‘At least two hundred thousand,’ said Dhiru Kaka, ‘if it was Jahannan Khan’s instead of Aurangzeb’s, even then it would fetch about a hundred-and-fifty thousand rupees.’
Dr Srivastava said, ‘Now you know why I am so upset after yesterday’s incident. I live alone, you see, and I have to go out at all hours to see my patients. I could, of course, tell the police. But what if I did, and then someone attacked me? You never can tell, can you? I had, in fact, once thought of keeping the ring in a bank. But then I felt it would not be the same. I mean, I like showing it to my friends. So I kept it in my house.’
Dhiru Kaka said, ‘Have you shown it to many people?’
‘No. I got it only a few months ago. And those who come to my house are all my friends, people I trust. I haven’t shown it to anyone else.’
It was beginning to get dark. The top of the eucalyptus tree shone in the remaining sunlight, but that would fade away soon. I looked at Dr Srivastava. He seemed oddly restless.
‘Let’s go in,’ said Dhiru Kaka, ‘we need to think this over.’
We left the garden and went into the living-room. Feluda didn’t appear to be interested at all. He pulled out a pack of cards as soon as we had all sat down, and began to practise a new trick he had learnt.
Baba was not a great talker, but when he did speak, he chose his words carefully. ‘Why,’ he now asked, ‘are you assuming that the thief came simply to steal your ring? Wasn’t anything else stolen? After all, he—or they—might have been just petty thieves, interested in plain cash.’
Srivastava said, ‘Well, let me explain. Thieves and burglars don’t often strike in our area chiefly because of Bonobihari Babu. Besides, Mr Jhunjhunwalla is my next-door neighbour, and Mr Billimoria lives next to him. Both are very rich. You can tell that just by looking at their houses. So why should a thief come to my humble abode?’
‘If your neighbours are rich,’ said Dhiru Kaka, ‘they must have made arrangements to guard their wealth. A petty thief wouldn’t risk breaking through heavy security. After all, big money isn’t his game, is it? I suspect if he could lay his hands on five hundred rupees, it would keep him going for six months. So I’m not surprised that they broke into your house, and not your neighbour’s.’
Dr Srivastava continued to look doubtful. ‘I really don’t know, Mr Sanyal,’ he said. ‘I feel convinced they were after that ring. They opened a cupboard in the room next to mine. All its drawers were pulled out. There were other valuable things and enough time to grab them. Yet, when I woke suddenly, they ran away without taking a single thing. I find that odd. Besides—’
Srivastava stopped abruptly, frowning. After a few moments of silence, he said, ‘When Pyarelal gave me that ring, I got the impression that he was just trying to get rid of it. For some reason he didn’t want to keep it in his house any longer. And—’
He stopped again and frowned once more.
‘And what, Dr Srivastava?’ asked Dhiru Kaka.
Srivastava sighed. ‘I went to see him after his second attack. He tried to tell me something, but couldn’t. But I heard one thing clearly.’
‘What was that?’
‘He said it twice—“a spy. . . a spy. . .”’
Dhiru Kaka rose from the sofa.
‘No, Doctor,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t matter what Pyarelal said. I am convinced it was just an ordinary thief. Perhaps you haven’t heard, but the barrister Bhudeb Mitra’s house was recently burgled, too. They got away with a radio and some silver. But if you’re feeling nervous about keeping the ring in your house, please feel free to leave it with me. I shall put it in my Godrej almirah and it’ll be quite safe. You can collect it when you get over your nervousness.’
Srivastava looked visibly relieved. His lips spread in a smile. ‘That is exactly what I came here to propose, but couldn’t bring myself to say it. Thank you very much, Mr Sanyal. I shall feel a lot easier in my mind if you keep the ring.’
He took the ring out of his pocket and handed it to Dhiru Kaka, who went straight into his bedroom with it.
At this point, Feluda opened his mouth. ‘Who is Bonobihari
Babu?’ he asked.
‘Pardon?’ Dr Srivastava was still slightly preoccupied.
‘Didn’t you just say that houses where you live were safe from burglars because of one Bonobihari Babu? Who is he? Someone in the police?’
Srivastava laughed, ‘Oh, no, no. He has nothing to do with the police—but he gives us a special protection that’s even better than what the police could give. He’s quite an interesting character. His ancestors were zamindars in Bengal. When they lost their land, Bonobihari Babu went into business. He began exporting animals.’
‘Animals?’ Baba and Feluda spoke together.
‘Yes. Animals from here are often needed in Europe, America or Australia for their zoos, circuses and television. Many Indians are in this business. Bonobihari Babu made a lot of money, I believe. He retired about three years ago and came to Lucknow, together with some of his animals. He bought a house not far from mine and turned it into a zoo.’
‘How very strange!’ Baba exclaimed.
‘Yes. What is special about this zoo is that all its animals are very . . . very . . . how shall I put it . . .’
‘Vicious?’
‘Yes, yes. That’s it. Most vicious.’
I had heard that Lucknow already had a very good zoo. Animals were kept out in the open there, on a man-made island. But what was this about a private zoo?
Srivastava continued, ‘He has a wild cat. And a hyena, an alligator and a scorpion. You can hear some of these animals even from a distance. Thieves don’t dare come our way!’
Feluda now asked the question that was trembling on my lips. ‘Is it possible to see this zoo?’
Dhiru Kaka returned at this moment and said, ‘That’s simple. We can go any time. Bonobihari Babu is a most amiable man, not vicious at all!’
Srivastava rose to take his leave. ‘I must go now. There is a patient I need to see.’
We went with him up to the main gate to see him off. He said ‘good-night’ to everyone, thanked Dhiru Kaka again and drove off in his Fiat. Baba and Dhiru Kaka began walking back to the house. Feluda took a cigarette out of his pocket and was about to light it when a black car shot past us and disappeared in the same direction as Dr Srivastava’s car.
‘Standard Herald,’ said Feluda, ‘I missed the number.’
‘What would you do with the number?’
‘It looked as though that car was following Dr Srivastava. Can’t you see how dark it is on the other side of the road? That’s where it was waiting. The driver changed gears in front of our gate. Didn’t you notice?’
Feluda turned towards the house. It was at least fifty yards from the gate. I could tell, for I have often run in hundred-yards races in school. The light in the living-room was on. I could clearly see through the window. There were Baba and Dhiru Kaka, going into the room. Then I looked at Feluda. He was staring at the open window. The frown on his face and the way he bit his lip told me that he was worried about something.
‘You know, Topshe—’
I am not really called Topshe. My name is Tapesh, but Feluda has changed it to Topshe.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘I shouldn’t have allowed this to happen.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘That window should have been closed. You can see everything that goes on in that room from the gate. An ordinary bulb might have made a difference; but Dhiru Kaka has got a fluorescent light, which makes it worse.’
‘So what if you can see everything?’
‘Can you see your father?
‘Just his head. He’s sitting in a chair.’
‘Who was sitting in that chair ten minutes ago?’
‘Dr Srivastava.’
‘He stood up to show the ring to your father, remember?’
‘Yes. I don’t forget things so quickly.’
‘If someo
ne was watching from the gate, he could quite easily have seen him do it.’
‘Oh no! But why do you think there might have been someone?’ Feluda stooped and picked up a tiny object from the cobbled path. Silently, he handed it to me. It was a cigarette butt. ‘Look at the tip carefully,’ said Feluda.
I peered at it closely and in the faint light from the street lamp, saw what I needed to see.
‘Well?’ said Feluda.
‘Charminar,’ I replied, ‘and whoever was smoking it was also chewing a paan. One end is smeared with its juice.’
‘Very good. Come, let’s go in.’
That night, before going to bed, Feluda asked Dhiru Kaka to show him the ring again. The two of us had a good look at it. I had no idea Feluda knew so much about stones. He turned the ring round and round under a table lamp and kept up a running commentary: ‘These blue stones that you see are called sapphires. The red ones are rubies and the green ones emeralds. The others, I think, are topaz. But the real thing to look at, of course, is this diamond in the middle. Not many would have had the privilege of actually holding such a stone in their hand!’
Then he slipped the ring on to the third finger of his left hand and said, ‘Look, my finger is the same size as Aurangzeb’s!’
True, the ring fitted perfectly.
Feluda stared at the glittering stones and said, ‘Who knows, this ring could have had an intriguing past. But you know what, Topshe—I am not interested in its history. Whether it had once belonged to Aurangzeb or Altamash or Akram Khan is not important. We need to know what its future is, and whether—at present—it’s being chased by an admirer. If so, who is he and why is he so desperate to get hold of it?’
Then he removed the ring from his finger, gave it to me and said, ‘Go now, give it back to Dhiru Kaka. And please open those windows when you return.’
Two
The next day, we left for the Imambara after an early lunch. Baba and Dhiru Kaka went in the car. Feluda and I both chose to ride in a tonga.
It was great fun. I had never ridden in a horse-drawn carriage before. Feluda had, of course. It was his view that a bumpy ride in a tonga was very good for one’s digestion.
‘Dhiru Kaka has such an excellent cook that I can see it’s going to be difficult not to indulge myself,’ he said, ‘so I think an occasional ride in a tonga is a good idea.’
Bumping through new and unfamiliar streets, we finally reached a place that the tongawalla said was called ‘Kaiser Bagh’.
‘See how they’ve mixed Urdu with German?’ Feluda remarked. Most of the well-known Mughal buildings were around Kaiser Bagh. The tongawalla began pointing them out: ‘There’s Badshah Manzil . . . and that’s Chandiwali Barradari . . . and that’s called Lakhu Phatak . . .’
The path led through a huge gate. ‘This is Rumi Darwaza,’ we were told. Beyond the Rumi Darwaza was ‘Machchli Bhawan’, which is where the Burra Imambara stood.
I gaped, speechless, at its sheer size. I had no idea a palace could be so massive.
We had spotted Dhiru Kaka’s car from our tonga. We paid the tongawalla and went to join the others. Baba and Dhiru Kaka were talking to a tall, middle-aged man.
Feluda laid a hand on my shoulder and spoke under his breath:
‘Black Standard Herald!’
True enough, there was a black Standard Herald parked next to Dhiru Kaka’s car.
‘Look at that fresh mark on the mudguard!’
‘How do you know it’s fresh?’
‘It’s white paint, can’t you see? That car must have brushed against a newly painted wall or a gate. If the car wasn’t washed this morning, that mark could well have got there last night.’
Dhiru Kaka greeted us, ‘Come and meet Bonobihari Babu, the man with a zoo in his house.’
Surprised, I raised my hands in a namaskaar. Was this indeed that strange man? He was fair, about six feet tall, sported a thin moustache and a pointed beard and wore gold-framed glasses. The whole effect was quite impressive.
He thumped me on the back and said, ‘How do you find the capital of Laxman? You do know, don’t you, that in the ancient times Lucknow was known as Laxmanavati?’
His voice matched his personality. ‘Bonobihari Babu was going to Chowk Bazar,’ said Dhiru Kaka, ‘he stopped here only because he saw our car.’
‘Yes,’ said the gentleman, ‘I usually go out in the afternoon. Most of my mornings and evenings have to be devoted to the animals.’
‘In fact,’ said Dhiru Kaka, ‘we were planning to descend on you. These two are very interested in seeing your zoo.’
‘Good. You’re welcome any time. Why don’t you come today? I am always happy to receive visitors, but most people are too scared to step into my house. They think the cages I’ve put my animals in are not as strong as those in a regular zoo. If that was the case, how do you suppose I have survived all these years?’
Everyone laughed at this little joke, with the only exception of Feluda. He leant closer to me and muttered, ‘The man’s reeking with attar. Attempt at hiding the smell of animals, probably.’
The Standard, as it turned out, did not belong to Bonobihari Babu, for I saw him call his driver from a blue Ambassador and give him a couple of letters to post. Then he said to us: ‘You’ll see the Imambara, won’t you? We can go back to my place afterwards.’
‘Are you coming in with us?’
‘Yes, why not? I’ve been in it just once before. That was in 1963, two days after I arrived in Lucknow. Time I saw again what those nawabs could get up to.’
We passed through the gate and began walking across a large courtyard towards the main building.
‘Two hundred years ago,’ said Bonobihari Babu, walking by my side, ‘Nawab Asaf-ud-Daula built this palace. He wanted it to outshine all the buildings in Agra and Delhi. So a competition was held among the most well-known designers and architects. The best design was selected—and you can see the final result. It may not be as beautiful as some of the other Mughal buildings, but it is certainly the number one as far as the size of a palace goes. No other palace in the world has such a large audience hall.’
A whole football stadium could fit into this, I thought, staring at the hall. But that wasn’t all. Outside, there was a massive well. The nawab had clearly thought big. The guide told us the well was used for punishing criminals. They were simply thrown into it, and no one ever saw them again.
But what took my breath away was the Bhoolbhulaia. Little passages ran in all possible directions. No matter where I went or what corners I turned, it always seemed as though I was back where I’d begun. All passages were identical—walls on both sides, a low ceiling and, in the middle of the wall, a tiny niche. The guide said that when the nawabs played hide-and-seek with their queens, oil lamps used to burn in those little niches. The thought of flickering lamps in those spooky little passages gave me goosepimples.
Feluda, I noticed, kept very close to the wall. But I couldn’t understand why he was lagging behind all of us. Then I got totally absorbed in the excitement of going through the winding maze and had forgotten all about him, until I heard Baba exclaim: ‘Oh, where is Felu?’
I turned around quickly. Feluda was nowhere to be seen. My heart missed a beat. However, only a few seconds later, he reappeared after Baba called out to him. ‘If I were to walk so fast,’ he said, ‘I couldn’t possibly get an idea of how the maze is designed.’
The door at the end of the last passage in the maze opened onto the huge roof of the Imambara. It had a wonderful view. One could see practically the whole of Lucknow from it. There were a few other people already on the roof. One of them—a young man—came walking towards Dhiru Kaka, smiling.
‘Mahabir!’ Dhiru Kaka exclaimed, ‘When did you arrive?’
‘Three days ago. I always return to Lucknow at this time of the year. I’ll go back after Diwali. I have two friends with me, so we’re out sightseeing.’
‘This is Pyarelal’s son,’ said Dhiru Kaka, ‘h
e lives in Bombay. He’s an actor.’
I looked at Mahabir. He was staring at Bonobihari Babu as though he had seen him before.
‘Have we met before?’ asked Bonobihari Babu, echoing my thoughts.
‘Yes, I think so,’ Mahabir replied, ‘but for the life of me I can’t remember where.’
‘I met your father once. But you were not here then.’
‘Oh. I see,’ said Mahabir, embarrassed, ‘I must have made a mistake. Sorry. Well, I must get back to my friends. Namaskaar.’
He left. He must be younger than Feluda, I thought. A good-looking man, and very well built. Perhaps he was interested in sports.
Bonobihari Babu said, ‘It might be a good idea to go to my place now. If you must see the animals, it’s best to do so in daylight. I haven’t yet been able to arrange lights in their cages.’
We paid the guide and went down. A staircase ran from the roof straight to the ground floor.
Just as we came out of the gate, I saw Mahabir and his friends get into the black Standard.
Three
It was nearly 4 p.m. by the time we reached Bonobihari Babu’s house. It was impossible to tell from outside that the house contained a mini zoo. The animals were all kept in the back garden.
‘This house was built about thirty years before the Mutiny by a wealthy Muslim merchant,’ Bonobihari Babu told us. ‘I bought it from an Englishman.’
The house was obviously quite old. The carvings on the wall were typically Mughal.
‘I hope you don’t mind having coffee. There’s no tea in my house, I am afraid,’ said Bonobihari Babu.
I felt quite pleased at this for I wasn’t allowed to have too much coffee at home. But we had to see the animals first.
The living-room led to a veranda, behind which sprawled a huge garden. Individual cages for the animals were strewn all over this garden. There was a pond in the middle surrounded by tall iron spikes. An alligator lay in it, sunning itself lazily. Bonobihari Babu said, ‘Ten years ago, when I found it in Munger, it was only a baby. I kept it in a water tank in my house in Calcutta. Then one day I discovered it had slipped out and swallowed a kitten!’