by Satyajit Ray
London
May 2004
Gopa Majumdar
Chronology of the Feluda Stories
The House of Death
Dungru’s Story
Dungru laid his instrument on the grass that was still wet with the morning dew, and began singing. He had a pretty good voice. The song he was now singing was one he had heard only once before. Yet, he had picked it up, almost without making an effort. It was a song a beggar usually sang just outside Hanuman Phatak. But he played an instrument, too. Shyam Gurung, the local greengrocer, had an instrument like that. Dungru had borrowed it for the day, but had already realized playing it wasn’t half as easy as singing. Who knew running a bow over a few strings could be so difficult?
Dungru’s voice rose. There was a maize field in front of him, in which a couple of buffaloes and three goats were roaming freely. There was no one else in sight. Behind him was a very steep hill. Just under it, not far from the mound on which he sat, stood an almond tree. The little house in the distance with a tiled roof was where he lived. His father owned this maize field. There were other hills and several mountain peaks dimly visible through the morning mist. One of these, called ‘Machhipuchh’ because it was shaped like a fish tail, had started to turn pink.
Dungru began the second line of the song, but had to break off abruptly. A strange rumble in the hill behind him made him spring to his feet and jump to one side. In the next instant, a large boulder rolled down the hill and went past him, crushing his instrument and missing him by inches.
Dungru could hardly believe his luck. But before his heartbeat could get back to normal, something else happened: something much more unexpected and far worse than a rolling boulder. But, like the boulder, it came crashing down the hill, struck against the almond tree and fell to the ground, together with several broken branches. What on earth was that? He gaped, his mouth hanging open. Good heavens, it was a man! Not just any man, but a well-dressed babu, probably from a big city. There was blood on his head, his face and chin. One of his legs was folded under him at a very odd angle. Was he dead? No. Dungru saw him move his head.
Then he remembered the others. There was a group of men camping out near the spring across the main road. Dungru had often stared in amazement at the colour of their hair and their beards. No one that he knew in his own village had hair like that. And certainly no one had a beard. But if anyone could help this man, it had to be those men. They knew Dungru. They had bought maize from him and given him money, almost every day.
Dungru began running.
‘Hi, Joe, come here quickly!’ shouted one of them on seeing Dungru.
‘Why, what’s up?’
Dungru stood panting. He couldn’t speak their language. In fact, he was too breathless to speak at all. So he just rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out. Then he pointed at the hill. The man caught on immediately.
‘OK. Jeep. Go . . . Jeep!’
Their jeep had all the colours of a rainbow. Dungru had never seen a vehicle like that. He jumped into it. Joe, Mark, Dennis and Bruce joined him.
‘Jesus Christ!’ one of them exclaimed softly when Dungru took them to the exact spot where the injured man still lay on the ground. All of them bent over him. Mark, who had left studying medicine in Minnesota, checked his pulse. Then they picked him up and placed him carefully in the jeep.
The nearest hospital was in Kathmandu, thirty-three kilometres from here.
One
There was something special about Feluda’s palm. The line called ‘headline’ that’s supposed to indicate one’s intelligence, was exceptionally long and clear. Feluda did not believe in palmistry, but had read up on the subject. Lalmohan Babu, who believed in it wholeheartedly, had once asked Feluda to show him his palm. Feluda had obliged with a grin, but Lalmohan Babu had failed to share his amusement. He had inspected the headline, then said, ‘Amazing, amazing!’ After this, he had opened his own palm, looked at it and sighed deeply. I had had to try very hard not to laugh.
One of my uncles could read palms. I had heard him make reasonably accurate statements about one’s past and make predictions for the future that often turned out to be true. Some people, I was told, could look at a person’s face and tell him about his future, But I didn’t know it was possible to place one’s little finger in the middle of a person’s forehead and reveal what the future had in store for him. I saw this being done only when we visited Puri.
Incessant power shedding and a temperature of 110°F had driven us out of Calcutta. The power crisis had got so bad that Lalmohan Babu’s latest novel could not be printed in April. He was most annoyed at this, particularly as it was his first crime thriller with a touch of the supernatural. As a matter of fact, it was Feluda who had given him the idea. ‘Ghosts and spooks go very well with flickering candlelight.’ Lalmohan Babu had taken this seriously and written Frankenstein in Frankfurt. When he learnt it could not be published as scheduled, he came straight to our house and said, ‘We cannot go on living in this city. Besides, you’ve heard of the skylab, haven’t you?’
There was really no reason to assume the skylab would come crashing down on Calcutta, but Lalmohan Babu kept saying that a large portion of it might, since the entire city of Calcutta appeared to have caught the ‘evil eye’.
Feluda is normally extremely adaptable. I have seen him remain perfectly unperturbed even under the most trying circumstances. If he had to spend a whole night at a railway station and the waiting room happened to be full, he’d quite happily stretch out on the platform. But there was one thing he couldn’t do without: reading in bed for a few hours before going to sleep. Weeks and weeks of power cuts had deprived him of this one luxury he allowed himself to indulge in. This had made him rather cross. He had tried practising card tricks, written limericks, and tried many other things to amuse himself. Long periods of darkness, I had hoped, would result in more crime. But sadly, no interesting cases had come his way. He was, in short, utterly bored.
This was perhaps the reason why he appeared to agree with Lalmohan Babu and said, ‘Really, the City of Joy has been causing us a lot of grief, hasn’t it? I can put up with the physical discomfort, but constant disturbances at work, having to give up reading at night, not even being able to think because of mosquitoes . . . these are very difficult to live with.’
‘Orissa, I hear, has got excess power,’ Lalmohan Babu observed.
This led to a discussion about Orissa, Puri, the sea beach in Puri and the hotel called Neelachal that had recently opened there, and was owned by Lalmohan Babu’s landlord’s classmate.
Unfortunately, it turned out that we couldn’t get reservations before mid-June. ‘Never mind, we’ll go in June,’ said Feluda. Eventually, we left on 21 June by the Puri Express. It was decided that Lalmohan Babu’s driver would take his car and get to Puri by road a day later. We might have gone by car ourselves, but Lalmohan Babu had a sudden attack of nerves at the last minute and said, ‘Suppose there’s a storm or something on the way? Suppose we get stranded?’
But he agreed having our own car was a good idea, since we intended visiting a few other places. Hence the two different travel arrangements.
Our journey was uneventful, except for the fourth passenger in our four-berth compartment. He was the only exciting thing that happened. First we saw him fit a cigarette into a holder that seemed to be made of gold. Then he took out a gold-plated lighter (‘At least three thousand rupees,’ Feluda whispered) to light it. His cigarette case was also golden, as were his cuff links, the frames of his glasses and the three rings he wore. While climbing down from the upper berth, one of his feet accidentally brushed against Lalmohan Babu’s shoulder. He gave an embarrassed smile at this and said, ‘Sorry.’ One of his teeth, we all noted, flashed as he opened his mouth. When he got off at Puri with us and disappeared with a coolie and his luggage, Lalmohan Babu sighed.
‘We didn’t even get to know the man’s name. Have you ever seen so much gold on a man, Tapesh?�
� he asked.
‘There was a very easy way to find out his name, Lalmohan Babu,’ Feluda replied. ‘Didn’t you see the reservation list at Howrah? That man is called M.L. Hingorani.’
Two
‘This is a six-star hotel,’ Lalmohan Babu declared, nodding with approval after checking in at Neelachal.
‘No hotel can claim to be five-star unless it has a swimming pool; and five-star is the maximum rating a hotel can get. Can you spot a swimming pool anywhere, Lalmohan Babu? Or are you counting the sea as this hotel’s very own, private pool? If so, your rating is fully justified.’
We went in to have lunch, after which Lalmohan Babu continued the argument with fresh vigour. ‘What lovely food, Felu Babu! Their cook is absolutely brilliant. I had no idea koftas made of green banana could be so delicious. Besides, see how clean everything is, such beautiful carpets and furnishings, and a totally uninterrupted power supply, not to mention the sea breeze . . . why shouldn’t I call it a six-star hotel?’
Feluda laughed in agreement. What might happen to the hotel in a few years was impossible to tell, but right now it was certainly in very good condition. Feluda and I were sharing a double room. Lalmohan Babu had the next room, which he was sharing with a businessman from Calcutta. We had briefly met Shyamlal Barik, the manager. He had promised to come and have a chat with us in the evening.
The hotel was really very close to the sea. The sandy beach was only a minute’s walk from the main gate. The last time I visited Puri, I was only five years old. Feluda had come here many times, but, to our surprise, we learnt that this was Lalmohan Babu’s first visit.
‘What’s there to be so surprised about?’ he asked, a little annoyed. There are so many things in Calcutta I haven’t yet seen. Would you believe it, there’s that famous Jain temple only three miles from my house, but I have never been there!’ Now, standing before the sea, he suddenly remembered a poem written by his favourite poet, Baikuntha Mallik. ‘When I was twelve,’ he told me, ‘I recited this poem in a competition and won a prize. Listen to it carefully, Tapesh, and note how beautiful even modern free verse can be:
In these roaring waves,
I hear the call of infinity;
when on these sandy beaches,
stand I, so eagerly,
on one leg.’
‘One leg? Why one leg?’ Feluda sounded puzzled. ‘Was the poet identifying himself with a crane? That must be it, for it would be quite difficult for a man to stand on one leg on the sand, hour after hour, in this strong wind. But never mind your poet. Look at the sand over there. See those prints? Do you think that might have any significance?’
The footprints had come from the east, and made their way to the western side. A smaller mark by the side of these indicated a stick. Lalmohan Babu stared at these for a few seconds and said, ‘Well, shoes and perhaps a walking stick . . . that much is clear, but what special significance could it have?’
‘Topshe, what do you think?’
‘Usually, people hold a stick in their right hand. These marks are on the left.’
Feluda thumped my shoulder. ‘Good! The man is probably left-handed.’
There weren’t many people about. Three small Nulia children were busy collecting crabs and seashells. There were other hotels a little way ahead, where no doubt we’d find many more visitors. Just as we began walking in that direction, someone called, ‘Mr Ganguli!’
We turned to find it was Mr Srinivas Som, Lalmohan Babu’s plump and cheerful roommate. We had already met him. He owned a saree shop in Calcutta.
‘Aren’t you coming?’ he asked Lalmohan Babu. ‘He said to be there by six o’clock sharp.’
Lalmohan Babu gave Feluda a sidelong glance. ‘I didn’t tell you, Felu Babu,’ he said hesitantly, ‘because I thought you might not be interested.’
‘Didn’t tell me what?’
‘Er . . . Mr Som told me about a man who lives here. He has an extraordinary power. He can place a finger on the forehead and talk about one’s future.’
‘Whose forehead?’
‘The person who goes to him, naturally.’
‘You mean he can actually read what’s written in one’s destiny?’
‘Yes, supposedly.’
‘Very well. I have no wish to have my future read, but let’s all go and see where he lives.’
Mr Som led the way. We followed him, walking towards the east, past a colony of Nulias and groups of visitors, and up a sandy slope. Then we saw an abandoned house, partially submerged in the sand. Mr Som walked past it, but stopped before another house only a few yards away. This house had three storeys and was obviously in a far better condition. The astrologer, it turned out, occupied two rooms on the ground floor. There was a big gate. On one side was written, ‘Sagarika’. A marble slab on the other side said, ‘D.G. Sen’. It was an old-fashioned house, but whoever had had it built had good taste. There was a garden, a portion of which was visible from the gate.
‘The owner lives on the second floor,’ said Mr Som. ‘Ah, here we are . . . this is Laxman Bhattacharya’s room.’
There were nearly a dozen people waiting outside on the veranda. No doubt they were all Mr Bhattacharya’s clients. Lalmohan Babu said, ‘Jai Guru!’ and walked in with Mr Som. We came away.
‘What did your forehead reveal?’ asked Feluda about an hour later, as Lalmohan Babu swept into our room in great excitement.
‘Incredible, extraordinary, absolutely uncanny!’ Lalmohan Babu replied. ‘He told me everything about my past—whooping cough at the age of seven, an accident when I was eighteen, which left me with a dislocated kneecap, then the publication of my first novel, my spectacular popularity, and he even told my how many editions my next book will have.’
‘And the skylab? Did he tell you whether or not it’s going to fall on your head?’
‘You can joke all you like, Felu Babu, but I think you ought to visit him. In fact, I insist that you do. He seemed to know about you. He said I was very lucky to have a good friend, and even gave your description!’
‘What about my profession? Did he say anything about that?’
‘He said my friend was very hard-working, and intelligent, with a great interest in many subjects, and had remarkable powers of observation. Is that close enough for you?’
‘May I come in?’ said a voice at the door.
We turned to find the manager, Shyamlal Barik, waiting to come in with a small box of paan in his hand. Feluda invited him in, and he opened his box at once. Our room was filled with the sweet smell of paan-masala. ‘Have one,’ he offered. Then, looking at our faces, he laughed. ‘Don’t worry, there’s no tobacco in any of these,’ he assured us. We helped ourselves. Feluda lit a Charminar.
‘Tell me, Mr Barik, what is D.G. Sen’s full name?’ he asked. ‘I’ve only just been to his house, and it never occurred to me to ask!’ exclaimed Lalmohan Babu.
Shyamlal Barik smiled. ‘The truth is, Mr Mitter, that I don’t know his full name. I doubt if anyone does. Everyone calls him D.G. Sen. Some even call him DG Babu.’
‘Doesn’t he go out much?’
‘He used to. Last year, he went to Bhutan or Sikkim or some such place. He returned about six months ago. We’ve hardly ever seen him since he came back.’
‘Do you know why he suddenly turned into a recluse?’
Shyamlal Barik shook his head. ‘Did he build that house?’ Feluda went on.
‘No. It was built by his father. You may have heard of him. Do you know about Sen Perfumers?’
‘Yes, yes. But they’ve gone out of business, haven’t they? S.N. Sen’s Sensational Essences. Is that what you mean?’
‘Yes. DG is S.N. Sen’s son. Their business was doing very well. They had three houses in Calcutta, one here in Puri. and one in Madhupur. But, sadly, no one took any interest in the business when S.N. Sen died. He had two sons. DG is the younger of the two, I think. S.N. Sen had left a will, dividing all his property between his sons. DG got this house. He ma
y have had a job at one time—I don’t think he ever bothered about the family business—but now he’s retired and his sole interest is art.’
‘Art?’ Feluda suddenly seemed to recall something. ‘Is he the one who has a collection of ancient manuscripts and scrolls?’
My Uncle Sidhu had a few scrolls. Some of them were more than three hundred years old. Scrolls and manuscripts written before the advent of the printing press were called puthi. Feluda had once explained this to me. A long time ago, people used to write on the bark of a tree. Then they began to write on palm leaves and, finally, on paper. Uncle Sidhu had often lamented the fact that people had forgotten these manuscripts were an important part of our art and cultural heritage.
Shyamlal Barik nodded. ‘Yes, those old manuscripts are his only passion in life. Many people come—even from abroad—to take a look at his collection.’
‘Doesn’t he have any children?’
‘A son and daughter-in-law used to visit him occasionally, but I haven’t seen them for ages. D.G. Sen himself came to live here only three years ago. He’s a widower. He lives on the top floor. The ground floor has been rented out to an astrologer; and the rooms on the first floor are let out to tourists during the tourist season. At the moment, a retired judge and his wife are staying there.’
‘I see.’ Feluda stubbed out his cigarette.
‘Would you like to meet him?’ Mr Barik asked. ‘He’s a peculiar man, doesn’t normally agree to meet outsiders. But if you have an interest in manuscripts . . .’
‘I do,’ Feluda interrupted him, ‘but if I simply say I have an interest, that won’t do, will it? I must do my homework before I meet someone who has a profound knowledge of old manuscripts.’