by Satyajit Ray
‘No,’ agreed Biren, ‘but then, I don’t feel any love or attachment for him, either. Shankar tried very hard to bring me back. He thought if I saw my father and other members of my family, even from a distance, I might wish to come back. That is the reason why I was in Rajrappa that day. But I realized after seeing my family that that was not going to make any difference at all. I had ceased to care for them. My father was a complex man, but he was the only one who seemed to have understood me. So, in the beginning, I used to write to him. But later . . .’
‘But those letters were not sent from abroad, were they? I don’t think you ever left the country!’ Feluda said coolly.
We gasped, but Biren Chowdhury simply stared at Feluda with an expressionless face. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. ‘Shankar had told me how clever you were. I was only testing you,’ he laughed.
‘Very well. Now you may take off your disguise,’ Feluda suggested. ‘It may be enough to fool the whole town of Hazaribagh, but you don’t fool me.’
Biren Chowdhury continued to laugh as he took off his wig and his false beard. I gave another gasp as his face was revealed. Lalmohan Babu clutched at my sleeve and whispered, ‘Kan-kan-kan—’ He had got the name wrong again, but I was too astounded to correct him. Mr Karandikar looked at us and nodded.
Akhil Chakravarty broke the silence. ‘What do you mean, Mr Mitter? Biren never went abroad? Well then, his letters—?’
‘It is possible to send letters from abroad, Mr Chakravarty, if one has a friend like your son.’
‘My son? What’s he got to do with anything?’
‘Mr Mitter’s right,’ Biren Chowdhury—or should I call him Mr Karandikar?—replied, ‘Adheer was in Dusseldorf, wasn’t he? I wrote to him and got him to send me several European postcards. Then I used to write Baba’s name and address on them, sometimes adding a line or two, put them in envelopes and send them back to Adheer. He would then arrange to have them posted from various parts of Europe. He travelled a lot himself. But when he returned to India, naturally I had to stop.’
‘How extraordinary! Why did you have to be so secretive?’
‘There was a reason,’ Feluda said. ‘I would like Mr Karandikar to confirm if my guess is correct.’
‘Yes?’
‘You were much impressed and inspired by the life of Colonel Suresh Biswas, and you wanted to be like him. I knew Colonel Biswas had left home as a young man and made his way to England and Brazil, but what I didn’t know was that he was the first Bengali who had learnt to train tigers to perform in a circus. I read about this last night in a book called The Circus in Bengal. One of the items for which he became famous was parting the tiger’s mouth and placing his head in it.’
Lalmohan Babu opened his mouth to speak once more. ‘Sh-sh-sh-sh—’ he began.
‘What is it, Lalmohan Babu? Would you like us to be quiet?’
‘N-n-no. Sh-shame on me, Felu Babu, shame on me! I read that book before you, and yet I failed to pick that up. I must be crazy, I must be blind, I must be . . .’
‘All right, all right, you can blame yourself later. Now please let me finish.’
Lalmohan Babu simmered down. Feluda went on, ‘Biren Chowdhury wanted to work with wild animals, like his hero. But an educated young man from a well-known family is not expected to join a circus as a trainer of tigers, is he? Mahesh Chowdhury might have been different from most men, but even he would not have approved. Biren knew that, and so he decided to indulge in a little deception. Am I right?’
‘Absolutely,’ Biren Chowdhury replied.
‘What is most astonishing is that Mahesh Chowdhury could recognize his son even after so many years when he went to the circus on the first day. Arun Babu failed to do that, although he saw you from only a few feet away. You had to have plastic surgery done on your nose, didn’t you, when you were attacked by a tiger? That’s why you even look different from the old photo in your father’s house.’
‘Ah, that explains it!’ Akhil Chakravarty exclaimed. ‘I did wonder why everyone was calling him Biren, and yet I could not recognize him at all.’
‘Anyway,’ Feluda said, ‘I must now tell you why I really wanted you to come here.’
He took out the photo of Muktananda from his pocket. Then he turned to Biren Chowdhury again. ‘You are probably unaware that your father made a new will when he became convinced that you would never return. He left your name out of it. However, he didn’t want you to be deprived altogether. So he left you this photograph.’
Feluda turned the photo over and took it out of its frame. A small folded cellophane envelope slipped out. There were a few tiny square, colourful pieces of paper in it.
‘There are nine rare and valuable stamps here, which come from three different continents,’ Feluda explained. ‘Mr Chowdhury was afraid his album might be stolen, so he removed the most precious stamps and hid them here. According to the prices mentioned in the Gibbons catalogue twenty-five years ago, the total value of these was two thousand pounds.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘There was a message in your father’s diary. He referred to these nine stamps as the “nine jewels”, and Gibbons as “monkeys”. Then he said they were worth “two thousand Shylock’s demands”. Tapesh reminded me that Shylock had demanded a pound of flesh. That’s how I got the word “pounds”. But now, I think, these jewels would fetch a lot more.’
Biren Chowdhury took the envelope from Feluda and stared at it. Then he said, ‘I am only a ringmaster, Mr Mitter. I spend my life like a nomad, travelling all the time. What shall I do with something like this? Where shall I keep it? It will be such a liability! Mr Mitter, what am I going to do?’
‘I can understand your problem,’ Feluda replied. ‘Tell you what, why don’t you leave them with me? I know a few stamp dealers in Calcutta. I will speak to them and see that you get the best possible price. Then I will send you the money. Is that all right? Could you trust me, do you think?’
‘Oh, absolutely.’
‘Very well. But I shall need to have your address.’
‘The Great Majestic Circus,’ Biren Chowdhury replied. ‘Kutti has realized he cannot do without me. I am going to be with them for some time. In fact, Sultan and I will be performing tonight. Please do come and watch us, all of you.’
We went to find Biren Karandikar after the show that evening to thank him and to say goodbye. He and his tiger had enthralled the audience by working together with perfect understanding and coordination. The idea of seeing him backstage was Lalmohan Babu’s. It soon became clear why he was so keen.
‘I am going to write a new novel,’ he told him. ‘The main action will take place in a circus and the ringmaster will have a very important role. May I please use the name “Karandikar” in my novel? I quite like it.’
‘Of course,’ Biren Chowdhury laughed. ‘It is not my real name, so you may use it wherever you want!’
We thanked him and came away.
‘So you changed your mind about the injection?’ Feluda asked Lalmohan Babu as we emerged out of the big tent.
‘Certainly not. The tiger will now be given an injection. Its second trainer is going to be the villain. He’ll give the injection to make the tiger drowsy, so it doesn’t perform well and the ringmaster gets the blame.’
‘I see. What about the trapeze?’
‘The trapeze?’ Lalmohan Babu gave a derisive snort. ‘The trapeze is nothing. Who wants it now?’
Author’s Note
I have been an avid reader of crime fiction for a very long time. I read all the Sherlock Holmes stories while still at school. When I revived the children’s magazine Sandesh which my grandfather launched seventy-five years ago, I started writing stories for it. The first Feluda story—a long-short—appeared in 1965. Felu is the nickname of Pradosh Mitter, private investigator. The story was told in the first person by Felu’s Waston—his fourteen-year-old cousin Tapesh. The suffix ‘da’ (short for ‘dada’) means an elder brother.
A
lthough the Feluda stories were written for the largely teenaged readers of Sandesh, I found they were being read by their parents as well. Soon longer stories followed—novelettes—taking place in a variety of picturesque settings. A third character was introduced early on: Lalmohan Ganguli, writer of cheap, popular thrillers. He serves as a foil to Felu and provides dollops of humour.
When I wrote my first Feluda story, I scarcely imagined he would prove so popular that I would be forced to write a Feluda novel every year. To write a whodunit while keeping in mind a young readership is not an easy task, because the stories have to be kept ‘clean’. No illicit love, no crime passionel, and only a modicum of violence. I hope adult readers will bear this in mind when reading these stories.
Calcutta
February 1988
Satyajit Ray
THE BEGINNING
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First published by Penguin Books India 2000
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This rejacketed edition published 2015
Copyright © The Estate of Satyajit Ray 2000, 2004
This translation copyright © Penguin Books India 2000, 2004
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ISBN: 978-0-143-42503-8
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