Menagerie & other Byomkesh Bakshi Mysteries

  ‘Sir!’

  Nripati’s valet, Dinanath, stood by him. Nripati turned to look at him.

  ‘You can’t get to sleep. Should I make you a cup of Ovaltine?’ Dinu offered.

  Nripati gave it some thought and replied, ‘No, there’s no need. I’ll be going out. Unlatch the front door at dawn.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Dinu was loyal to his master. He knew that Nripati sometimes went out for a nocturnal tryst, but he kept it to himself. Even the other servants in the house were in the dark.

  When Dinu left the room, Nripati got up and switched on the light. He took out a khaki-coloured Western outfit from his wardrobe and put it on. He slipped his feet into rubber-soled shoes. From his steel almirah, he took out an oblong-shaped wallet that looked like a spectacle case and put it away in the inner pocket of his jacket. He swept his eyes over his reflection in the full-length mirror and switched off the light. There was a winding wrought-iron staircase at the back of the house. He made his way down silently.

  Where did Nripati go? He was a widower. Did he have a secret lover?

  The story of another night follows:

  If you walked down one of the many narrow lanes that converged on Gol Park, you’d arrive at an old, two-storeyed house. Probal Gupta lived there in three rooms on the ground floor. He was the old tenant of an old house. The rent was absurdly low.

  The house was nice enough, but Probal being disorganized by nature, his home looked uncared for after his wife’s death. A mat sprawled on the drawing room floor. Along one wall stood a pair of tablas, a harmonium and a metronome. No other object in the house offered a clue about Probal’s vocation as a musician.

  At eight-thirty in the evening, Probal locked the front door and sat down with his harmonium. He hadn’t gone to Nripati’s that evening. He was composing the tune for the lyrics he had written. He was scheduled to go to Dum Dum the following week to record it. He composed his own music. Today, he wanted to edit the song to the exact demands of the track. The song had to be exactly three minutes and twenty seconds long.

  He wound up the metronome. It began to pulsate to the beat like the pendulum of a clock. Probal took out a stopwatch from his pocket and placed it on the harmonium. He started the stopwatch and began to sing softly. His fingers moved lightly over the harmonium’s keys.

  As soon as the song was over, he stopped the watch and checked it: three minutes and thirty-one seconds. He wound up the metronome again and set it to a slightly faster beat. Then he started the stopwatch again.

  This went on for nearly half an hour. The solitary singer sang to himself.

  There was a knock on the door. Probal got up to answer it. A waiter stood there with a plate of rice and curry. Probal’s house had no kitchen facilities. He had the food sent over twice a day from an eatery nearby.

  The waiter set the plate down on a corner of the mat and went away. Probal shut the door and came back to where the plate of food had been placed. Then he seated himself and began to eat. He was barely eking out an existence in this manner. Perhaps his eyes were trained on so distant a future that he remained oblivious to his present.

  After finishing his dinner, Probal locked the door from outside and left the house. He bought a paan from the corner stall and put it in his mouth. Then he lit a Gold Flake cigarette. Probal never carried cigarettes on him to prevent himself from smoking more than he should. Every night, he bought a cigarette from the store and smoked it. Professional singers had to be very careful about their voice. Excessive smoking was known to adversely affect voice quality.

  A transistor radio was blaring away in the corner stall. Probal listened to it intently and realized that one of his own records was being played. He frowned and listened to himself sing for a while. Then he puffed on his cigarette and walked away.

  Southern Avenue was almost empty of people at that hour. Probal walked south, keeping to the fencing along the edge of the lake—Rabindra Sarobar. Inside his head, a couplet ebbed and flowed, resonating with the words, ‘The waves of love rise and sway, my love.’ Occasionally, the sting of an angry bee spread its venom within his heart: ‘Why would someone wish to live on in this world if he were poor?’

  At the point at which the never-ending railings took a turn eastwards, there was a tiny gate. Probal swung open the gate and reached the shores of the lake.

  He walked for a while, bathed in the flickering chiaroscuro of dim light and shade, until he came to an empty bench set under a tree. He sat down on the bench, then stretched out. A gurgling noise like uncontrollable laughter emerged from his throat.

  That night, when Probal returned home, it was nearly midnight. The eyes of the city were drooping with sleep.

  And yet another:

  Kharga Bahadur had not gone to Nripati’s because his own house was the venue for a gathering that evening. But a different kind of session was scheduled. The guests too were a different lot. The occasion was a regular feature of his social life and was organized about twice or three times a month.

  Kharga Bahadur lived in a tiny flat. Although small, it was enough for his needs. Ratan Singh, his valet and compatriot, lived with him. Ratan was his valet as well as his cook. He made excellent sheekh kebabs.

  The living room was tastefully done up, indicating the wealth and status of the master. Occupying the centre of the room was a card table with four upholstered chairs grouped around it. A pair of light bulbs of a hundred watts each burned overhead. Kharga Bahadur sat alone at this table and shuffled a pack of cards. Two new packs, still unsealed, lay on the table. Kharga Bahadur was shuffling the cards lazily, but his expression was harsh. At home, he was quite different from the jocular and amiable person Nripati’s friends got to see. Here, he was lord and master, the mediaeval seigneur.

  At a quarter to eight, he called out, ‘Ratan Singh!’

  Ratan was in the kitchen. He came in and stood before his master. He was short and stout with typical Nepali features. He looked on expressionlessly and asked, ‘Yes, sir?’

  Kharga Bahadur announced, ‘Our guests will be here by eight. How are the kebabs coming along?’

  Ratan said, ‘Sir, half of them are done. The rest is being prepared.’

  ‘Three guests are expected,’ Kharga Bahadur told him. ‘Once they are all here, serve the first round of kebabs. Bring the second round an hour later. Now be off with you!’

  Ratan’s face gave away nothing. Yet, one got the feeling that he wasn’t very fond of his master’s guests. He went back to the kitchen and put his mind to the kebabs. One had to accept the master’s deeds as infallible. But squandering money by gambling it away was not a commendable practice. A thousand rupees came from home every month, and at the end of it, not a paisa remained.

  Kharga Bahadur shuffled the cards and thought, ‘If I lose today, blood will flow.’

  The last few times he had played, he had ended up losing.

  The three guests arrived separately around eight o’clock. All three men were young and their clothes revealed that they came from affluent families. One was a Sindhi, the second, a Punjabi and the third, a Parsi.

  After the mandatory greetings had been exchanged, they sat down at the table. Ratan brought in a couple of kilos of sheekh kebab, piled on to four plates. They were accompanied by an assortment of cutlery and mustard sauce.

  Conversation was limited. The men pulled the plates towards themselves and began to eat. Ratan’s kebabs were delicious. Very soon, all the plates had been scraped clean. All four wiped their lips on handkerchiefs and lit up. Even the Parsi youth was a smoker. In these modern times, religion was spared little more than lip service.

  At eight-thirty, a fresh pack of cards was opened and the game began. The lowest bet was for five rupees and the highest for twenty.

  All four players were veterans, but in a game of running flash, luck was a greater factor than skill. Seldom can a hand be improved or a game won with a bluff or two. What determined victory or defeat was the strength
of the hand.

  At ten-thirty, the second round of kebabs arrived. This time, the quantity served was less and the kebabs were accompanied by coffee. Within fifteen minutes, the men had polished off the food. A new pack of cards was opened and the game resumed.

  The session ended at half an hour past midnight. After the gains and losses had been totted up, it was found that all three guests had won. Kharga Bahadur, however, had lost nearly seven hundred rupees.

  The guests conveyed their regrets and took their leave, smiling. Kharga Bahadur sat alone at the table for a while, his face dark as night. Then, abruptly, he got up and went into the bedroom. He changed out of the clothes he had been wearing and came out with a cowboy hat on his head. He said to Ratan, ‘I’m going out. Wait by the front door until I return.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Ratan replied.

  Kharga Bahadur left. Ratan’s Mongoloid face was devoid of expression, but anxiety flickered in his eyes. The master had lost that evening as well. Where did he go when he lost at cards? He returned home in the early hours. Sometimes, he went out before eight and came back very late. Where could he be going off to? Did he roam the streets? Or …

  Yet another nocturnal tale:

  Dinner was over at Kapil’s house. The master had gone into his own room and Kapil’s younger brother and sister had gone to bed. Assembled in the drawing room with Kapil were his elder brother and his wife, and his elder sister and her husband. His mother had passed away and his sister-in-law now ran the house. Kapil’s elder sister and her husband lived in Darjeeling where the latter owned a tea plantation. They had arrived in Kolkata that very morning to spend a few days in the city.

  Kapil’s house was a three-storeyed building. The ground floor had been rented out to the branch office of a bank. Kapil and his family lived on the two upper floors. Above them was an open terrace.

  Among those assembled in the drawing room, Kapil’s brother Gautamdev was the oldest in the family. He ran the family business and was an aloof sort of person who consciously kept away from domestic matters. His wife, Ramola, was, however, quite the reverse. She couldn’t have been more than thirty, but she was bright, efficient in managing her household duties and very involved in anything that smacked of the domestic. Moreover, the hint of acid in her temperament persuaded everyone to take pains not to rub her the wrong way.

  Kapil’s sister Ashoka was also approaching thirty. Her only son, a seven-year-old, was at boarding school. To claim that she was a rich man’s daughter and a rich man’s wife was enough to sum her up. She looked upon most living creatures with disdain and distanced herself from most people. But her husband, Sailenbabu, was a party animal who loved to hold forth at a gathering. He was inclined to be argumentative and, given a chance, did not hesitate to offer unsolicited advice.

  He was puffing at a pipe that looked like a huge question mark. Gautamdev had lit a fat cigarette for himself. The fragrant aroma of scented tobacco teased Kapil’s nostrils, but he refrained from smoking in deference to his elders. He fidgeted away in silence instead. It was an unspoken rule of the house that once dinner was over, everyone would get together for at least fifteen minutes. In days gone by, even Kapil’s father had abided by it. But now, he was getting on in years and preferred to go to bed soon after his meal. The rule continued to apply, however, to every other member of the family.

  Sailenbabu, the son-in-law, studied Kapil sombrely through the haze of smoke pluming from his pipe and asked, ‘Kapil, are you planning to live up to your name and become an ascetic?’

  Kapil replied in equally sombre tones, ‘I have no such plans as of now.’

  Sailenbabu inquired, ‘Then why aren’t you getting married? If one is looking forward to a worldly existence, one must marry. You are old enough to be married, even if you may not have been endowed with the requisite intelligence.’

  Kapil raised an eyebrow and retorted, ‘Does one have to be particularly bright in order to qualify for marriage?’

  Ramola laughed. Everyone in the house was familiar with the jocular, cut-and-thrust dialogues that Kapil and Sailenbabu habitually engaged in. Ramola remarked, ‘If one needed to be intelligent in order to marry, everyone in Bengal would have remained single. Actually, it’s just the opposite. Kapil is far too bright and that’s why he is still a bachelor.’

  ‘Really!’ Sailenbabu glanced at Kapil in surprise. ‘Is he indeed that bright? Unless you spell it out for me clearly, I won’t really get it, you know.’

  Ramola urged, ‘Why don’t you ask him to do so? We have left no stone unturned in our efforts to persuade him, but he still refuses to marry! Why, I wonder?’

  Sailenbabu echoed her. ‘Why, indeed?’

  Kapil rummaged around in his pocket and his fingers brushed his cigarette case. He fished it out absently and put it back again.

  Gautamdev got up. ‘I’ll be off. I have to leave early tomorrow morning …’ He left the sentence trailing as he left. He hated to impose on anyone’s hospitality.

  Kapil attempted to pull his brother-in-law’s leg by asking him, ‘Do you agree that marriage is a serious business?’

  Sailenbabu cast a covert glance at his wife before replying, ‘Certainly! A very serious business indeed.’

  Although Ashoka was immune to the subtleties of humour, she was very sensitive to jibes, however nuanced they might be. She frowned at her husband and announced, ‘I’m off to bed. I have no patience with pointless discussions.’

  After she had left the room, Kapil took out the cigarette case from his pocket and asked Ramola, ‘Boudi, may I smoke?’

  Ramola retorted, ‘Oh, come off it! As if you’ve never smoked in my presence!’

  ‘I have,’ Kapil shot back, ‘but with your permission.’

  ‘Fine, you have it,’ Ramola said. ‘Now go right ahead.’

  Kapil lit up. Then the two brothers-in-law resumed their debate. Ramola sat listening to them, a smile tugging at her lips.

  ‘Since marriage is a serious business,’ Kapil observed, ‘one needs to consider it carefully from all angles before getting into it.’

  Sailenbabu said, ‘Certainly. But what are the angles you wish to consider?’

  ‘I need to consider the qualities I am looking for in my future wife.’

  ‘And what are those qualities? Looks, talent, erudition, intelligence …?’

  ‘All those would be very welcome, but they’re not indispensable. What is truly important is the need to be on the same wavelength.’

  ‘Hmm … Same wavelength … But how would you know that unless you married the woman?’

  ‘Therein lies the problem. But with women becoming more emancipated these days, it doesn’t take long to explore a girl’s heart and soul.’

  Ramola teased, ‘So, you’ve gained insights into the hearts and souls of many a girl, have you?’

  ‘That I have,’ Kapil countered. ‘But it doesn’t guarantee my approval.’

  ‘That’s obvious,’ Ramola quipped.

  Sailenbabu asked, ‘So until you stumble upon your soulmate the quest will continue, eh?’

  Kapil smiled without offering a comment.

  Sailenbabu’s tone held a note of suspicion as he asked, ‘What’s the real story, old chap? You’re not fooling us all, are you?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘What I mean is—you’re not involved with a married woman or a widow, are you?’

  Kapil looked startled, then laughed heartily. ‘Boudi,’ he declared, ‘Sailenbabu has gone quite mad. He’s just come down from the hills to the plains and this was inevitable. Please arrange for ice packs so he can cool his brains. I’m off to bed.’

  The conversation ended in jest and laughter. Kapil went to his room and shut the door.

  It was a fairly spacious room, long rather than square. At one end stood the bed. A desk with a glass top and a few chairs stood at the opposite end. Spread out beneath the sheet of glass on the desk was an astronomer’s map in which white stellar formations stood
out against the blue background. Kapil changed into his night clothes—a sleeveless shirt over loose pyjamas. Then he sat down at the desk and drew a book towards him.

  It was a book on astronomy by Fred Hoyle, written in English. Kapil glanced at the clock every now and then as he read. He was passionately interested in astronomy books that revealed the secrets of the universe. But this evening, his mind was not entirely on the book. It seemed as though he were reading it just to while away the hours.

  By his wristwatch the time was eleven-thirty. Kapil shut the book, got up and took out a telescope from the wall cupboard. The instrument was not very large, but it could be made to stand on three legs like a tripod. Kapil picked up the instrument, switched off the lights in his room and cautiously stepped out.

  A few paces away lay the stairs leading to the terrace. Kapil had barely tiptoed his way to the staircase when a door ahead opened and Ramola emerged with a sly grin on her face. Kapil was taken unawares.

  Ramola asked, ‘Why, Kapil! Where are you off to so late in the night with your telescope?’

  ‘Shh, Boudi—you’ll wake Baba up,’ Kapil cautioned her.

  Ramola lowered her voice and said, ‘I’m not sure I like the look of what’s going on, Kapil.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Kapil retorted. ‘You know very well that I often go up to the terrace at night to gaze at the stars.’

  ‘I do know that,’ Ramola countered, ‘but that’s usually late in the evenings. Which star are you planning to gaze upon at this ungodly hour?’

  ‘A quarter of an hour before midnight, Mars will be directly overhead. It is passing very close to Earth right now. I’m going up to take a good look at it.’

  Ramola wore a solemn expression as she declared, ‘Hmm, Mars indeed! You alone are aware of which stars and planets have you in their grip. But let me warn you that in this heat, all our neighbours sleep with their windows open. Don’t you go peeping into their houses to gaze at any stars.’