I had no idea the group of pandas waiting on the platform would surround us like this, even though Feluda had warned me of the possibility. These pandas apparently kept huge ledgers that held records of one’s ancestors—those who had visited Haridwar, that is—going back several hundred years. My great-great-grandfather was supposed to have left home to become a sannyasi. He had spent a long time in Haridwar. Perhaps one of those ledgers contained his name and address, or maybe even his handwriting? Who could tell?
‘There is no need for a panda,’ said Bonobihari Babu, ‘that would only add to the confusion. Let’s go to Sheetal Das’s dharamshala. I know the place. We could be together, and the food’s not too bad. It’s just a matter of one night, anyway. Tomorrow we leave for Hrishikesh and Laxmanjhoola.’
A coolie picked up our luggage. We came out of the station and hired three tongas. Feluda and I got into one, Baba and Dr Srivastava got into another and Bonobihari Babu took the third. It was still dark.
‘A holy place,’ said Feluda, ‘is always dirty. But once you’re by the river, it feels quite pleasant.’
Our tonga rattled along the lanes of Haridwar. Not a single shop was open yet. There were men sleeping on string beds by the roadside wrapped in blankets. Kerosene lamps flickered here and there. A few old men went past, metal pots in hand. They were going to the river, Feluda explained. They would stand immersed in waist-deep water and wait for sunrise, chanting hymns to welcome a new day. The rest of the town was still asleep.
Bonobihari Babu’s tonga was leading us. It stopped in front of a white single-storeyed house, with large pillars. This clearly, was Sheetal Das’s dharamshala.
There was a courtyard as we went in through the gate. Corridors ran round its sides and the rooms stood in neat rows.
A man from the dharamshala came out and took our luggage in. We were about to follow him through a door when another tonga came and stopped at the front gate. The sadhu who had travelled with us up to Bareilly climbed down from it.
I tugged at Feluda’s sleeve.
‘Look, it’s the same man! The one in the train . . .’
Feluda gave the man a sidelong glance and said, ‘Do you mean to say even this man is a suspect?’
‘Well, this is the second time . . .’
‘Sh-h-h. Not a word. Let’s go in.’
Baba, Feluda and I were given one room. There were four beds in it. The occupant of the fourth bed was fast asleep.
Bonobihari Babu and Dr Srivastava were given the room next to ours. The sadhu joined them.
By the time all of us had had a wash and tea had been ordered, it was fairly bright. A number of people were now awake and the whole place had become quite noisy. I now realized what a wide variety of people were staying at the dharamshala. There were Bengalis, Marwaris, people from Uttar Pradesh, Gujaratis, Maharashtrians—all contributing equally to the general cacophony.
‘Are you thinking of going out?’ asked Baba.
‘Yes, I’d like to go to the river,’ Feluda said.
‘All right. I’m going with Bonobihari Babu to arrange two taxis for tomorrow. And if you’re going anywhere near a market, get an Eveready torch. After all, this is not a place like Lucknow. A torch may come in handy.’
We left. Feluda said the place was too small for a tonga ride. It was better to walk.
I soon began to feel the difference in temperature. Haridwar was definitely cooler than Lucknow and, possibly because it was so close to a river, covered by a misty haze. ‘It’s more smoke than mist,’ Feluda said, ‘the smoke comes from angeethees.’
We stopped to ask our way a little later. ‘Half a mile from here,’ we were told.
A different cacophony greeted us from a distance even before we reached the river. It turned out to be groups of bathers. Besides, hawkers and beggars lined the path running to the river bank, and they were no less noisy.
We pushed through the crowd and made our way to the steps that led to the edge of the water. The scene that met my eyes was one I have never witnessed since. It was as though a carnival was being held by the riverside. Bells pealed within a temple that stood by the steps. A Vaishnav sat singing a bhajan near the temple, surrounded by a group of old men and women. Cows, goats, dogs and cats moved about freely, in happy conjuction with the humans.
Feluda found a relatively quiet spot on the steps and we sat down. ‘If you want a glimpse of ancient India,’ he said, ‘just watch the scene below.’
The whole thing was so different from Lucknow that I nearly forgot the stolen ring. Did Feluda feel the same way, or was his mind still working on the case? I looked at Feluda, but didn’t dare ask him. He was taking out his cigarettes and a matchbox from his pocket with a contented air. This was clearly good opportunity to have a smoke since he couldn’t when Baba was present.
He put a cigarette between his lips and pushed open the matchbox. Something flashed brightly.
Startled, I asked, ‘What was that, Feluda?’ By then, he had shut the box again.
‘What was what?’ he asked, apparently taken aback.
‘That . . . object that’s in your matchbox. I saw it flash.’
Feluda cupped his mouth with both hands to light his cigarette and inhaled. Then he blew the smoke out and said, ‘Matchsticks have phosphorus in them, don’t you know? That’s what flashed in the sun.’
I couldn’t ask anything further, but that seemed an unlikely story. Matchsticks didn’t glitter in the sun!
We stayed by the river a little longer and then went to see the temple of Daksheshwar. By the time we were out of the temple, buying a torch in a stationery shop, it was nearly ten-thirty. But no matter what we did or saw, I simply could not get the matchbox out of my mind.
Somehow, I felt convinced what I had seen shining in the sun was the diamond in Aurangzeb’s ring. If Feluda had said it was a coin, I might have believed him. But his tale of phosphorus in matchsticks was pure nonsense, and I knew it.
But what if it was the ring? Did the burglars know Feluda had it with him? Was that why they were threatening him and trying to hurt him? Why, they had even tried to chloroform us!
Feluda, however, appeared quite unperturbed. He was humming, quietly. ‘There is a raga called Khat,’ he stopped at one point to explain, ‘it has to be sung in the morning. What I am humming is the same raga.’
I wanted to say, ‘Keep your ragas to yourself. I am not interested and, in fact, I am very cross with you. Why did you tell me a lie?’ But I couldn’t utter these words for we had reached the dharamshala. I decided to tackle Feluda on the subject in the evening.
Baba, Bonobihari Babu and Dr Srivastava were sitting on the veranda, talking to another gentleman, who was wearing a dhoti and kurta and appeared to be another Bengali.
‘We’ve arranged a couple of taxis,’ Baba said upon our arrival, ‘and we’re leaving tomorrow morning at six. Bonobihari Babu knew those fellows, so we’ve been given a concession.’
The Bengali gentleman, called Bilash Babu, was from Allahabad. He turned out to be a palmist. Bonobihari Babu offered his palm and asked, ‘Is there any chance of my being bitten to death by an animal?’
Bilash Babu ran a clove on the lines of Bonobihari Babu’s hand and said, ‘Why, no! It looks like a natural death to me!’
My eyes fell on the palmist’s feet. They were distinctly odd. The big toe on each foot was longer than the others by at least half-an-inch. I could have sworn I had seen these feet—or feet like these—quite recently. But where might that have been? I simply couldn’t remember.
Bonobihari Babu gave a sigh of relief.
‘Thank goodness!’ he said.
‘Why do you say that? Are you a shikari? Do you go tiger hunting, or what?’ Bilash Babu seemed puzzled.
‘No, no,’ Bonobihari Babu replied, ‘but it’s just as well to make sure. A cousin of mine once got bitten by a mad dog. You know, purely out of the blue. The poor chap died of hydrophobia. So I thought . . .’
‘Did
you use to live in Calcutta?’
‘Good heavens, is even that written in my hand?’
‘Yes, so it would seem. And . . . are you interested in collecting antiques?’
‘Antiques? Who, me? Oh no. It was Pyarelal who did that. I am interested in animals.’
‘Are you? Is that why you were talking about getting bitten? But . . .’
‘But what?’ Bonobihari Babu asked eagerly.
‘Have you recently been under stress?’
‘How recently?’
‘Say in the last thirty days?’
Bonobihari Babu laughed.
‘No, sir. I have not a care in the world, and I haven’t been worried. My only anxiety is about whether I shall find that python tomorrow in Laxmanjhoola.’
Bilash Babu looked as though he would have liked to have peered at his palms a little longer, but Bonobihari Babu withdrew them abruptly and yawned.
‘The truth is,’ he said, ‘I don’t really believe in palmistry. Please don’t mind my saying this, but I don’t think what we make of ourselves has anything to do with the lines on our hands. The only thing I believe in is man’s own strength and his ability to succeed.’
So saying, he rose and went into his room.
My eyes went once more to Bilash Babu’s feet.
But no, I still could not recall where I had seen them.
Ten
I didn’t get the chance at all that day to speak to Feluda about his dazzling matchbox.
Baba wanted us to go to bed early since we had to be up at the crack of dawn the following morning; but by the time we finished dinner and were able to go to bed, it was past 10 p.m.
As I got into bed, I could hear someone snore very loudly through the communicating door between our room and the next.
‘Bilash Babu,’ said Feluda briefly.
‘How do you know?’
‘Why, he was snoring in the train yesterday. Didn’t you hear him?’ In the train? Was Bilash Babu in the train with us? Of course! One little piece of the jigsaw puzzle fell into place.
‘Those big toes!’
Feluda gently patted my shoulder.
‘Good!’ he said.
Yes, that was right. Bilash Babu was the man who had lain on the upper berth, wrapped in a sheet from head to toe. But I had seen his toes.
It was now time to ask Feluda the question that had been bothering me all day. But I had to wait until Baba was asleep. I could tell by his movements that he was still awake.
The dharamshala was gradually falling silent, as was the whole town. It was the beginning of winter, so people would, in any case, retire early. It was dark inside our room, but a light from the courtyard outside fell on the threshold. What was that noise under the bed? A rat or a mouse, probably.
Baba was now asleep. I could hear his deep, regular breathing. Turning to Feluda, I whispered, ‘It was the ring, wasn’t it?’
Feluda said nothing for a few moments. Then he sighed and whispered back, ‘All right. Since you have guessed it already, there’s no point in hiding things from you. I have had the ring from the very first day. When all of you—including Dhiru Kaka—had gone to sleep, I saw that his trousers were hanging from a rack. I knew the keys of his almirah were in one of its pockets. So I took them out, opened the almirah and removed the ring. I didn’t take the box deliberately, so that there would be no doubt that only the ring had gone.’
‘But why?’
‘Because I knew that would only provoke the real thief. And then it would be easier to catch him.’
‘Does it mean that the sannyasi had turned up simply to steal the ring?’
‘Yes, but it wasn’t Ambika Babu. It was the other fake one, who had an attaché case in his hand. He must have had the shock of his life when he saw another sannyasi in the living-room! I bet that’s when he went to the station and changed his clothes.’
‘Who is this fake sannyasi?’
‘I have my suspicions, but not enough evidence—yet.’
‘You mean you’ve been carrying that ring in your pocket all these days?’
‘No.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘I kept it in a safe place.’
‘Where?’
‘In the Bhoolbhulaia. In one of those little niches.’
Good God! What a clever mind! Now I could see why he had disappeared in that maze for a few minutes.
‘But how could you have gone back to find it? You didn’t know how the maze had been built? I mean, its plan . . .’
‘I had made an arrangement for that. You may have noticed that the little finger on my left hand has a long nail. I had scratched numbers with it on the walls of those passages. The ring was in the seventh passage. I went back before leaving Lucknow and took it out. I didn’t like the idea of the ring lying there while I went out of town.’
My heartbeat grew faster again.
‘What if those burglars suspect that you’ve got the ring?’
‘So what? They couldn’t prove it. Anyway, I don’t think they’re clever enough to guess where the ring is.’
‘In that case why are they threatening you?’
‘Because they haven’t given up hopes of getting hold of it. And they know very well that I am capable of ruining all their plans.’
‘But—’ my throat was so badly parched I could hardly speak, ‘you might be in great danger!’
‘Felu Mitter thrives on risks and danger.’
‘But—’
‘No more buts. Go to sleep.’
Feluda yawned and turned to his side.
The dharamshala was now totally quiet. A dog barked somewhere. The snoring in the next room continued non-stop. I could not get the matchbox and its content out of my mind. One had to marvel at the courage Feluda had shown. If it wasn’t for what he had done, the ring would have been stolen and the thief would have got away with it.
‘Kir-r-r-r-r-r kit kit kit! Kir-r-r-r-r-r-r kit kit kit!’
From the next room came the faint noise of the rattle-snake; but it sounded as though it was coming from a distance. Bonobihari Babu must be listening to his favourite music. Strangely enough, this funny noise soon soothed me to sleep.
Baba had set the alarm on his travelling clock for 5 a.m. I woke a little before it went off. It did not take us long to get ready after a cup of tea. ‘We needn’t worry about taking food,’ said Dr Srivastava, ‘there are shops at the foot of the bridge in Laxmanjhoola that sell very good puri-subzi.’
We were all wearing our woollens. Laxmanjhoola was further up in the hills and was bound to be cooler.
The two taxis arrived at a quarter to six and stopped by the front gate. Bilash Babu came out and joined us. It turned out that he, too, was going to Laxmanjhoola and would travel with us. As I stood debating on which car to get into, Bonobihari Babu said, ‘Three in each car, obviously. I could tell you some interesting stories about animals, Tapesh. Would you like to join me?’
‘Yes, why not? I’m sure Feluda would like to come along, too.’ Feluda didn’t seem to mind. So Bonobihari Babu, Feluda and I got into one taxi and Baba got into the other with Dr Srivastava and Bilash Babu, who seemed to have struck up a friendship already.
Bonobihari Babu placed the wooden packing crate on the front seat beside the driver. ‘For my python, if I can find it,’ he said. Feluda sat in the middle in the back seat. I sat on his left and Bonobihari Babu went over to his right.
Both cars left at 6.15. Five minutes later, we were out of the main town and into the open countryside. The hills rose before us. If I looked out of the right window, I could catch an occasional glimpse of the Ganges. My heart suddenly felt light. Bonobihari Babu, too, appeared to be in a good mood, for he was humming under his breath, possibly at the thought of his python.
Feluda, however, did not utter a word. What was he thinking? Was the ring still in that matchbox in his pocket? There was no way of telling, for I knew he wouldn’t smoke before Bonobihari Babu.
Th
e other taxi was right in front of us. I could see Bilash Babu talking to Dr Srivastava. Perhaps the latter had seized this opportunity to have his palm read.
‘The roads aren’t dusty because of the early morning dew,’ said Bonobihari Babu. ‘But very soon, you’ll see that other car throw up clouds of dust. I think we ought to let them go ahead. Driver, will you please slow down a bit?’
The bearded Sikh driver reduced the speed of our taxi and the distance between Baba’s car and ours grew considerably.
I had wanted both cars to travel together, never mind about the dust. But I didn’t dare say anything to Bonobihari Babu. When would he start on his stories?
There was a car behind ours, apparently in a hurry to overtake us. Annoyed by its honking, Bonobihari Babu said to the driver, ‘This will drive me mad. Let it go, driver. Give way.’
The driver very obediently moved a little to the left and an old-fashioned Chevrolet taxi shot past us. Its passenger leant out of the window and gave us a quick look.
I recognized him instantly—it was the sannyasi from the train!
Eleven
It had already been decided that we would first go to Laxmanjhoola, spend most of the day there and stop at Hrishikesh on our way back. To tell the truth, I wasn’t too keen on going to Hrishikesh, which I knew would be crowded and dirty like any other holy place. Only the river was likely to be a little different.
Bonobihari Babu was now singing the same Urdu song Feluda had been singing in the train:
Jab chhor chaley Lucknow nagari
Kahen haal ke hum par kya guzri . . .
He stopped abruptly and asked, ‘Have you heard of Jim Corbett?’
‘Yes.’
‘He killed man-eaters in these valleys, but like me, he understood animals and loved them. I have always admired him for that.’ Bonobihari Babu started singing again.
Our car sped towards Laxmanjhoola through the hills. On our right, the river occasionally showed itself through stretches of dense jungle. The sky was clouding over. The breeze seemed to grow cooler each time the sun got blocked out by a cloud.