particular event which was reported in the press the following morning. During this catastrophic storm on 24 June (wind velocity 145 kilometres per hour), a tree was uprooted in the South Park Street cemetery. It seriously injured a middle-aged man called Narendra Nath Biswas. What was not explained in the press report was what Mr Biswas was doing in that ancient cemetery, so late in the evening.
Two
The following morning was wet. It stopped raining only in the middle of the afternoon. Feluda had managed to get hold of an old map of Calcutta and Howrah, going back to 1932. After a meal of khichuri and omelettes, he stuffed a paan into his mouth, lit a Charminar, and unfolded the map. In order to look at it properly in our living room. we had to push all the furniture out of the way, and create enough space on the floor to fit the map. It measured 6’x6’.
Lalmohan Babu turned up as we were crawling all over it, inspecting old roads and streets, and Feluda was saying, ‘Don’t try looking for Rajani Sen Road. This whole area was a veritable jungle in those days!’ I noticed that Lalmohan Babu was smartly dressed in dark blue trousers and a yellow bush shirt. ‘Seventy-six trees came down yesterday during the storm,’ he announced. ‘And I’ve done what you told me to do. My car has a new horn which will not remind you of Hindi films, I assure you.’
We were not in a hurry to go out, so we waited until we’d had some tea. Then we set off in Lalmohan Babu’s car and I could see for myself the devastation caused by the storm. I had seen the press report that mentioned the number of uprooted trees, but had been unable to believe it. Now I counted nineteen trees—in some places, a number of branches—lying on the ground by the time we reached Park Street. Three of them were in Southern Avenue alone. It was staggering, although many of the fallen branches had been cleared away.
As we reached the entrance to the Park Street cemetery (Feluda told us where we were going only when we reached Camac Street), I happened to glance at Lalmohan Babu. He appeared a bit subdued. Feluda looked enquiringly at him. ‘In 1941,’ Lalmohan Babu explained, ‘I was in Ranchi. There I saw an Englishman being buried. When the coffin was lowered into the grave, and they threw clods of earth . . . ugh, the sound they made was terrible!’
‘You won’t have to hear that sound here,’ Feluda assured him. ‘There is no chance. In the last one hundred and twenty-five years, no one has been buried in this cemetery.’
The chowkidar’s room was to the right of the entrance. Anyone was free to enter the cemetery during the day, so presumably the chowkidar had little to do. ‘The only thing he must ensure,’ Feluda said, ‘is that no one makes off with a marble plaque. Genuine Italian marble would fetch a good price. Chowkidar!’
The man came out of his room. His appearance told us instantly that he hailed from Bihar. He was chewing tobacco; perhaps he had just put it in his mouth.
‘Was a Bengali Babu injured here yesterday? Hit by a falling tree?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Can we see that spot?’
‘Go down that path . . . right up to the end. Then if you turn left, you’ll see it. The tree is still lying there.’
We went down the paved path he indicated—overgrown with grass—and walked through rows of tombs. They were all twelve or fourteen feet high. At some distance, to our right, was a tomb as high as a three-storeyed house. Feluda said it was probably the tomb of the scholar, William Jones. It was the tallest tomb in Calcutta.
Each tomb had either a white or a black marble plaque, with the dead person’s date of birth, the date on which he died and some other facts. Some large plaques had brief details of the person’s entire life. Most tombstones rose like columns. Their bases were broad, but they tapered off as they rose higher. ‘These are spooks in burkhas!’ proclaimed Lalmohan Babu. He was right in a way, except that these spooks were quite immobile. They were more like spooky guards, protecting the being that was buried underground, encased in a coffin.
‘Do you know what these columns are called in English? Each is an obelisk,’ Feluda told me. Lalmohan Babu repeated the word to himself about five times. I was darting quick looks at the plaques as I passed them by, reading aloud the names written on them: Jackson, Watts, Wells, Larkin, Gibbons, Oldham . . .! Some tombs bore the same family name—obviously the people were all related to one another. The earliest date I had noticed so far was 28 July 1779, twelve years before the French Revolution.
When we reached the far end of the path, I realized how large the cemetery was. The sound of traffic going down Park Street had become quite faint. Feluda told me later that there were more than two thousand graves in that cemetery. Lalmohan Babu pointed at a block of apartments on Lower Circular Road, close to the cemetery, and declared that he would never live there, even if someone paid him a hundred thousand rupees to do so.
The uprooted ‘tree’ turned out to be a large, leafy branch from a huge mango tree. It had crashed to the ground, destroying a large part of a tomb in the process. Several smaller branches were also strewn about.
We walked towards the damaged tomb.
The column rising from it was shorter than the others, barely reaching Lalmohan Babu’s shoulders. It was obvious that even before it was hit by the tree, it had been in a state of disrepair. The portion that had escaped being struck by the falling branch was cracked in several places. The plaster had worn off to expose the bricks within. The branch had also broken certain portions of the marble plaque. The broken pieces were scattered on the grass. The recent rains had turned the whole area wet and muddy, but the slush near this particular grave seemed worse than elsewhere in the cemetery. ‘That’s remarkable!’ exclaimed Lalmohan Babu. ‘The word “God” is still there on the plaque—I mean the portion that’s still intact. Look!’
‘Yes, and you can see the year under that line, can’t you?’ Feluda said.
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‘Oh yes. 185—the last digit is broken. That “God” must be to do with the master of all things.’
‘You think so?’ Feluda’s question made me glance at him. He was frowning. ‘You haven’t looked carefully at the other plaques. Look at the next one.’
There was a large plaque on the next tomb. It said:
To the memory of
Capt P. O’Reilly, H. M. 44th Regt.
who died 25th May, 1823 aged 38 years
‘The date appears just below the name, see? Most of the plaques follow the same pattern. Besides, did you see the word “God” on any other plaque?’
Feluda was right. I had already read the inscription on at least thirty different plaques, but not one mentioned God.
‘You mean to say “God” was the dead man’s name?’ Lalmohan Babu wanted to know.
‘No, I don’t think anyone is ever called “God”, although some Hindus may be called Ishwar or Bhagwan. Look at the plaque more closely. There is a sizeable gap to the left of the “G”. That can only mean that there was no word or letter on that side. But there’s no way of telling what followed the “d” because that portion is now lying on the grass. I think the first three letters of the dead man’s surname were g, o and d, as in Godfrey or Goddard.’
‘In that case, why don’t we gather those pieces and arrange . . . ’ Lalmohan Babu had started walking over to the broken branches and leaves that were lying on the ground. Just as he reached the tomb, he suddenly slipped and slid forward, as if he had stepped into a hole. Before he could fall, however, Feluda stretched out his long arms, caught him and put him back on solid ground. I was puzzled. How could there be a hole in that area? ‘It does seem strange,’ Feluda commented. ‘I mean, what came down in the storm was a branch from a mango tree, right? So what are these other leaves doing here? They’re not all mango leaves!’
Lalmohan Babu was already feeling a bit unhappy about being in a cemetery. And now this! He dusted himself down, muttered ‘This is too much!’ and stood with his back to us, possibly to regain his composure.