Holmes was entirely undisturbed by the chaos, noise, and smell about us. As for me, India was overpowering even at that tense moment. The tonga-wallah found space in front where there was none. Dogs, cows, other tongas, the yelling of the rickshaw drivers, the endless shouting and click-clacking of vehicles, the extraordinary mass and swirl of humanity, the absolute unconcern of people as they crossed the narrow roads, seconds and inches away from certain death—it was overwhelming. I saw some holy men sitting right in the middle of a pavement ignoring the pedestrians who in turn went past them without complaint. Even though I had seen action in Afghanistan and was minimally acquainted with Karachi and Lahore, I had never really seen this side of life in India.
But during the mad dash to the Victoria Terminus, Holmes was the picture of equanimity. The violent shaking of the tonga left him unperturbed. He sat regally, his chin sunk in his chest, in a classic position of repose that signified he was thinking. He could as well have been sitting in a hansom cab in London or in his chair at 221B Baker Street. His acute mind was processing facts, finding solutions, eliminating worthless information, determining the best and most optimum course of action.
‘Pray hold on to my Stradivarius firmly, my dear fellow,’ he remarked over the babble of noise about us. ‘It is a delicate whimsical instrument unused to such turbulence, heat, and humidity.’
‘With my life, Holmes. Lead the way, I shall follow, violin in hand!’ I shouted, almost thrown off the tonga as we briefly descended into an oversized pothole.
‘Do you have any view of the classical music of India, Watson?’ he suddenly asked just as the carriage passed over yet another large pothole with a sharp jolt and complete indifference to our well-being. ‘I found the concert most enchanting.’
‘I have no idea, Holmes,’ I yelled, holding onto my hat and my sanity. ‘I don’t understand their music and followed nothing last night. All they seemed to do was shout!’
‘An unfortunate conclusion, Watson. I have quite the contrary opinion,’ said Holmes in a disapproving tone.
‘An unusual country, Watson,’ he continued, in his normal tone. ‘The music is an acquired taste, but is quite enchanting. The Hindoos have mixed religion and melody and created a powerful concoction. I hope to research this matter and write a monograph once we conclude our journey and of course, to try their melodies on my violin soon. Then again, there is the little challenge of reaching Tokyo in one piece as quickly as possible.’
‘Holmes!’ I cried, exasperated. ‘How can you think of monographs at a time like this?’
‘There is no time, my dear Watson,’ said Holmes in an even voice, unperturbed by the annoyed neighing of the horse as it passed by a cow emptying its bowels desultorily in the middle of the road, ‘when I do not think of monographs. Knowledge must be captured and liberally distributed. That is my chosen means for the dissemination of whatever I glean from my experiences.’
The tonga-wallah was shouting at the top of his voice, demanding space. Other equally choleric individuals shouted back. I could barely hear myself. Next to me was a man considering the musical notions of the natives!
We reached the Victoria Terminus and while Holmes paid the fare for the tonga, I collected our effects and proceeded to the platform where our train, the Bombay-Calcutta Mail, was waiting to depart. The station was absolutely choked with humanity and the streets of Bombay looked deserted in comparison. We pushed and shoved our way through, ignoring the beggars who had seen us and hoped to benefit from our munificence. Holmes moved quickly, not perturbed in the slightest. In a few minutes, we found the first-class carriage and our coupé and settled down. Holmes shut the windows even though the weather was sultry. ‘A precaution, Watson. Who knows who is watching us?’
In a few minutes, the train left the chaos of the station and settled into a slow but steady rhythm. Holmes opened the windows and we both looked out as the train moved through the colourful city of Bombay. We spent some time in silence, gathering our thoughts about the extraordinary events of the previous day.
‘We may have given them the slip for now, Watson, but we should assume nothing and must continue to be on our guard,’ said Holmes grimly, sitting back in his berth.
‘I agree,’ I said. ‘It will not be long before they discover we never boarded the North Star.’
Holmes took out a map of India from his pocket and unfolded it. He pointed to Bombay with his pipe and traced the likely journey.
‘Our train takes us to the rail junction of Itarsi, then Jubbulpore and onwards to the Central Provinces and the Mughal Sarai6 junction near Benaras. From there we continue to Calcutta and assess our next steps. I am not yet clear if we are being followed but I shall leave nothing to chance. We should consider a disguise at the next opportunity—we are far too visible and news of two Englishmen travelling in the hinterland is certain to cause comment.
‘Yet, Watson, this brief interlude does give us some time to assess the facts and devise a stratagem. How do we reach Tokyo as soon as possible and meet Mr. Oshima and give him the information that is needed for him to act? Professor Moriarty is no fool; unless he has conclusive proof, he will not believe that we will board the next ship to Yokohama from Bombay. Therefore, I believe danger awaits us everywhere. His network certainly extends into India. He may intercept us, arrange unfortunate accidents, lure us into traps. Ah, a very sharp adversary indeed!’
He puffed at his pipe, his eyes far away. Some more time passed in silence.
I too sat back, thinking over the situation. The entire journey from Liverpool had been a continuous series of unexpected events. Mr. Singh, Miss Bryant, my murdered Japanese friend Hashimoto, the events in Alexandria and then Bombay. The inexplicable behaviour of the tattooed Japanese and the unexpected revelation of Miss Bryant’s Japanese connection. I reflected philosophically. Nothing is as it seems. The yardsticks of conduct in one culture are vastly different from those in another. I see someone—but is he who he says he is? Can our eyes and other senses be trusted? Do we train ourselves to see what we would like to see? What are the various shades of grey in conduct, in relationships, and in the meanings and import of words? Why was I convinced that Shamsher Singh was Holmes when indeed he was not? Why was I unable to discern that Simon Fletcher was in fact Sherlock Holmes? What is the truth about anything? And so my thoughts meandered. I opened an old issue of the Times of India that I had picked up in Bombay and started reading it absently.
The train moved on, the click-clack of its passage a pleasant backdrop to my thoughts. After a half hour or so, Holmes spoke.
‘Your wife is a brave and resourceful woman, Watson. She has the ability to look after herself.’
‘Yes, yes, that she is, you are right…but how in the world did you know I was worried about my wife, Holmes? This is uncanny!’ I was stupefied.
‘If I tell you how I deduced this fact, you will say that it was absurdly simple, Watson.’
‘Assuredly not, Holmes. You wound me!’
‘We shall see. I saw you read the article in the Times of India that reported the death of Mr. Hashimoto on the North Star. Let me read it again for you.’
From our London Correspondent: Readers would recall our recent dispatch in regard to the mysterious murder of Mr. Kazushi Hashimoto, a Japanese businessman returning to Yokohama on the North Star. The singular circumstances relating to the discovery of the crime have already been detailed in these columns. Our correspondent has since learned that Dr. John Watson, the physician and erstwhile confidant of the late Sherlock Holmes, shared the cabin with Mr. Hashimoto and was reported to be quite shaken by the shocking incident that took place not twenty feet away when he was asleep in his bed. The investigation of the matter continues in Alexandria under the supervision of the redoubtable Inspector G. Lestrade from our Scotland Yard. Our sources tell us that the Japanese gentleman may actually have been a diplomat travelling under an assum
ed identity, though we do not have a confirmation of this point. Further, if true, we cannot advance any conjecture as to why such a stratagem might have been necessary. We shall endeavour to keep our readers informed of further developments in this regrettable case.
‘This, Watson, obviously caused you alarm as you deduced that your wife would have possibly read the same news article. We are reading this several days after the report was dispatched from London. I saw you double check the date of the newspaper and then your eyes drifted to the ceiling as you calculated the number of days. Then you closed the newspaper—you had a worried look. You then looked at your pocket watch for quite some time. I am aware that your wife presented it to you and you attach great sentimental value to it. Then you closed your eyes for a short while and shook your head. I concluded that your thoughts were with her.’
‘Absurdly simple, Holmes!’
‘Precisely as I had foretold,’ Holmes responded with a tight smile.
‘I would recommend you post her a letter from the next station if you have time, merely to reassure her that you are well. Do not give details.’
The attendant, an old man, thin and tall, with rheumy eyes, came in to check on our well-being. He was rather obsequious, as is usually the manner with such employees. His name was Rahman Khan, he said in broken and heavily accented English.
‘I help you. What you will have for dinner tonight, sahib? Vegetarian? Non-veg you want, Sahib?’
‘Vegetarian, please,’ said Holmes. I glanced at him in surprise.
Rahman Khan stepped out with much bowing, promising to return in half an hour after looking at his pocket watch. He bent down to pick up a piece of paper that had slipped to the floor and handed it over to Holmes. Then he left.
‘Vegetarianism, Holmes? You surprise me! You always relished your beef, bacon, and eggs!’
‘Watson, at a time of unplanned travel and danger, when you need your strength more than anything else, it is safest not to consume meat and chicken. You have yourself commented on the hygiene here.’
‘True, Holmes. Tropical diseases and a debatable sense of cleanliness, especially in public, are things we must guard against.’
‘Moreover, Watson, I have recently developed a new perspective on the concept of vegetarianism. I have concluded that given a choice, it is altogether more rational and ethical not to destroy animal life for personal consumption. Perhaps I have been influenced by my sojourn in Asia, or even more specifically by the spiritual observations of many Eastern religions that see no challenge in equating all forms of life, giving no advantage to humanity. However, I would not wish to debate this with you at this point. I have begun a personal journey. Let us see how far I progress.
‘Be that as it may, you are aware of my view that eating little actually stimulates the brain and encourages thinking.’
‘Quite so, Holmes.’
Rahman Khan returned with our dinner and laid out the cutlery and plates. There was some local bread, a yellowish dal—a kind of lentil soup—potatoes with spinach, a kind of spicy chutney, and some salad. It was appetizing fare.
‘An interesting man, our friend here,’ commented Holmes, while dining. ‘Have you any view of him, Watson?’
‘Other than that he is probably about sixty years old, none.’
‘I can tell you more. This is a man who has seen better days, likes to rear pigeons, and was probably stabbed in his stomach in his youth.’
‘Holmes! This is impossible!’
‘Certainly, my dear Watson. I will not insist. But surely, there is no other explanation for why his shoes have almost worn out, but he still polishes them well, or that he not only possesses a pocket watch—which must be rare enough—but an Emery no less. It is not hard to see that he rears pigeons—you can see plenty of down on his uniform and I can smell on him the faint aroma peculiar to the bird.’
‘Now that you mention it, it seems quite obvious. But being stabbed in the stomach?’
‘Once violated, flesh never fully recovers its suppleness. You saw him bend down with some difficulty to pick up a sheet of paper. You could say it was age, but in fact he wanted to avoid straining his abdomen. His shirt rose as he bent and I caught a glimpse of a long scar.’
‘I thought you would say something clever, Holmes, but this deduction seems very pedestrian.’
‘Indeed? Then why did you not guess?’
‘I am not too well, Holmes,’ I replied, weakly.
‘Of course, of course, Watson! Nourishment is necessary, after which your mental faculties would undoubtedly be in excellent condition.’
Holmes and I ate and felt much better after the chaos of the day.
At about this time, as the train passed through the interesting countryside and towns on its way from Bombay, I started feeling a sense of unease. I checked and found that I had developed a fever and found it advisable to lie down on the berth. Holmes was very concerned and insisted that I change into my pyjamas and rest.
Very soon, I broke into chills and began sweating profusely. There was no doubt—I was now quite likely very ill with malaria. I guessed that I must have contracted it in Alexandria. Thankfully, I had brought with me some Warburg’s Tincture, which used to be standard Army issue during my time in Afghanistan. I had some idea about the ailment and how to tackle it, due to personal experience during the campaign there. And now, with the constantly changing climes, the Jezail bullet made its presence felt in my shoulder.
I passed the night restlessly. Holmes ministered to me generously, ensuring that the berth was comfortable and that I took regular doses of the tincture. Rahman Khan was extremely worried and brought boiled water and towels regularly.
‘I call doctor next station, sahib, and he give you the medicines. You will be better soon, sahib!’ He was quite agitated.
I reassured him that I was a physician myself and not unfamiliar with tropical diseases. Nevertheless, I was disappointed that I had fallen sick at such an inopportune time, when Holmes needed me.
‘Would it not be wiser, Holmes, for you to proceed and for me to return to Bombay and then London? Your mission is too critical for me to hold you back.’
‘On the contrary, Watson, I cannot complete this mission without your support. We have at least one complete day before we reach Itarsi. We shall decide then. But for now, not another word.’
The steam locomotive continued its journey into the night, belching smoke and whistling loudly. I fell into a restless slumber as the fever fought the tincture. Holmes smoked his pipe quietly in a corner, his thoughts in Paris, Bombay, and Japan.
***
Meanwhile, in Europe, Professor Moriarty stared at the telegram that had just been handed to him.
‘Holmes and Watson disappeared without a trace at Bombay Port! They take their eyes off him for a minute and he’s gone! First they said it was some Singh! Now they say he was that dull banker and they never guessed all along. Imbeciles!’ He shook his fist in the general direction of Bombay.
He wrote out a long telegram to his assistant Colonel James Burrowe c/o the North Star, Singapore port, expressing his strong and considered opinion about the colonel’s gross incompetence and asking him to return immediately to the European continent. Then he opened the railway map of India, the Indian Railway time table, and a map of Asia. He thought long and hard about what Sherlock Holmes might do and then he wrote out another telegram to a trusted associate in Bombay with detailed instructions on the steps he would need to take.
6The words translate to ‘Resting place for the Mughals.’ The Mughals ruled India in the period immediately prior to the establishment of the British Empire.
Bodh Gaya
When you accept you know nothing after years of
study and experience, then begin the search for the teacher
who knows more than you. The blanket of time slowly cover
s
us with darkness, my friend. But the teacher in our
heart fills us with light and we are not afraid.
I woke the next morning after an exhausting night. The symptoms of malaria were now unmistakable. I was not yet in a delirium but would soon be. The fever came in regular gusts. My body was considerably weakened and I could barely sit up without Holmes and Khan to help me. Their patience and solicitude were remarkable and moving. I could not imagine how we would complete the five-day journey in this condition. I was determined not to burden Holmes in any way, but knew better than to press home the point at this stage.
The train pressed on, stopping at stations intermittently. The smoke from the locomotive did not make things easier, but certainly the countryside did provide respite. Nature has showered its bounty on this fascinating country; every hue of green, the most glorious vistas, colourful little villages and towns with charming temples representative of the inhabitants’ faith. The scenes were therapeutic but just barely so. I knew I would probably need medical attention beyond my own ministrations. But I calculated that I would be able to carry on thus for at least the next two days.
Holmes swung between extreme solicitude for my condition and savage frustration at being unable to come up with a plan for how we could reach Tokyo as soon as possible. Neither of us knew a soul in India; to take the help of the authorities would be to reveal our identities, which was an impossibility. We simply had to travel incognito to our destination.
The Indians are a naturally curious people. They must enquire into every aspect of their fellow passengers’ lives. No one takes offense at being asked about their family, their source of income and domestic challenges. A train journey in India, as I learned, was a great communal event, with stories, songs, and food being shared without a second thought. Though we were travelling in first-class, which afforded some privacy, it was not absolute and we received frequent visitors. The ticket collector, various attendants, and other passengers in our compartment—everyone wished to visit us and give suggestions and reassurance. But Holmes’ commanding presence and the protective attitude of Rahman Khan ensured that we were not particularly bothered.
Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years, Japan Page 12