‘Both the murders took place in our locality,’ Kharga Bahadur commented, ‘so one can assume that the killer lives in this area.’
‘Not necessarily so,’ Nripati countered. ‘The killer could well be from Tala.’
Coffee was served. All this while, Probal had been sitting glumly by the piano. The din created by the argument had stopped him from playing. Now he approached the group and picked up a cup of coffee.
‘Hey there, Mian Tansen,’ Kapil hailed him, ‘what is your opinion on the matter?’
Probal took a sip of his coffee and said, ‘I think the murderer is deranged and so are you all.’
Everyone sat up. ‘Pray, why are we crazy?’
‘Either you’re crazy or you’re hypocrites. Even if someone has killed a labourer, why are you getting so worked up about it? Are you trying to suggest that a paltry labourer’s life is worth so much to you?’
The discussion subsequently escalated in intensity, the arguments rising to fever pitch.
Debashish was not fond of debates and arguments. He had every intention of finishing his coffee and slipping away. Nripati noticed this and asked, ‘Hey, Debashish! You’re not leaving, are you?’
‘Yes, Nripatida,’ Debashish replied, ‘it’s time I left.’
‘All right, then. Be careful. There are hordes of lunatics prowling the streets of south Calcutta.’
Debashish left amid howls of laughter. He had just gone a few steps, when he heard rumbling noises from the south-west. Glancing up at the sky, he saw thunderclouds approaching. The oppressive heat was developing into a raging storm. In an instant, the clouds had rushed in like a rapid formation of jet planes. The force of the gales turned everything topsy-turvy.
Buffeted by the winds, Debashish considered going back to Nripati’s. It was nearer than his own home. But then he reasoned that the storm was sure to bring rain in its wake and there was no telling how long that would last. It would, therefore, be wiser to head home; he just might make it before the rain arrived. Debashish bent his head, resisting the force of the storm as he walked homewards. But before he could go very far, the rain came in icy cold lashes, drenching him thoroughly.
On reaching home, Debashish rushed upstairs. Dipa was in her own room, watching the rain through the closed window panes. Debashish knocked on her door and pushed it open. Dipa turned from the window and took in his drenched form. Her eyes widened and she drew a deep breath of alarm.
‘I’m soaked to the skin,’ Debashish muttered sheepishly before rushing into the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, he came out, having changed into a fresh set of clothes. As he towelled his hair dry, he found Dipa standing exactly where he’d last seen her. ‘I’d just left Nripatida’s house when the storm hit,’ he explained. ‘Come, it’s time for dinner.’
The next morning, Debashish woke up with aches and pains all over his body. The result of his tryst with the rain, no doubt. It might develop into flu, he feared. He thought of not going in to work that day. But if he stayed home, he would keep bumping into Dipa all day and be obliged to make polite conversation. It hadn’t escaped his notice that on Sundays, Dipa remained tense all day long. Why go through that? He didn’t mention his indisposition to anyone. He got dressed and left for the factory.
In the evening, he came home with fever. At tea, he announced to Nakul, ‘I’ve caught a cold. I don’t want any rice for dinner.’
‘With the drenching yesterday, this was inevitable,’ Nakul commented. ‘Should I call the doctor?’
‘Oh no,’ Debashish protested, ‘it’s nothing, really. A couple of aspirins should take care of it.’
He did not come down to dinner. Dipa went downstairs at dinnertime and said, ‘Nakul, if his dinner is ready, I’ll take it up.’
Nakul was arranging a bowl of soup, slices of toast and salad on a tray. He asked, ‘Why, Boudi? Why should you have to carry Dada’s tray up? What am I here for? Come on, let’s go upstairs.’
Nakul picked up the tray and walked ahead, with Dipa right behind him. Dipa’s heart was hammering away. When Nakul turned towards Dipa’s room after reaching the top of the stairs, she murmured faintly, ‘Not there, Nakul. He’s in the other room.’
Nakul turned and gave Dipa a glare. Then he turned and walked into the next room to find Debashish in bed, reading a book. Nakul approached the bed and asked him, ‘Dadababu, why are you sleeping here?’
Debashish had his story ready. He sat up in bed and said, ‘I might have come down with influenza. It’s contagious and Dipa might catch it. So I thought it would be best if I stayed in another room for the time being.’
An acceptable alibi. Dipa heaved a sigh of relief. Nakul held his peace, but his eyes remained suspicious. He seemed to have an inkling that things weren’t quite as they should be. Something was amiss.
Three hours later, Dipa was awakened by a faint knocking at her door. Bleary-eyed with sleep, she got out of bed, opened the door and nearly screamed in fright. Debashish stood there, wrapped in his bedsheets and shivering uncontrollably. He murmured in an indistinct voice, ‘My chest hurts. The fever has shot up … please call the doctor.’ Having said this, he stumbled back to his own room.
A sudden crisis can sometimes numb the mind. Then it comes to its senses. Dipa gathered her wits about her and thought, ‘We need a doctor.’ But she didn’t know Debashish’s family doctor. Nakul would have to be sent to fetch him, but that would take time. If she could summon Uncle Sen instead …
Dipa dialled Dr Surit Sen’s number. He was the physician who attended to Dipa’s family.
A drowsy voice came on the line. ‘Hello.’
‘Uncle Sen, it’s me, Dipa.’
‘Dipa! What’s the matter?’
‘I … my …,’ Dipa gulped. ‘My husband has fallen ill. It’s an emergency. I don’t know the name of their family doctor. That’s why I’m calling you. Please come soon, Uncle!’
‘I’ll be right there. What are your husband’s symptoms?’
‘He got drenched in the rain and caught a chill, and then …’
‘Right. I’m coming over.’
‘Will you be able to find the house?’
‘Of course! Wasn’t it just the other day that I attended your wedding feast?’
Dr Sen arrived about twenty minutes later. He went up and began to examine Debashish. Dipa looked on from the threshold.
Following a few preliminary questions, the doctor checked the patient’s pulse, took his temperature and listened to the sounds of his chest with the stethoscope. While he was doing so, his eyes widened and he exclaimed, ‘Good God!’
Debashish said wanly, ‘Yes, Doctor. Everything is the other way round for me.’
Dipa looked at them intently, but Debashish did not elaborate further. The doctor nodded and continued his examination. Finally, he announced, ‘The chest is heavily congested. I’m giving you an injection—that should do the trick. I’ll come by again tomorrow morning. If need be, we can begin a course of treatment then.’ He gave his patient the injection, stroked his head affectionately and said, ‘No need to worry. You’ll be fine in a few days. Now go to sleep, son. I’ll be back at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Also, do keep your family physician informed about the situation.’
Dipa followed the doctor out of the room. When he had reached the head of the stairs, he said, ‘I observed something rather strange today …’
‘What is it?’
The doctor told her what he had discovered.
Within ten days, Debashish was fighting fit. Although he had been ill during that period, those ten days had been very pleasant ones for him. Dipa would come by occasionally, sit by his bed and chat with him. At mealtimes, she would go downstairs to fetch him his food. She was adamant about not leaving the responsibility to Nakul. At night, she’d check on Debasish surreptitiously; floating in the twilight zone between slumber and wakefulness, he never failed to sense it.
One day, when Debashish was almost fully recover
ed and propped up in bed with pillows as he read a book, Dipa came in with his cup of hot cocoa. He smiled at her as he took the cup from her hands. She sat down at the foot of the bed and said, ‘Dada had called. He’ll drop by this evening.’
Debashish did not answer. He took small sips from his drink and looked at her. Needless to say, during the time he’d been ill, someone or the other from Dipa’s family had dropped in to inquire after his health every day. In the beginning, his mother-in-law had come and stayed over for a couple of nights. But Dipa had not really approved of that.
Debashish sipped his cocoa and continued to gaze at her. Dipa began to grow uneasy. For want of anything better to say, she remarked, ‘I think the garden needs a few more crotons.’
Debashish, however, paid no heed. His voice was wistfully tender as he confessed, ‘Dipa, you may not love me, but I have fallen in love with you.’
The words came like a bolt from the blue. Dipa’s face turned crimson, then lost all colour in the space of a second. She made as if to leave the room with the words, ‘That must be the gardener. I must check on him.’
Debashish called her back. ‘Dipa, please come here,’ he pleaded.
She turned back, her heart thudding in her breast. The wistful expression was gone from his face as he handed her the empty cup and said in an amiable voice, ‘I’d like to invite a few of my friends to tea—just four or five, no more.’
Dipa heaved a great sigh of relief and asked, ‘When would that be?’
‘There’s no hurry. It’s a Sunday today … what about next Sunday?’
‘Fine.’
‘But I’d rather the food we served weren’t bazaar snacks. I’d prefer Nakul and you to prepare everything yourselves.’
‘Fine. We’ll do that.’
The days slipped by. Debashish went back to work. On Saturday evening, he dropped in on Nripati. Everyone there was glad to see him after such a long interval. Even Probal launched into a light, comic tune on the piano.
‘You’ve lost weight,’ Nripati observed.
Kharga Bahadur said, ‘My dear Debu, stuff yourself with sheekh kebabs and you’ll put on weight in no time at all.’
‘Oh stop it, Kharga!’ Kapil exclaimed. ‘You consume a kilo and a half of that stuff every day. Why don’t you gain weight, then?’
‘That’s because I play football,’ Kharga retorted. ‘We people never put on weight. Have you ever seen a fat footballer?’
‘But wrestlers and strongmen are often obese,’ Sujan countered. ‘I’ve heard their diet is heavy on pistachio nuts and pomegranate juice.’
At this point, Bijoy Madhav came in. He noticed Debashish and came up to him. ‘This is your first visit since your illness, right?’ he asked.
‘Yes, it is,’ Debashish replied.
‘Are you absolutely fit now?’
‘Yes.’
Not having received much encouragement from Debashish, Bijoy pulled a face and took a seat by the sofa. Debashish turned to the others and said, ‘I’ve come down to invite you all for tea. Tomorrow is a Sunday. Drop in any time after five-thirty. Does that suit all of you?’
Everyone agreed happily. But Kharga Bahadur said, ‘I have a match tomorrow; I’ll try and come as soon as I can make it. Will you serve sheekh kebabs with tea?’
‘You are incorrigible!’ Kapil declared. ‘Do kebabs go with tea at all? Their best companion is the bottle.’
Debashish turned to Probal. ‘You will be there, won’t you?’ he asked.
Probal replied, ‘I certainly will. I am never one to refuse an invitation to a rich man’s home. But, pray, what is the occasion? Are you celebrating your recovery from illness?’
‘I’d like to treat you to some snacks prepared by my wife,’ Debashish answered simply. ‘Bijoy, do come.’
‘Of course.’
The following evening, all the guests turned up at Debashish’s place, one by one. Even Kharga Bahadur was on time. ‘The match was cancelled,’ he explained. ‘We got a walkover.’
They sat chatting in the drawing room downstairs. When everyone had arrived, Debashish slipped into the kitchen and found Dipa arranging the snacks on plates. Nakul was making tea in two large teapots. Debashish told her, ‘They’re all here. The tea and snacks should be served in another ten minutes or so.’
‘We’ll do that,’ Dipa replied. She had no idea who their guests were. Nor was she keen to know. She had a vague notion that the invitees might be his colleagues from the factory.
The conversation in the living room had veered to the latest news item about the porcupine-quill murder. This time, the victim was Gunamoy Das, a shopkeeper. And the site of the killing was, once again, south Calcutta.
There was no novelty to the discussion in progress. The same theories were being bandied about: The killer was either a lunatic or an espionage agent working on behalf of a hostile country.
‘Have you noticed something?’ Sujan asked. ‘The first victim was a beggar. He was followed by a labourer. Now it’s a shopkeeper. The killer is climbing his way up the social ladder as it were. Can you forecast who the next victim is likely to be?’
A derisive sound emerged from Probal’s throat.
‘Perhaps, this time, the victim will be a famous football player,’ Kapil suggested.
‘Or a famous film actor,’ added Kharga Bahadur.
‘Or, perhaps, a famous singer,’ was Sujan’s rejoinder.
‘Why does it have to be someone famous?’ Probal countered. ‘It could well be just a rich man like Nripatida or Kapil or …’
At this point, Dipa came in bearing a tray laden with plates. Probal’s sentence remained suspended in mid-air as everyone smiled and rose to their feet in deference to the lady’s presence. Dipa blanched as her nervous gaze took in the gathering. With a great effort of will, she propelled herself forward and placed the tray on the coffee table.
‘Good evening, Mrs Bhatta,’ Kapil greeted her light-heartedly and half in jest
It seemed as though she hadn’t heard him. She turned to leave as soon as she had put down the tray. Nakul stood behind her, holding another tray with the teapot and cups. She stepped around him and almost ran back into the house.
Debashish was left feeling awkward. He had hoped Dipa would pour and serve the tea herself. All the guests were people she had met before her wedding. He’d hoped she would act as hostess, conversing with them and personally seeing to it that they did not miss out on any of the snacks she had so painstakingly prepared. But Dipa did nothing of the sort. Debashish poured the tea himself. He picked the plates off the tray and placed them before his guests. With Nakul’s help, Dipa had prepared a great many dishes that evening: prawn cutlets, kachoris, dal pakoras, sweet potato dumplings and thick milk pudding, among other delicacies. The guests resumed their discussion as they ate. They had probably not even noticed Dipa’s odd behaviour.
When the discussion was in full swing, Debashish slipped out of the room. He found Dipa sitting at the dining table clutching her temples. As Debashish approached, she looked up in a forlorn way and said, ‘I have a terrible headache.’
Debashish’s annoyance melted away in an instant. His voice was generous with sympathy as he said, ‘Oh, it must be the heat in the kitchen. Don’t keep sitting here. Go up to your room and put some eau de cologne on your forehead. You’ll be fine in an hour.’
Dipa stood up and said faintly, ‘I’ll do that.’
Debashish went back to the drawing room and said, ‘Dipa has a severe headache. I’ve told her to apply some eau de cologne and rest a while. She’s been cooking all day long.’
Everyone was full of commiseration. Bijoy suggested, ‘Why don’t I go up and look in on her once?’
Debashish said, ‘Do that. Go right upstairs.’
Bijoy went up the stairs. He looked around, found his way to Dipa’s bedroom door, then paused on the threshold. Dipa was lying in bed with her eyes closed. She heard him approach, raised her head to look at him, then let it fall
back on her pillow.
Bijoy came and stood by her bed, glared at her and muttered through gritted teeth, ‘Don’t try to play the fool with me! I know the reason behind your headache.’
Dipa did not answer. She merely lay there in silence, her eyes shut.
Bijoy shook his finger at her and said, ‘One of the men present today is the chap with whom you have …’
Not a word escaped Dipa’s lips.
‘I want his name.’
Dipa refused to speak up. She seemed to have turned deaf.
‘You’re not going to oblige, are you?’
Dipa sat up abruptly, glared at Bijoy and retorted, ‘No, I shan’t!’ She lay down again and turned her back on him.
‘All right, then!’ Bijoy ground out. ‘I’ll get to the bottom of this myself. The day I find out who he is, I’ll have him dragged out into the street and given the thrashing of his life.’
Bijoy went downstairs. Although there was much substance to this squabble between brother and sister, it was somehow beginning to acquire comic overtones.
Several more days went by.
Every man has two facets to his persona, one that he reserves for the daytime and the other that surfaces at night. They are a bit like the eyes of a cat that change colour depending on the hour.
Of all the characters in this story, five led nocturnal lives that invited scrutiny. Such close observation may well yield unexpected insights.
What follows is the story of a particular night:
It was past ten-thirty. Nripati had finished his dinner and gone to bed with a book. The kingsize bed was one he had been using from the time he had got married. Now, he slept in it alone. He usually read in bed and put the book away when he felt sleepy. Then switching off the light, he would allow slumber to take over.
But tonight, as he lay in bed reading, a wave of restlessness swept over him. He spent the next half an hour trying in vain to settle down to read. Finally, he got out of bed. He switched off the light and sat in the armchair by the window. The moon was up and its glow suffused the sky. He lit a cigarette.
Was it a full moon night? About a fortnight ago, when Nripati had gone out in the darkness of the night, the moon had been in its waning phase. Perhaps it had been the night of the new moon. Was there really a connection between the phases of the moon and the highs and lows the human mind experienced? Even doctors today conceded that joint pains were aggravated during certain phases of the moon. Nripati let a chuckle escape his lips. Joint pains indeed!
Menagerie & other Byomkesh Bakshi Mysteries Page 27