by Satyajit Ray
‘Yes, I can certainly recognize the bottle, but the colour of the syrup seems a little different, doesn’t it?’ asked Feluda.
‘Oh, can you see a difference in the colour? Then you are exceptionally observant. I noticed a difference in the smell.’ He unscrewed the cap and offered the bottle to Feluda, who sniffed a couple of times and said, ‘Yes, there is a subtle difference. You must have a very sensitive nose!’
‘Yes, I do! And you know what I am going to do? I’ll take this bottle right back to the chemist, and ask for my money back. I mean it. Didn’t I tell you virtually every medicine these days is adulterated? Why, I’ve even heard they put chalk in baby food! Even innocent babies aren’t going to be spared!’
We had told Mr Batra that Lalmohan Babu and I needed a car for the day. A Japanese Toyota arrived at nine. When we left a few minutes later, Feluda was poring over the telephone directory. ‘Just noting down the addresses of the local chemists,’ he said.
Only a place like Kathmandu could have both Swayambhunath, a Buddhist stupa and Pashupatinath, a Hindu temple.
Lalmohan Babu left the Pasupati temple with a brief, ‘Tapesh, you can look at the view’ and disappeared inside the temple. When he came out, his forehead was smeared with sandalwood paste. He had clearly been blessed by the priest.
The temple was made chiefly of wood. Its doors and the spire were plated with gold and silver. The first thing one saw on coming though the main gate was a huge statue of Nandi, also covered in gold. A walk down a courtyard brought the river Bagmati into view. The mountains stood on the other side of the river.
The way to Swayambhu was through a road that wound up a hill like a snake. Our car stopped before a flight of stairs. We’d have to climb these and walk the rest of the way, we were told.
There were little stalls near the stairs, selling Tibetan goods. Lalmohan Babu suddenly seemed quite keen on buying a prayer wheel. It wasn’t really a wheel—a small box was attached to one end of a stick. A chain hung from the box, with a little ball fixed at its tip. If one twirled the stick, the whole contraption moved round and round.
These prayer wheels were made of wood, copper, brass and ivory. Lalmohan Babu wanted a wooden one, but it turned out that it was too expensive. All prices had been fixed, no doubt, with rich American tourists in mind. With a sigh, Lalmohan Babu came away.
The stupa was built on top of the mountain two thousand years ago. What was most striking about it was a pillar that stood below it. Several pairs of eyes were painted on it, making it seem as though they had witnessed, for years and years, every event that occurred in the Kathmandu valley; but every secret was safe with them. They would never speak out.
The flat open area on which the stupa stood was packed with people and monkeys. ‘Damn these animals! One of them just poked me!’ I heard Lalmohan Babu exclaim. We didn’t, of course, know then that it wasn’t a monkey. But I shall come to that later.
The real incident took place in Patan, which was on the other side of the Bagmati, three miles from Kathmandu. Our car had to pass through a huge gate to enter the town. We stopped at a shop to buy a couple of American Coca-Cola cans, and then made our way to the local Darbar Square. I will not go into lengthy descriptions of what we saw. Feluda, as a matter of fact, warned me not to get carried away. ‘When you write about our adventure in Nepal,’ he told me when we returned home, ‘make sure it doesn’t read like a tourist guide.’
Suffice it to say that the temples, stupas, palaces, exquisite wooden carvings and a statue of the King atop a golden pillar were so spectacular that Lalmohan Babu kept breaking into exclamations every three minutes. ‘Incredible!’ he would say, ‘Incomparable! Unbelievable! Inimitable! Fascinating! Unforgettable!’ God knows how long he’d have continued if we were not distracted by a certain event.
We had left Darbar Square and turned right to find ourselves in yet another market called Mangal Bazar. It was full of handicrafts and other knick-knacks from both Nepal and Tibet. We went through the stalls, looking at their wares. Lalmohan Babu began inspecting prayer wheels once more. He picked up a few, but rejected them saying, ‘The carving on these isn’t good enough.’ Things here were considerably cheaper than at Swayambhu.
About five minutes later, we noticed an old house where the market ended. A tempo was standing in front of it, being loaded with goods. This area was quiet, being some distance away from the hubbub of the main market.
As we got closer, we realized that what was being loaded on the tempo was nothing but what Lalmohan Babu had spent all day trying to buy—stacks and stacks of prayer wheels.
‘This must be a factory,’ Lalmohan Babu observed, looking at the house. ‘I think this is where the stuff is made, and sent to Kathmandu. Which means . . . they might sell them cheaper here. Shall I go in and ask?’
‘Yes, that’s a good idea.’
But we were to be disappointed. The man supervising the loading shook his head and said, ‘No, these are not for sale. These were made for a special order. You’ll have to go back to the main market.’
‘Oh no! Just my l—’ Lalmohan Babu stopped abruptly, staring at a figure that was walking up the lane.
It was a Tibetan man. We recognized him instantly. He was still wearing the same yellow cap and the long red coat. One of his eyes was smaller than the other. This was our dozy old friend from the Tibetan shop in that pig alley. He stopped and went into the house through a side entrance. Or, at least, we couldn’t see him any more. The door through which he appeared to have passed wasn’t directly visible from where we were standing. If we took a few steps down the lane on the left, we might be able to see things better.
Suddenly, it became imperative to find out where that man had got to.
We turned into the lane on our left and proceeded to walk, as casually as we could. Only a few seconds later, we saw a door, made of solid wood and very delicately carved. It was locked from the inside. The Tibetan must have slipped in through this door and locked it behind him. But how could we be sure?
There was not a soul in sight. But someone was playing an instrument at the back of the house. We turned again to walk around the house. This time, we found its back door. It was much smaller in size, and had been left ajar. A Nepali beggar sat opposite the door, playing a sarinda. A rusted tin lay by his side. Our appearance did not disturb him at all. He continued to play a slow and rather mournful Nepali tune. His eyes were half-closed.
Lalmohan Babu dropped a few coins into the tin and asked under his breath, ‘Shall we go in?’
‘Yes, why not?’
‘What if we’re seen? What if someone asks us what we’re doing inside?’
‘Well, we can simply say we’re tourists, and were curious to see the inside of an old house!’
‘All right. Let’s go.’
A quick look around showed that there was still no one about on the street. The beggar went on playing, unperturbed. We stepped in through the back door.
There was a passage. A portion of a courtyard could be seen where the passage ended. A strange, rhythmic noise came from beyond the courtyard. Were there rooms on the other side? We tiptoed our way down the passage.
Here was a door on our left. It opened at a slight touch. The room it led to was dark. Should we—?
Oh God, there were footsteps! Someone was coming from the opposite end. The sound of footsteps began to get louder. Very soon, we were going to be discovered. There was a sudden tightness in my throat. If this person coming down the passage asked us who we were, I knew I couldn’t speak.
The beggar outside was now playing a different tune. It was a faster one and much more cheerful. But there was no time to think. I caught Lalmohan Babu’s hand and pulled him into the dark room on our left, and quietly shut the door. The footsteps went past the door and out of the house.
The beggar had stopped playing. We could hear voices. Clearly, whoever just walked out of the house was talking to him.
I looked around helplessly.
A shaft of light was coming in through a skylight. I could now spot a few things in the room. There was a string bed, a large copper bowl and a few clothes hanging from a rack. On my right was another door, leading to another room. An odd instinct made me slip into this second room, dragging Lalmohan Babu with me.
Pieces of wood and cardboard boxes filled the room. Besides these were a few statues, wooden frames and, lying in a corner, three prayer wheels. Behind this room was a veranda. The courtyard lay on the other side. That strange noise had stopped. A different noise now made my heart jump into my mouth. The footsteps were coming back. The man was obviously looking for us.
I heard him walk down the passage, then retrace his steps and stop outside the first room we had walked into. In a matter of seconds, he had walked across and opened the door of the room we were hiding in. I saw him cross the threshold and hesitate for a moment before his eyes fell on us.
The room being almost totally dark, I could not see his face at all. But I knew what I must do. Without another thought, I sprang up and attacked the man, trying to pin him against the wall. But I couldn’t. He was much taller than I, and heavier. He shook me off, then grabbed me by the lapel of my jacket and picked me up straight off the floor. He would probably then have tossed me aside, but Lalmohan Babu stepped in at this point and caught his arms, trying to shake them free.
The man proved to be a good deal stronger than we had thought. With one mighty push of his elbow, he made Lalmohan Babu spin and fall on a pile of cardboard boxes. I placed my own hands under his chin and tilted his head back as far as I could. But I could sense it wasn’t really going to make much difference for the man was still holding me high, and would, any minute—
Clang!
Suddenly, the hands holding me went limp. I dropped to my feet, on solid ground.
Our adversary was lying on the floor, knocked unconscious by a blow on his head. Lalmohan Babu was standing by my side, staring dumbly at the wooden prayer wheel he was still holding in his hand.
Ten seconds later, we were out on the street, walking as fast as our feet would take us.
The prayer wheel was resting peacefully in Lalmohan Babu’s bag.
Eight
Before coming to Nepal, Feluda and I had often talked about our past adventures and wondered what had become of those villains Feluda had exposed. Bonobihari Sarkar of Lucknow, Mandar Bose in Jaisalmer, Mr Gore of Bombay, Maganlal Meghraj of Benaras—had they been adequately punished and had they learnt their lesson? Or were they still out there somewhere, spinning more webs of crime? After all, they all had enormous cunning. Why, some of them had so nearly managed to get away!
Little did we know that here in Kathmandu we were going to find one of these figures so unexpectedly.
When we returned from Patan in the late afternoon, after having stopped for lunch at a restaurant (sadly for Lalmohan Babu, their menu did not include mo-mo), Feluda was lying on his bed, reading a book called Black Market Medicine. One look at us made him raise an eyebrow.
‘What’s the matter with you? Where have you been?’ he asked. We told him. Feluda heard us out, throwing in a few rapid questions every now and then, and added, ‘Well done!’
It was nice to be praised, but I knew what we had done was a big step for all of us. Something fishy was going on in that house. I had no doubt about that.
‘If I could, I would give you a special reward for bravery’,’ Feluda went on, ‘but let’s have a look at your weapon, Lalmohan Babu!’
Lalmohan Babu took out the prayer wheel from his shoulder bag. ‘Have you checked if it’s got the prayer in it?’
‘Prayer? What prayer?’
‘Om Manipadmey Hoom. It’s a Tibetan prayer. These words are either written or printed a thousand times on a piece of paper, which is then placed inside the wheel.’
‘Really? How would they put it in?’
‘The top of that little box with the chain should unscrew like a cap. You should find a piece of paper in it.’
Lalmohan Babu twisted the top of the box. It came off quite easily. He peered inside and said, ‘No, sir, no sign of a prayer.’
‘Nothing at all?’
Lalmohan Babu moved closer to the window where the light was better and looked again. ‘No—wait a minute! There is something. It’s glistening in the light.’
‘Let’s see.’
Feluda took the prayer wheel from Lalmohan Babu and had a good look into the box, holding it under a table lamp. Then he turned it over. A few pieces of glass slipped out.
‘Look at that large piece, Feluda. It must have been a glass pipe or something.’
‘No, not a glass pipe. It was an ampoule. Someone must have broken it accidentally, so they cast the whole thing aside.’
‘Does that mean these prayer wheels are used to despatch spurious medicines?’
‘Yes, that is entirely likely. What they probably do is fill these wheels with ampoules or capsules, and store them in packing cases in that house in the pig alley. From there they go to wholesalers, who pass them on to pharmacies and chemists. Tell me, did the packing cases you saw today being loaded on the tempo look like the ones we saw in that other house?’
‘Identical,’ Lalmohan Babu replied.
‘I see,’ Feluda frowned. ‘The second Mr Batra must be in charge of supplies. And if they’re operating on a large scale, they’re probably sending some of this stuff across to India. God knows how many people in UP and Bihar are being treated with these spurious drugs. Even if someone suspects something, they won’t do anything about it. We’ve grown so accustomed to turning a blind eye to all malpractices!’
Feluda rose from the bed and began pacing restlessly. Lalmohan Babu sat twirling the prayer wheel. So far, he had nearly always been just an onlooker in all our adventures. Today, he was out on the stage himself. I looked at my watch. It was nearly 4 p.m.
‘Lalmohan Babu,’ I said, ‘isn’t it time to go and collect your trousers?’
‘Hey, that’s right! I had forgotten all about them.’ He sprang to his feet, adding, ‘We are going to the casino tonight, aren’t we? I’m getting the trousers made solely for that purpose, you see.’
Feluda stopped pacing. Then he shook his head vigorously, as if to drive away all unpleasant thoughts, and said, ‘Good idea! Today we have earned ourselves a visit to the casino. Yes, we’ll spend an hour there after dinner.’
We left at 8.30, in a bus arranged by our hotel.
It soon became clear that the casino was away from the main city. We drove for about fifteen minutes before our bus went up a hill, passed through a gate, drove past a lawn and a swimming pool and finally stopped at the entrance to the casino. Feluda had already told us that the casino was part of a large hotel. When we got out of the bus, I realized that the casino stood separately; one didn’t actually have to go into the main hotel to get to it.
Lalmohan Babu seemed determined to behave exactly the way he had seen people behave in western films. He was dressed for the part, too. New trousers made here in Kathmandu, a light green jerkin from New Market in Calcutta, and a Nepali cap added a certain polish to his appearance.
He strode in, saying ‘Hel-lo!’ to the two gentlemen who sat near the entrance to check the five-dollar card our hotel had given us. They looked up, startled. But by then Lalmohan Babu had walked on, studying his card carefully. A few seconds later, he nearly ran into a Japanese lady who was coming up a flight of stairs. He skipped aside just in time, with a brilliant smile and a ‘Hex-hex-cuse me-hee!’ I had to look away quickly to stop myself from laughing. Inside the main casino, however, his confident air vanished. I caught him looking at Feluda appealingly.
‘Take another look at your card,’ said Feluda. ‘You’ll find five coupons for five different games. I suggest you first try your hand at jackpot, it’s the simplest. If you tear off one of those coupons and hand it in at that counter, they’ll give you the equivalent of one dollar in Nepali rupees. I think you’ll get about eleven rupee
s. That means you get eleven chances at the jackpot. If you run out of money but still wish to go on, you’ll have to pay out of your own pocket. I don’t need to remind you of what happens to people who don’t know when to stop. Just think of Yudhisthir in the Mahabharata!’
After collecting our money from the counter, Lalmohan Babu and I made our way to the nearest jackpot machine. Feluda walked into the next room, which was bigger and had roulette, pontoon and blackjack as well as jackpot.
‘It’s all quite simple, really,’ I said to Lalmohan Babu. ‘Look, here’s a slot machine. All you need to do is put a coin into this slot, just as you’d do in a weighing machine, and pull this handle on the right. The machine will do the rest.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘If you win, more coins will come out of the machine. If you lose, then obviously nothing happens. The machine just swallows your money.’
‘I see. Shall I—?’
‘Yes, go on!’
‘Ah well, here goes . . .!’
A whirring noise told us the money had gone to the right place. A light came on instantly and a sign said, ‘Coin accepted’.
‘All right. Now pull this handle. Pull it hard.’
Lalmohan Babu yanked with all his might. Behind a small square window on the machine were three pictures: a yellow fruit, a red fruit and a bell. As the handle was turned, the machine began whirring again and the pictures started to change. Five seconds later, they stopped with a click and showed a different combination—two yellow fruits and a blue flower.
In the next instant, two coins slipped out of the machine. ‘Look, look!’ Lalmohan Babu cried. ‘Does that mean I won?’
‘Yes, certainly. You’ve now got two rupees. If you’re lucky enough, you might insert a rupee and get a hundred in return. Here’s a chart that tells you how much each combination will fetch. All right?’
‘Ok-kay!’