The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II

by Satyajit Ray

  ‘Is it really true that you have come here to fulfil the wish of your ancestor? I mean, are you visiting because of what he wrote in his diary more than a hundred years ago?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘You mean you really and truly believe that his soul will find ultimate peace if you return that ruby to India?’

  ‘I don’t think what I believe is of any relevance,’ Peter replied dryly. ‘You sound as though you’re interested in buying the ruby. I am not going to sell it, Mr Naskar.’

  ‘Have you had it assessed in your country?’

  ‘Yes, it’s worth twenty thousand pounds.’

  ‘I see. May I see it, please?’

  Tom took it out of his bag without a word and passed it to Mr Naskar. Mr Naskar held it between his thumb and forefinger and turned it to catch the light. Then he turned to Peter and said, rather unexpectedly, ‘Neither of you appears to be well off.’

  ‘We’re not, Mr Naskar; nor are we greedy.’

  ‘However,’ Tom spoke suddenly, ‘we don’t always think alike.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Mr Naskar raised his eyebrows. Peter answered before Tom could say anything. ‘What he means is that we’ve had a difference of opinion in this matter. Tom doesn’t mind selling the ruby, but I do. It is, after all, my property, not his. So you needn’t pay any attention to him at all.’ I looked at Tom. He scowled in silence.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Mr Naskar, ‘I am going to be here in Santiniketan for the next three days. I’ll stay in touch with you. You can’t get rid of me that easily, Mr Robertson. I’m prepared to give you twelve lakhs. My collection of precious stones is well-known, all over the country. I can’t see why you’re refusing such a splendid chance to earn good money. I hope you’ll change your mind in due course.’

  ‘Perhaps I should tell you something, Mr Naskar. I’ve already had an offer for this ruby.’

  ‘Who made it?’

  ‘A businessman in Dubrajpur.’

  ‘Dandania?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How much did he offer you?’

  ‘Ten lakhs. But who’s to tell his offer won’t go up?’

  ‘All right. I know Dandania quite well. I’ll manage him.’

  ‘Very well, Mr Naskar. Goodbye!’

  ‘Goodbye!’

  Mr Naskar left at last. We rose and went into the dining hall. I was starving.

  Five

  The fair at Kenduli was being held at a temple built two hundred and fifty years ago, by the Maharani of Burdwan.

  We had arrived together in Lalmohan Babu’s car. His driver was given the day off. Feluda drove. Lalmohan Babu and I sat next to him. Peter, Tom and Jagannath Chatterjee sat at the back.

  A large group of hauls had gathered under a huge banyan tree. One of them was playing his ektara and singing. Mr Chatterjee began explaining the history of the place and the details of the carvings. I noticed, to my surprise, that many of the figures carved on the walls and pillars of the temple were figures from the Ramayana and Mahabharata. Peter was listening to Mr Chatterjee with rapt attention. Tom had disappeared. Mr Chatterjee stopped after a while and ambled off in a different direction. Feluda seized this opportunity to ask Peter the question that had been bothering me since yesterday. ‘Is everything all right between Tom and you? He’s been behaving rather oddly, hasn’t he? I don’t like it, Peter. Can you really trust him?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. I’ve known him for twenty-two years. We went to the same school and college. He was fine back home but I’ve noticed a few changes in him since our arrival in India. Sometimes he behaves as though the British are still the rulers here. Besides, back in England he didn’t seem interested in selling the ruby at all. Now, he’s not averse to the idea of filling his pockets.’

  ‘Is he in need of money?’

  ‘In a way, yes. You see, he wants to travel all over the world, taking photos everywhere, particularly where he can see stark poverty. At this moment, neither of us has the kind of money we’d need to travel so widely. But if we sold that ruby, then there would be no problem.’

  ‘What if he sold it without telling you?’

  ‘No, I’m sure he would not betray my trust completely. I’ve been speaking to him sternly and seriously since yesterday, trying to make him see reason. I think he’ll come round before long.’

  Feluda looked around for Tom. But still there was no sign of him. ‘Do you know where he’s gone?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. He didn’t tell me.’

  ‘I am beginning to get a nasty suspicion.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Look over there. Can you see smoke rising from the riverside? That means there’s a cremation ground. Could he have gone there to take photos? We ought to go and find out.’

  We left at once, making our way through groups of bauls. The river bank lay just beyond, sloping gradually to lead to the water.

  Here was the cremation ground. A corpse lay on a burning pyre. ‘Look, there’s Tom!’ cried Peter.

  Tom was standing a few yards away from the pyre, getting his camera and various lenses out of his bag.

  ‘He is doing something utterly foolish,’ Feluda said. Almost instantly, his words were proved right. Four young men were sitting near the pyre. One of them saw what Tom was about to do. He ran forward, snatched the camera from Tom’s hands and threw it on the sand.

  And Tom? Tom took a step forward, curling his right hand into a fist. It landed on the young man’s nose a second later. He fell on the ground, clutching his nose. When he removed his hand, we could all see it was smeared with blood.

  Feluda did not waste another moment. Before either the first young man or his friends could move, he strode across and placed himself between Tom and the others. ‘Please,’ he said, raising his hands placatingly, ‘please forgive my friend. He is new to our country, and he hasn’t yet learnt what he should or shouldn’t do. It was very wrong of him to have tried to take a photo of a pyre. I’ll explain everything to him, and he won’t repeat this mistake, I promise you. But please let him go now.’

  To my surprise, one of the young men came forward and quickly touched Feluda’s feet.

  ‘What . . . what are you doing?’

  ‘You are Felu Mitter, aren’t you? The Pradosh Mitter? The famous—?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Feluda said hurriedly. ‘I am Felu Mitter, I am an investigator and this gentleman here is my friend. Please will you forgive him and let him go?’

  ‘All right, sir, never mind. No problem,’ said the three men, staring at Feluda with a mixture of awe and admiration. Getting recognized, I thought, was no bad thing, after all.

  But the injured man, who had by now risen to his feet, was not so easily impressed. ‘I shall pay you back, sahib,’ he spoke clearly. ‘I’ll settle scores with you before you go back. Just remember that. No one lays a hand on Chandu Mallik and gets away with it!’

  None of us said anything to him. We turned around to go back. Tom’s camera appeared undamaged. But he himself seemed totally taken aback by this sudden development. Perhaps this would teach him to be more careful, I told myself.

  We had lunch back in the tourist lodge, and were sitting in the lounge when Inspector Chaubey turned up. ‘I came to find out how you were doing,’ he said, ‘and I can tell there’s something wrong.’

  ‘You’re quite right, Inspector,’ Feluda replied, and briefly explained what had happened. ‘Does the name Chandu Mallik mean anything to you?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes. He’s a notorious goonda. He’s been to prison at least three times. If he has threatened to settle scores, we cannot just laugh it off.’

  Tom had gone back to his room. Peter was sitting with us.

  ‘Mr Robertson,’ the inspector said, ‘only you can do something to help.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Talk to your friend. Tell him he must learn to control his temper. India became independent forty-five years ago. No Indian today would accept from a Britisher the
kind of behaviour Mr Maxwell has shown.’

  ‘I suggest you tell him that,’ Peter said a little sadly. ‘I can’t think straight. Tom is behaving so strangely I feel I don’t know him at all. He’s just not listening to me any more. If you talk to him, maybe that’ll work?’

  ‘Very well, I’ll do as you say. But must you let him keep you ruby? Why don’t you take it back?’

  ‘I have a problem, Inspector. I am extremely forgetful and absentminded. Tom isn’t. The ruby is really much safer in his custody. Besides, despite everything, I’m convinced he won’t sell it without telling me.’

  We rose and went to find Tom in his room. Peter did not come with us.

  He was sitting in a chair, deep in thought, a half-finished cigarette dangling from his lips. The door was open. He looked up as we arrived, but did not rise to greet us. Inspector Chaubey took the second chair. Feluda, Lalmohan Babu and I sat on the bed.

  ‘Are you trying to put pressure on me?’ asked Tom.

  ‘No. We have come to plead with you,’ said the inspector very politely.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Mr Maxwell, you are free to think what you like about the country you’re visiting and its people. But please do not show your feelings so openly.’

  ‘Who are you to tell me how I should behave? I will do exactly as I please. I have seen in the last couple of days just how backward your country is. You haven’t moved an inch in forty-five years. Your farmers are still using animals to till the land. I have seen dozens of men in Calcutta pulling rickshaws. Millions sleep on footpaths. And you dare call yourselves civilized? I know you wish to hide these disgraceful facts from the rest of the world, but I won’t let you. I will take photographs of the real India and expose the depths of your hypocrisy to the whole world.’

  ‘You are making a grave error, Mr Maxwell. You can’t just talk of India’s poverty and harp on our shortcomings. Why, haven’t you seen the progress we have made? We’ve explored outer space, we’ve started producing everything one might need to live in comfort, from clothes to cars to electronics—just name it! Why should you let your eyes stay focused on only one single negative aspect of our culture? Nobody’s denying there’s poverty in our country, and there’s exploitation. But is everything in your own country totally above reproach, Mr Maxwell?’

  ‘Don’t compare your country with mine, Mr Chaubey! You talk of India’s independence? That whole business is a bloody farce. I’ll get my camera to prove it. You need someone to rule over you, just as my ancestors did all those years ago. That’s what you deserve. My great-great-grandfather was absolutely justified in doing what he did.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He owned an indigo factory. Once he kicked one of his servants to death.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Yes. It was his punkha-puller. I have heard how terribly hot and stuffy this place can get in the summer. Well, one night in the summer, my ancestor, Reginald Maxwell, was sleeping in his bungalow. The punkha-puller was doing his job. But a little later he fell asleep. Reginald Maxwell woke in the middle of the night, feeling hot and sticky and covered with mosquito bites. He came out of his room and found the punkha-puller fast asleep. Wild with rage, he kicked him hard in the stomach. As it happened, he was wearing heavy boots. The punkha-puller never woke up after that. His body was removed in the morning. That, sir, was the right treatment. Today I wanted to take photos of your awful system of burning corpses. I wanted to show the people of my country how you treat your dead. But a local hoodlum came to threaten me. Yes, I punched his nose because he asked for it. I have no regrets. None at all.’

  After a few moments of silence, Inspector Chaubey said slowly, ‘Mr Maxwell, there is only one thing I’d like to say. The sooner you leave this country, the better. Your staying here will simply mean more trouble, not just for our poor country, but also for yourself. Surely you realize that?’

  ‘I have come here to take photos. I will not leave until I have finished my job.’

  ‘But that’s not the real reason why you’re here, is it? You came chiefly to return the ruby to India, didn’t you?’

  ‘No. That was Peter’s wish. I think he is being very stupid about the whole thing. I’d be a lot happier if he sold it.’

  Six

  We were back in our room after dinner, chatting idly, when Lalmohan Babu suddenly announced that he must return to his room.

  ‘Why? What’s the hurry?’ Feluda asked.

  ‘It’s that book Shatadal gave me. You know, the one written by Rev. Pritchard called Life and Work in Birbhum. It’s absolutely gripping. In fact, there’s mention of the story we just heard from Maxwell about a punkha-puller being kicked to death.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. This happened towards the end of the nineteenth century. Reginald Maxwell killed his servant, but no one punished him for doing so . . . The punkha-puller was called Hiralal. His wife had died, but he had a little boy. When Rev. Pritchard heard about the murder, he rushed to Maxwell’s house, and found the orphan boy. He brought the child back with him and began looking after him as though he was his own. The child was called Anant Narayan. Eventually, he became a Christian and was put in a missionary school. Now I am dying to find out what happened next. So if you’ll excuse . . .’

  Someone knocked on the door. I found Peter standing outside. ‘May I come in?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Feluda rose. Lalmohan Babu, who was about to leave, changed his mind and sat down again. Peter looked extremely unhappy. Something serious must have happened.

  ‘What’s the matter, Peter?’ Feluda asked.

  ‘I have decided to sell the ruby.’

  ‘What! Why? Oh, do sit down, Peter. Tell us what happened.’ Peter sat down. ‘I don’t want to lose an old friend. Tom is totally obsessed with the idea of selling that ruby. His dream is to travel all over the world, and that dream can come true if the ruby is sold. I thought things over, and felt there was no point in giving it away to a museum. After all, how many people would really get to see it, tell me? So I thought . . .’ his voice trailed away.

  Feluda frowned. After a short pause, he said, ‘Well, it’s your decision. Who am I to say anything? I am disappointed, but it’s really none of my business, is it?’

  ‘When do you want to sell it?’ Lalmohan Babu asked.

  ‘I’ve just spoken to Dandania. He made the first offer, so I think I should go back to him. He told me to meet him the day after tomorrow at ten.’

  ‘I thought your return to India would result in a historic event,’ Feluda said sadly, ‘but now all one would get to see would be a simple commercial transaction.’

  ‘I am very sorry,’ said Peter, and left.

  We sat in silence, feeling terribly deflated and let down.

  We had planned to visit Bakreshwar the following morning. We had just finished our breakfast and reached the lounge, when Mr Naskar arrived in his car.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, coming in to the reception area. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Would you like to see a Santhal dance this evening? A dance has been arranged in the Phulberey village. It should be worth seeing, especially as there’s going to be a full moon tonight.’

  ‘Who has arranged it?’

  ‘The local people, for a group of Japanese tourists. I’ve come to invite all of you to dinner at my place this evening. If you’re interested in seeing the dance, I can take you there myself, after dinner. The village is only two miles from my house.’

  ‘Does your invitation include Peter and Tom?’ Feluda asked. ‘Yes, yes, of course. All five of you are invited.’

  ‘Thank you very much. When would you like us to arrive?’

  ‘About eight, if that’s all right. Should I send my car?’

  ‘There’s no need. We can quite easily go in ours. There shouldn’t be any problem.’

  ‘Very well. I shall look forward to seeing you later. Good day!’

  Bakreshwar turned
out to be a place that hadn’t bothered to step out of primitive times. There were rows of old temples behind which stood several large trees. Most of these were banyan trees. Huge roots hung down from these and clung to the temple walls. Nearly every temple had its own pond. Jagannath Chatterjee, who had accompanied us again, told us what each pond was called. Peter stopped at one called ‘Soubhagya Kunda’, and went in for a swim. Someone had told him what ‘soubhagya’ meant. So he laughed as he came up and said, ‘This should bring me good luck!’

  There were scores of beggars near the temples. Tom took out his camera and soon found several people with special photogenic-features.

  Half an hour after our return to the tourist lodge, Inspector Chaubey rang Feluda. ‘Did you know there’s going to be a Santhal dance later today?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, Mr Naskar told us. In fact, we’re going to have dinner at his place this evening. He’s offered to take us to the dance afterwards. We should reach there by 10 p.m.’

  ‘Good. I hope to get there by half past ten, so I guess that’s where we shall meet tonight.’

  Mr Naskar had given us very good directions. We found his house without any problem. It was a fairly large house with two storeys and a carefully maintained garden. Mr. Naskar came out to greet us as we got out of our car, and then took us straight to his drawing room. A bearer came in with drinks almost immediately.

  ‘You stay here alone, don’t you?’ Feluda asked, picking up a cold drink from a tray.

  ‘Yes, but I have a lot of friends. We normally arrive in groups to spend a few days here. This time, I came alone.’ Mr Naskar suddenly turned to Lalmohan Babu. ‘I had heard of Mr Mitter, but I don’t think I got your name—?’

  ‘Most people don’t know his real name,’ Feluda answered. ‘He writes crime thrillers under a pseudonym. Millions know him simply as Jatayu. His books are immensely popular.’

  ‘Yes, yes, now that you mention . . . why, I’ve read some of your books, too! Shaken in Shanghai was one, wasn’t it?’ Lalmohan Babu smiled politely. ‘I don’t like serious books at all,’ Mr Naskar continued. ‘All I ever read are thrillers. What are you writing now?’