by Satyajit Ray
From Guptakashi, it was possible to see Ukhimath high in the hills. It was in Ukhimath that the daily puja of Kedareshwar was held between November and April every year, when heavy snow blocked the road to Kedar.
Lalmohan Babu returned in a few minutes, but there was no sign of Joginder. Feluda and I began looking for him, when suddenly Pavandeo’s car reappeared. What was he doing here? He should have been miles ahead of us, surely?
He stopped and came out when he saw us. ‘We stopped here to take photos of the peaks of both Badri and Kedar,’ he informed us. ‘Guptakashi is the only place from where one can do that. But now we must press on, for we must get there before daylight starts to fade.’ He waved again and went away.
Where on earth was Joginder? We were still looking around, when Mr Bhargav appeared. I had already spotted his car and had been wondering what was taking him so long. He said he had been interviewing a priest from the temple in Kedarnath, who happened to be visiting Guptakashi. Now he must be off on his way to Son Prayag and Gaurikund.
Mr Bhargav left, and was almost immediately replaced by a young boy of about fifteen.
‘Taxi number 434?’ he shouted. ‘Are you a passenger in 434?’
‘Yes, yes. Why, what’s the matter?’ Feluda asked him anxiously. Joginder was hurt, the boy told us. He had come to inform us because he knew Joginder, and had just found him. We told Lalmohan Babu to wait in the car, and followed the boy.
Joginder was lying on the ground. Blood oozed from the back of his head. It seemed a very quiet area; there were no more than six houses in the vicinity. Joginder was still breathing, but Feluda ran and took his pulse. There was no time to worry about who had attacked him. The most important thing was to get him seen by a doctor.
‘There is a hospital and a dispensary here,’ the boy told us. ‘I can drive.’ Eventually, it seemed the only sensible thing we could do was to place Joginder in the car and let the boy drive us to the hospital.
The doctor who examined him said his injury might have been a lot worse. He dressed the wound, and said there was really nothing else he could do. Joginder would remain in pain for some time, but was sure to get better. All this took an hour and a half. We told Joginder we’d take another taxi to get to Kedar, but he insisted on driving us himself.
‘Do you have any idea who hit you?’ Feluda asked him. ‘No, babu. He struck me from behind.’
‘Do you have any enemies here?’
‘No, no, I have no enemies at all.’
I knew what Feluda was thinking. If anyone had an enemy, it was us. Someone unknown did not want us to go to Kedarnath. The best way to stop us from going, or at least delay our arrival there, was to hurt our driver, obviously.
‘Look, Feluda,’ I said, once we were on our way again, ‘I have been thinking. Could it be that Pavandeo came to know that Mr Puri had been to see you? And then maybe he made him send that telegram and write that letter, simply to make sure you didn’t pose a threat to him?’
‘Good thinking, Topshe. I’ve thought of it, too. If that is the case, it shows Pavandeo has full control over Umashankar Puri.’
‘Why wouldn’t he?’ Lalmohan Babu pointed out. ‘Pavandeo is, after all, one of the owners of the estate. A prince! What is Umashankar? Only one of his employees, right?’
‘Right. If the young “prince” decided to throw his weight around, I don’t think he’d consider the difference in age between Umashankar and himself. But I bet he didn’t imagine I’d turn up anyway, in spite of the telegram and the letter!’
‘Does that mean Pavandeo is responsible for the attack on poor Joginder?’
‘Who else could it be, especially since Joginder claims there’s no one who might wish to cause him harm?’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ Lalmohan Babu said, ‘but I don’t like that journalist chap.’
‘Why not? I must admit I have my own reservations about him, but why don’t you like him?’
‘If he is a journalist, why doesn’t he keep a pen? I noticed he didn’t have a pen in the front pocket of his jacket. Yesterday, I saw him put it on. There wasn’t a pen even in the inside pocket, or in the pocket of his shirt.’
‘What if he has a cassette recorder, like me?’
This was a possibility that had clearly not occurred to Lalmohan Babu. He was silent for a few seconds. Then he said, ‘Well then, that’s a different matter. The truth is that I don’t like men with heavy beards.’
‘I see. May we now discuss a few practical arrangements?’
‘Such as?’
‘Which would you prefer—a horse, or a dandi?’
‘Whatever you decide, Felu Babu, is fine by me.’
‘I hope you have some idea of the road to Kedar?’
‘Ha ha ha ha ha!’
‘Why, what’s so funny?’
‘My idea, Felu Babu, is far more vivid than yours. You see, my favourite poet, Baikuntha Mallik, visited Kedar years ago and wrote a poem about his journey. I have read it many times, and am fully aware of what to expect.’
‘Good. Well then, I think you would find a dandi easier to manage than a horse. Horses usually have a tendency to walk near the edge of the cliff. You’ll find it very difficult to cope with all that tension. Tapesh and I will walk.’
Lalmohan Babu gave Feluda a steely glance. Then he said, ‘Why do you keep underestimating me? You really think I’ll take a dandi, while you two go walking? I am telling you, Felu Babu, either I walk together with you, or I don’t go at all.’
‘Very well, that’s settled, then. We’re all walking.’
‘Now may I ask you something?’
‘Certainly.’
‘If we have been recognized by everyone, what is the purpose of our visit?’
‘That would depend on who finds Upadhyaya first.’
‘Suppose we do?’
‘Then we must tell him everything. If he has indeed become a sanyasi, he may well wish to give the locket away. We should find out who he’d like to give it to. Pavandeo may get there before us. Because of his regard for his father, Upadhyaya may agree to be interviewed, and allow the young prince to take photos of the pendant. But no one—not even Pavandeo—must take it from him without his approval. But then, we have no evidence to prove Pavandeo does want to grab it for himself. We are merely assuming that it was he who had forced Mr Puri to put me off the case. Maybe his sole intention is to make a film, and nothing else. We don’t know. In fact, we don’t know anything for sure, do we?’
I said, ‘But what about Mr Bhargav? He’s looking for Upadhyaya as well, isn’t he?’
‘Well, I think Bhargav would be happy if he got a couple of photographs, one of Upadhyaya himself, and the other of the pendant. If he can get those, at least for a few days he’ll find himself quite comfortably off.’
As we were talking, our car had climbed up to 3,000 metres. At least, that was what Joginder said. Judging by the sudden drop in the temperature, he was probably right. A number of tall peaks were visible from here, but I didn’t know what they were called. We should reach Gaurikund in fifteen minutes. It was a quarter past five by my watch. Although the mountain peaks were still shining bright, the shadows were getting longer among the pines and rhododendrons.
Soon, our car climbed down again and turned a corner. A number of houses and traffic on the road told me we had reached Gaurikund. It was clear that we would have to spend the night here, and start for Kedar the next morning. Even if we left fairly early, it would take us all day to get there. A meeting with Upadhyaya could take place only after tomorrow.
Gaurikund was a small, but busy town, chiefly because there was a bus terminus here. A large number of passengers were arguing over prices of horses, dandis and kandis. A kandi was like a basket, in which one could be carried. Presumably, some people found it convenient; but its appearance did nothing to inspire confidence.
We had not made arrangements for an overnight stay. But it turned out accommodation was not a problem at all. Local pan
das let out rooms. They even provided bedding, quilts and blankets. The rooms were small, with such low ceilings that if Feluda stood up straight, his head nearly touched it. The charges were low, and all of us thought the arrangements were fine, especially since we were not going to spend more than one night.
The first things we saw on arrival was the yellow American car that belonged to Pavandeo Singh. He and his team must have reached Gaurikund at least four hours before us. They had probably already hired horses and left for Kedarnath. If so, he would get more than a day in Kedar.
Mr Bhargav would probably also get there tonight.
So many people, with one common aim—tracking down Bhavani Upadhyaya.
Five
All of us slept soundly that night. Our alarm clock woke us at five o’clock. We were ready to leave in a few minutes.
The number of people who were already out and about was quite amazing. People from virtually every corner of the country were present, including a large number of Bengalis. Most of them were travelling in groups. Many families had several generations travelling together, ranging from grandfathers in their seventies, to grandchildren barely five years old.
It took me only a few seconds to spot Pavandeo Singh. He was in the process of hiring two horses. What was he still doing here? I had assumed he had already gone to Kedarnath.
‘Good morning!’ he greeted us. ‘I got delayed in Son Prayag yesterday. The scenery there was so beautiful, I had to stop to take photos. I am now going to go up to Kedarnath alone. I’ll carry my camera and sound equipment with me, on one horse. The other will take all the new and unused film.’
Feluda returned his greeting and moved away. ‘There is no end to the mysteries,’ he remarked. ‘Could it be that he’s appointed someone in Kedar to find Upadhyaya?’ There was no time to ponder over this, for it was time to get going.
‘Are you still determined to walk with us?’ Feluda asked Lalmohan Babu.
‘Yes, sir. I may not be able to keep pace with you at all times, but—’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that. You walk at whatever pace you find comfortable. Since there is only one road, and one destination, we’ll all get there sometime, never fear. Here, take this.’
Feluda handed Lalmohan Babu one of the walking sticks he had bought for us. Nearly every traveller to Kedarnath was crying a similar stick. It was wooden, but the pointed end was covered by iron.
We left on the dot of six. Lalmohan Babu took a deep breath and shouted, ‘Jai Kedar!’ with such vigour that I began to feel afraid he might have spent half his energy at one go.
The road to Kedarnath was narrow and rocky. At times, there wasn’t even enough room for two people to stand side by side. There were steep hills on one side, and on the other were deep ravines. The Mandakini flowed with great force below these. There was little vegetation on the way, except for certain patches where large leafy trees created a green canopy over our heads; but these were few and far between. Those who were walking frequently had to stand aside to make way for horses and dandis. One had to stay as close to the hill as possible, for going near the edge of the road was extremely dangerous. One single careless step could lead to a fatal accident.
Feluda and I did not find it too difficult to walk uphill, possibly because we both did yoga regularly. Lalmohan Babu tried very hard not to show what a struggle it was for him. He walked in complete silence, catching up with us when we reached flatter surface. ‘I can now see what made Tenzing so famous!’ he declared, panting slightly.
Twenty minutes later, something happened to delay our arrival in Kedarnath by another half an hour.
A large boulder suddenly came rolling down a slope at great speed. This was so totally unexpected that it took us a few seconds to realize what was happening. Although no one was seriously hurt, a certain amount of damage could not be avoided. The boulder brushed against Feluda’s arm and smashed his HMT watch. Then it knocked the walking stick from the hand of an elderly man, making it fly towards the edge of the cliff and disappear into the gorge below, perhaps to land directly in the gushing Mandakini.
By this time, Feluda had collected himself and decided to act. He began climbing up the slope with the agility of a mountain goat, as I stood gaping after him, marvelling at his strength and stamina. How could he do it, so soon after having climbed uphill for many miles? But there was not a second to be lost. I followed him as quickly as I could. By the time I reached him, Feluda had already caught the culprit. He was clutching at the collar of a young man, pushing him against a tree. The man could not have been more than twenty-five. He had turned visibly pale, and was freely admitting to having pushed that boulder deliberately. He had apparently been paid by someone to do this. The man took out a new, crisp ten-rupee note to show us he was telling the truth.
‘Who paid you?’ Feluda demanded.
‘I don’t know him. He is a man from my village, but I don’t know him personally. I did it only for the money.’
There was no reason to doubt his word. We’d never learn from him who was really responsible. This man was no more than a hired hand.
Feluda grabbed the woollen wrapper the man was wearing, and tied him to the tree with it. ‘I’m bound to find a police constable somewhere. When I do, I’ll send him to you,’ he told him.
Lalmohan Babu sighed with relief when we joined him. ‘How worrying, Felu Babu! Anything could have happened if that boulder hit you. Who is it that wants to prevent your reaching Kedarnath so desperately?’
We didn’t know the answer, so we simply resumed walking. A little later, we reached a place called Ramwara. Nearly everyone stopped here to rest for a while. There were dharamshalas here, as well as tea stalls. Lalmohan Babu deserved a short period of rest, so we decided to stop for half an hour. Ramwara was at a height of 2500 metres. The scenery around us was absolutely fantastic. Lalmohan Babu went into raptures, recalling scenes from the Mahabharata. He declared eventually that he would have no regret if he fell and died on the way, for no one could possibly have a more glorious death.
‘Really?’ Feluda teased him. ‘You must remember, sir, that considering the amount of rubbish you have always fed your readers, you are liable to spend a good many years in hell. So what good will a glorious death do?’
‘Heh! Who’s afraid of a few years in hell? Why, even Yudhishthir wasn’t spared, was he?’ Lalmohan Babu waved a hand dismissively.
In the remaining three and a half miles, only one thing happened that’s worth mentioning. The tall spire of the temple of Kedarnath came suddenly into view after leaving Ramwara. Most of the travellers stopped, shouting, ‘Jai Kedar!’ Some folded their hands and bowed, others lay prostrate on the ground. But only a few moments after we resumed walking, it vanished behind a mountain. We could see it again only after reaching Kedarnath. I learnt afterwards that the brief glimpse we had caught earlier was considered a special darshan. It was called deo-dekhni.
Six
It was half past five in the evening by the time we reached Kedarnath. It had not yet started to get dark, and the mountain tops were all shining bright.
It is impossible to describe what one feels on reaching a flat plateau after climbing uphill for several hours on a steep and narrow road. The feeling uppermost in my mind was a mixture of disbelief, reassurance and joy. With this came a sense of calm, peace and humility. Perhaps it was those peaks which towered over everything else that made one feel so humble. Perhaps it was this feeling that evoked religious ardour, a reverence for the Creator.
A large number of people were sitting, standing, or lying on the rocky ground, overcome with emotion, unable to say or do anything except shout, ‘Jai Kedar!’ The famous temple stood surrounded on three sides by heavy snow. We walked through the crowd to find ourselves somewhere to stay. There was a hotel here called Hotel Himlok, but it was already full, as was the Birla guest house. Finally, we went to a Kali Kamliwali dharamshala. They gave us mattresses, blankets and razais, at a very nominal charge.
By the time we finished booking a room, it was past six o’clock and the temple had closed. It would open only at eight the next morning, we were told. So we went off to find what we needed the most: a hot cup of tea. There was a stall not far from our dharamshala. The streets of Kedar reminded me of the streets of Benaras. Most of the roadside shops were selling incense, flowers and Vermillion. They would shut down in November, and until April, the town would remain totally deserted.
I had expected Lalmohan Babu to want to rest after our difficult journey. But he said he had never felt more invigorated in his life. ‘There is new life in every vein in my body,’ he said. ‘Tapesh, such is the magic of Kedar.’
Three steaming cups of tea were placed before us. The tea had been brewed with cinnamon. I could smell it as I raised a cup to my lips.
‘Did you find Upadhyaya?’ asked a voice. It was Pavandeo Singh, standing a few feet away. In his hand he still held his camera. The equipment for recording sound was strapped to his belt.
‘No, we came only about half an hour ago,’ Feluda told him.
‘I got here at two-thirty and made some enquiries. As far as I can make out, he has become a full-fledged sanyasi. I think he even dresses like one. So you can imagine how difficult it’s going to be to single out one sanyasi amongst so many. Besides, he is very likely to have changed his name. At least, no one I asked seemed to know anyone called Upadhyaya.’
‘Well, we must keep trying, mustn’t we?’ Feluda said. Pavandeo nodded and left. He was still a mystery to me.
We finished our tea and got up to leave. Another familiar voice spoke unexpectedly.
‘Ah, so you’ve arrived finally. Wasn’t it worth the effort?’ It turned out to be Makhanlal Majumdar, the man we had met on the train.
‘Oh yes, most certainly,’ Feluda smiled. ‘I think we’re still in a daze. This is so incredible.’
‘I am so glad you came. Did you finish your work in Haridwar?’