The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II (36 page)

I could not tell when Feluda had returned at night. When I woke, shortly before half past four in the morning, he was already dressed and ready to go. Lalmohan Babu and I took ten minutes, and then we set off. Dawn had only just started to break. The streetlights were still on, looking more apologetic than ever.

We passed the temple and reached the open area behind it. Feluda suddenly turned to me and said, ‘You used to be able to whistle pretty loudly. Can you still do it?’

Somewhat taken aback, I said, ‘Yes, of course. Why?’

‘You must whistle when I tell you to.’

I looked at him curiously, but knew better than to press for an explanation. We kept walking, using our walking sticks. Without those, it would have been extremely difficult to walk on the slippery, rocky surface, most of which was still covered with snow. A little while ago, we had had to cross the river, stepping rather gingerly across a makeshift bridge of wooden planks. Mandakini was little more than a stream here. Everywhere I looked, I could see high mountain peaks, but I had no idea what they were called. The tallest of these had started to acquire a pinkish glow in the early light of dawn.

My hands and face felt absolutely frozen. Lalmohan Babu spoke, through chattering teeth, ‘T-t-t-opshe will wh-whistle, but wh-what am I going t-to do?’

‘You? You need do nothing but hold that stick of yours over your head, and whirl it in the air. This will prove both your bravery and your insanity.’

‘V-very w-well.’

Half and hour later, a flat, grey area came into view. It was surrounded by endless rocks and stones. That had to be the Sarovar. Even so, I looked at Feluda and asked, ‘Is that the—?’ Feluda nodded in silence. To the west of the lake was a large rocky mound. It could well contain a small cave. The whole thing was at least two hundred and fifty yards away.

For sometime now, Feluda had been glancing around, as though he was looking for something specific. Now his eyes seemed to rest on an object. I followed his gaze quickly and saw one leg of a tripod, peeping out from behind a large boulder. Silently, Feluda made his way to it, closely followed by us.

A few seconds later, we found Pavandeo Singh peering through his camera. He was using his telephoto lens like a telescope.

‘I can see the cave quite clearly,’ he said as we reached him, ‘but he hasn’t yet come out of it.’ Then he passed the camera to Feluda, who passed it to me after a brief look.

The surface of the lake was still, reflecting the faint pink in the sky. I had to turn the camera a little to the left to locate the cave. A saffron flag was stuck between two stones right next to it.

As I looked, the sanyasi slowly stepped out of the cave. In those strangely beautiful surroundings, it seemed as though he had stepped onto a stage, to take part in some heavenly play. He was facing the east, waiting to welcome the rising sun.

‘Topshe, we have to get going,’ Feluda whispered. Rather reluctantly, I turned to go.

‘Don’t worry,’ Pavandeo said reassuringly. ‘I’ll stay here with my camera.’

We walked on, as quickly as we could, trying to hide whenever possible behind boulders and smaller hills. It was a shade brighter now, but there was no noise anywhere. It seemed almost as if nature was waiting with bated breath for something extraordinary to happen.

Soon, we got much closer to the sanyasi. I could see him clearly, as well as the flag near his cave. He was wearing a brown wrapper over his saffron clothes. We were moving toward the north; the sanyasi was still facing the east.

Then I noticed something strange. On the mound that had initially hidden the cave from sight, a small light was moving around. There was no doubt that it was being reflected from a piece of metal. Before any of us could say anything, a man suddenly slipped out from behind the mound. He was wearing an overcoat, with its collar turned up. It was impossible to see his face, but it was easy enough to recognize, even from a distance, the small object he was carrying in his hand. It was a revolver.

The sanyasi, totally unaware of what was going on, continued to stare at the sun. Feluda spoke under his breath, ‘I am going to deal with this. I want you to wait behind the boulder and keep an eye on things. Whistle as loudly as you can when you hear a gunshot.’

Feluda began to walk towards the cave without making the slightest noise. He stopped a few seconds later and hid behind another boulder. Now he could see the man with the gun, but that
man could not see Feluda. We were about twenty yards away, but even so, Lalmohan Babu and I could both see each character in this play.

Now Feluda took out his own revolver. As he did so, the sanyasi turned his face in the direction of the man in the overcoat. A split second later, a shot rang out to destroy the uncanny silence that had enveloped us so far. I saw the gun being knocked out of the other man’s hand, and falling on the snow a few away. He swayed and sat down quickly, clutching his right hand with his left.

Then I remembered Feluda’s instruction, and whistled with all my might. Several figures in police uniform emerged at once from behind various rocks and boulders.

‘Topshe! Lalmohan Babu! You can come out now,’ Feluda called. We ran as fast as we could and joined him in front of the sanyasi’s cave.

The sanyasi had probably not yet grasped the full implications of what had just happened, but his calm dignity remained unruffled. He only looked at us in surprise.

And the man with the revolver? He hadn’t moved an inch, but we could now see his face.

Why, this way none other than the journalist, Krishnakant Bhargav!

He was surrounded by policemen, but they appeared to be waiting for instructions from Feluda. ‘Take his beard off!’ Feluda said. One of the constables peeled it off immediately. The face that emerged seemed vaguely familiar, but everything fell into place when, a second later, Feluda himself removed the woollen cap that covered his hair.

‘Heredity is a funny business,’ Feluda observed. ‘Not only are the lobes of his ears exactly like his father’s, but this man also learnt to part his hair on the right. No wonder he made me feel so uneasy each time I looked at him.’

But what would it mean? Was this man really—? I didn’t even have to ask.

‘Yes,’ Feluda answered my unspoken question, ‘you are looking at Umashankar’s only son, Devishankar Puri.’

We now looked at the sanyasi. He was still looking perplexed.

‘The sound of that gunshot upset me,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I took so long to pull myself together. Please forgive me.’

‘What happened was not your fault. But you must now bring out that bag you have been guarding for over thirty years. Surely you have realized by now that we are your friends? Is it in your cave?’

‘Yes, where else could it be? That’s my only earthly possession!’ Once of the constables disappeared into the cave and came back with a small red bag in his hand. The sanyasi opened it. What slipped out first was a rolled sheet of paper. It was a statement from Raja Chandradeo Singh, confirming that the pendant was given to Bhavani Upadhyaya as a reward. It was stamped with his royal seal.

A smaller bag came out after this, from which emerged the famous pendant. Each little stone in it shone and glittered in the sun. It was not difficult to see that it had been created by an extraordinarily gifted craftsman. Its beauty left us speechless for several seconds.

Feluda was the first to recover. ‘Now,’ he said gently, ‘it would help us greatly if you could tell us who you really are.’

‘Who I really am? What are you talking about?’

‘Couldn’t you tell us your real name? The name you were given by your Bengali parents?’

The sanyasi did not even try to hide his amazement. ‘You know so much about my past? Who told you I was a Bengali?’

‘No one. But I saw a letter you had written in Hindi. Some of the letters written in the devnagari script looked suspiciously like Bengali letters. Besides, on a shelf in your house in Haridwar, I found a torn page from a Bengali book.’

‘Really? You have an exceptionally brilliant mind.’

‘May I please ask another question?’

‘Yes?’

‘Is Upadhyaya really your surname, and are you really called Bhavani?’

‘What do you mean? Are you implying I am . . .’

‘Isn’t Upadhyaya only a portion of Gangopadhyaya, and isn’t Bhavani a name for Durga? If I were to say your real name was Durgamohan Gangopadhyaya, would that be wrong?’

‘Oh my God! K-k-k-ka-ka-ka-ka . . .’

‘Why are you cawing so loudly, Lalmohan Babu? Have you
suddenly turned into a crow?’

‘N-no. It’s Kaka! My uncle, Durgamohan, isn’t it? Oh God, can it really be true?’ Durgamohan looked at Lalmohan Babu in profound surprise.

‘Kaka, I am Lalu!’ Lalmohan Babu went forward to touch his feet. The sanyasi put his arms around him and said, ‘The Almighty does move in mysterious ways, doesn’t He? Who knew I would be reunited with my only nephew like this? But now that I have, I have nothing left to worry about. That pendant is rightfully yours. I have no use for it any more.’

‘Yes, I can see that. If you give it to me, Kaka, I can keep it in a bank locker. You may not know about it, but of late I have been making a lot of money by writing crime stories for children. But who knows, public demand changes so quickly, they may not want to read my stuff one day. If I knew I had the pendant tucked away somewhere, I’d feel a lot. . . you know . . . reassured!’

I
t was at Lalmohan Babu’s insistence that we finally went to see a ‘jatra’. It was called
Surya Toran
and was staged by the well-known group, Bharat Opera. At the end of it, we had to admit it was a good show. The story and the acting bordered on melodrama, but in spite of that, the performers managed to hold the attention of the audience throughout. Obviously, they were all experienced actors, and the writer knew what would interest the public.

‘It was a bit like the stories I write, wasn’t it?’ Lalmohan Babu remarked as we came out. If you were to look at the whole thing critically, you could probably find a thousand flaws in it. Yet, it kept you entertained for hours. Wouldn’t you agree, Felu Babu?’

We both did. What Lalmohan Babu wrote inevitably lacked depth and serious thought. But he was amazingly popular among his readers. Every new book he wrote remained on the best-seller list for at least three months. He published only two books every year, one in April and the other in October. Of late, the factual errors in his books had grown minimal, since in addition to having his manuscripts corrected by Feluda, he had started to consult various encyclopaedias.

The reason why I mentioned
Surya Toran
is that the case I am going to write about was related to a man who used to work for Bharat Opera. His name was Indranarayan Acharya. It was he who had written the play, as well as the songs. He had also joined the orchestra and played the violin, we were told. A gifted man, no doubt. The problems that arose involving him eventually turned out to be so very complex that Feluda had to use each of his grey cells to unravel the tangled web.

Ten days after we had been to see
Surya Toran
, Mr Acharya himself rang us and made an appointment with Feluda. Feluda asked him to come the following Sunday at ten o’clock in the morning. By the time he arrived, we had been joined by Jatayu. Mr Acharya turned out to be slightly taller than most men and was clean-shaven. A man in his early forties, his hair had only just started to turn grey.

Feluda told him how much we had enjoyed seeing his play, and said, ‘You are obviously what’s known as a man of many parts. How did you manage to learn so many different things?’

Mr Acharya laughed lightly, ‘The story of my life is somewhat
strange, Mr Mitter. You’ll realize how odd my connection with the world of jatras is when I tell you about my family. Have you ever heard of the Acharyas of Bosepukur?’

‘Yes, yes. It’s a well known family. Wasn’t Kandarpanarayan Acharya one of your ancestors? The one who went to England and adopted a lifestyle as lavish as that of Prince Dwarkanath Tagore?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Kandarpanarayan was my great-grandfather. He went to England in 1875. He had many interests, music being one of them. The violin I play was bought by him. I have two brothers, Devnarayan and Harinarayan. Both are older.

‘Harinarayan is interested in music like me, but he doesn’t play any instrument. He’s more interested in western classical music. All he ever plays are records and cassettes. He’s a chartered accountant by profession. Devnarayan is a businessman. Our father, Keertinarayan, is still alive. He is seventy-nine. He was a barrister, though now of course he’s retired. So, you see, coming from such a background, normally a man like myself wouldn’t get involved with jatras. But I’ve had a flair for writing and a passion for music ever since I was a child. I did go to college, but didn’t wait to finish my graduation. A special tutor taught me to play the violin. And I had already begun writing songs. So I went straight to my father and told him I wanted to join a group of artistes who worked together to stage jatras. Father has a certain weakness for me, possibly because I am his youngest. He agreed. That’s how I began. Now I earn as much as my other brothers. I’m sure you know how well-paid jatra workers are.’

‘Oh yes!’ Lalmohan Babu exclaimed. ‘The leading actors are paid something like twenty thousand rupees every month.’

‘I do not wish to sound presumptuous,’ Mr Acharya went on, ‘but if Bharat Opera is well-known today, it is chiefly because of contributions I have made. My plays, my songs and my violin are the biggest attractions . . . and this is where the problem lies.’ He stopped as Srinath came in with the tea.

‘Are you talking of pressure from rival groups?’ Feluda asked, lifting his cup.

‘Yes, you’re right. Many other groups have been making rather tempting offers for quite a long time. I have been in two minds—after all, one can’t always ignore a good offer, can one? But, on the other hand, I’ve been with Bharat Opera for seventeen years. They’ve looked after me all this while and treated me with utmost
respect. I cannot let them down. So I’ve had to play one group against another, simply to give myself more time to think things over. But . . . matters have now come to a head, which is why I’ve come to you today. An attempt was made three days ago to cripple Bharat Opera—for good—by removing me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘In simple English, by murdering me.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I was attacked physically. My shoulder still hurts.’

‘Where were you when you were attacked?’

‘Our office is in Muhammad Shafi Lane, which is just off Beadon Street. That is where rehearsals are held. The lane is almost always dark, and quiet. When I stepped into the lane that evening, there was a power cut, making matters worse. As I made my way to the office, someone sprang up and hit me with a heavy rod. I think his intention was to strike my head, but he missed and hit my shoulder instead. Luckily, two of our actors arrived within minutes and found me lying on the ground, crying in pain. They were also on their way to the office. It was they who carried me there and took care of everything. I was carrying my violin, which had also fallen to the ground.

‘My biggest worry was that it might have been damaged, but later I discovered it wasn’t. Now, Mr Mitter, you must tell me what to do.’

Feluda lit a Charminar. ‘At this moment, there is really nothing that I can suggest, except that you should go to the police. There is no reason to assume that the man who attacked you had been sent by a rival group. He may well have been an ordinary petty thief; perhaps all he wanted was your wallet. So do tell the police and get back to me if something else happens. That’s all I can tell you. But what you told me about your family was most interesting. I could never have imagined anyone from such a family would join a jatra.’

‘I was known as the black sheep of the Acharya family,’ said Mr Acharya. ‘At least, that’s what my brothers used to call me.’

He left soon after this. When he had gone, Feluda sat quietly for a few minutes, smoking in silence. Then he blew out a couple of smoke rings and said, ‘Just imagine, only a hundred years ago, Kandarpanarayan Acharya had gone to England and lived like a prince. Today, his great-grandson is trying to seek help after being attacked in a small lane in Calcutta. What a difference in their
situations, although they’re only three generations apart!’

‘But,’ Lalmohan Babu remarked, ‘the change has occurred only in Indranarayan’s case. From what we just heard, his two brothers are still living pretty lavishly, in keeping with their family tradition.’

‘Whatever it may be,’ Feluda said, ‘I’d love to learn more about these people. Perhaps one day we should visit Bosepukur.’

Who knew Feluda’s wish would come true and we’d find ourselves in Bosepukur in just a few days?