‘Just think about it. If you did, your name will be recorded in history, in letters of diamond!’
‘But . . . but . . . in that case, it’s gone where it was meant to go. Now it’s for the police to make sure it doesn’t leave the country. Why are you so worried? Do you wish to catch these smugglers yourself?’
Before Feluda could reply, the telephone began ringing. Lalmohan babu picked it up as he was standing close to it.
‘Hello . . . yes, speaking!’
So the call was meant for him. Perhaps it was Pulak Ghoshal. No, it wasn’t. It couldn’t possibly be. Mr Ghoshal could never say anything that would make Lalmohan babu’s mouth hang open like that, and his hand tremble so much. I saw him take the receiver away from his ear. Even the receiver was shaking.
Feluda took it away from him and placed it to his own ear. However, presumably because he couldn’t hear anything, he replaced it almost immediately. ‘Was it Sanyal?’ he asked.
Lalmohan babu tried to nod, but clearly even that was difficult for him. Perhaps every muscle in his body had frozen.
‘What did he say?’
‘S-s-said,’ Lalmohan babu gave himself a shake and made a valiant attempt to pull himself together, ‘Said if I open my mouth, he’ll r-rrip open my st-stomach!’
‘Okay, that’s good.’
‘Wh-what!’ Lalmohan babu stared foolishly at Feluda. I, too, found Feluda’s remark distinctly odd. Feluda explained quickly, ‘It wasn’t enough simply to have that strong perfume every now and then. I mean, it wasn’t good enough as a clue. I couldn’t be sure whether Sanyal himself had come to Bombay, or someone here was using that scent. Now I can be sure.’
‘But why is he hounding me?’ Lalmohan babu cried desperately.
‘If I knew that, Lalmohan babu, there would be no mystery. If you want an answer to that question, you will have to be a little patient.’
Eight
Lalmohan babu simply toyed with his food that evening, saying he wasn’t hungry at all. Feluda said it didn’t matter as Lalmohan babu had eaten the most that afternoon at the Copper Chimney.
The previous night, we had all gone out together after dinner to buy paan. Tonight, Lalmohan babu refused to leave the hotel. ‘Who wants to go out in the crowded streets? I bet Sanyal’s men are watching the hotel. One of them will plunge his knife straight into me, if I am seen.’
In the end, Feluda went out alone. Lalmohan babu stayed put in our room with me, muttering constantly, ‘Why on earth did I have to accept that packet?’ After a while, he began blaming something else for his present predicament: ‘Why did I have to write a story for a Hindi film?’ Eventually, I heard him say, ‘Why the hell did I ever start writing crime thrillers?’
Feluda returned in a few minutes and offered us the paan he’d bought. ‘Will you be all right sleeping alone in your room?’ he asked Lalmohan babu, who made no reply. ‘Look,’ Feluda said reassuringly, ‘there’s a tiny cubby-hole at the end of the passage. You’ve seen it, haven’t you? A bell boy remains in that room, all the time. Besides, some of the hotel staff are on duty all night. This is not Shivaji Castle.’
A mention of Shivaji Castle made Lalmohan babu shiver once more. However, around ten o’clock he mustered enough courage to wish us good-night and return to his room.
I went to bed soon after he left. Pulak Ghoshal’s film had caused me a great deal of strain—much more than travelling all over the city. Feluda, I knew, would remain awake. His notebook was lying on a bedside table. He had made several entries throughout the day. Perhaps now he’d make some more.
In the past, I had tried, at times, to make a note of the exact moment when I fell asleep. But I had failed every time. Tonight was no different. I have no idea when I fell asleep, but do remember the moment when I woke. Someone was banging on the door, and pressing the buzzer repeatedly. I sat up in bed. Feluda’s bedside lamp was still on; my watch showed quarter to one. Feluda rose and opened the door. Lalmohan babu tumbled into the room.
He was panting, but did not appear to be frightened. When he spoke, his words were curious, but nothing that might cause alarm.
‘A scandal!’ he exclaimed. ‘This is a positive scandal, I tell you!’
‘Come in and sit down,’ Feluda said.
‘No, no, I’m too excited to sit down. Look, here’s the famous necklace, the valuable jewels I was supposed to have handed over!’
What Lalmohan babu then held under Feluda’s nose was a book. A famous book, written in English. I had seen a copy of it only recently, displayed in a shop window in Lansdowne Road. It was Life Divine by Sri Aurobindo.
Even Feluda could only gape. ‘And look,’ Lalmohan babu went on, ‘the binding is faulty. After the first thirty pages, the next few pages are stuck together. If someone paid good money for this book, every penny has been wasted. How could a binder in Pondicherry do such a shoddy job?’
‘But . . . if this is the original packet, what did you pass on to Mr Red Shirt the other day?’
‘You’re not going to believe this. Can you imagine what I did? I passed on one of my own books! Yes, The Bandits of Bombay ! You see, what I had sent Pulak was a copy of my manuscript. So I thought I’d now give him a copy of the book, with my blessings and autograph. In fact, I have three more copies in my bag, each wrapped with brown paper. I know I have fans all over the country . . . thought I might meet a few in Bombay, so I brought extra copies. And it was one of those that I . . . ha ha ha!’
I had not seen Lalmohan babu so cheerful in a long time. Feluda took the book from him, looked at it briefly and asked, ‘But what about the threat from Sanyal? Didn’t he threaten you on the phone? How does that fit in with this Life Divine ?’
Lalmohan babu refused to be daunted. ‘Well, who knows if it was Sanyal in person? It isn’t always possible to identify a voice on the telephone, is it? It could well have been some crackpot, trying to be funny. Anything is possible in Bombay. I mean, if a film like Teerandaj could run for more than twenty-five weeks . . . need I say more?’
‘All right, but what about that perfume in the car?’
‘That? I bet our driver was wearing it. He’s a fashionable young man. Didn’t you see his hairstyle? But when we began asking questions, he was embarrassed and wouldn’t admit to using the scent.’
‘Well then, every mystery is solved. You may relax now, and have a good night’s sleep.’
‘Yes, I certainly will. I had a headache when I went to bed, so I opened my bag to take out a pain killer. That’s how I made this amazing discovery. Anyway, now that everything’s cleared up, I am going to leave that book with you. Perhaps you should read up on spiritual matters, it can’t do you any harm. Good night!’
Lalmohan babu left, and I went back to my own bed.
‘Imagine being handed a copy of a book by Jatayu, when one was expecting Life Divine. Feluda, how do you suppose the fellow felt?’
‘Furious,’ Feluda replied, resting his head on his pillow. But he did not switch the light off. I felt quite amused to see that he put his blue notebook away, and began turning the pages of Sri Aurobindo’s book.
It was at this moment, I think, that I fell asleep again.
Nine
The following day we were supposed to travel down the road to Pune to a level-crossing between Khandala and Lonavala. That was the spot where the final climactic scene was going to be shot. All told, there were eleven ‘action’ scenes in the film. Pulak Ghoshal was going to start with the last one.
The complete scene could not be shot in a single day. The whole thing would take as many as five days. We had decided to watch the shooting every day—that is, if we enjoyed the first day’s experience. The train would be available on all five days, for an hour between one and two o’clock. But the horses meant for the group of bandits, and a Lincoln Convertible meant for the hero, could be used any time. The scene in question went like this:
The villain had replaced the real engine driver and was driving the train
. In one of its compartments the heroine and her uncle were being held, their hands and feet tied. The hero was chasing the train in a motor car. At the same time, the hero’s twin—who had been kidnapped by bandits when he was a baby, and had now become a bandit himself—was riding with his entire gang to attack the train. He would get close enough to the train to jump into it straight from his horse. About the same time, the hero in his car would also catch up with the train, and he would arrive on the scene to see the bandit and the villain (pretending to be the engine driver) having a fight. The villain would be killed. What would happen next? . . . All would be revealed on the silver screen!
Apparently, three different versions of the final scene were going to be shot. Then the director would decide which appeared the best on the screen, and retain it, discarding the other two.
Mr Ghoshal dropped in briefly quite early in the morning. We told him we were ready to go, and all arrangements were in hand. ‘Laluda,’ he said, ‘I can tell just by looking at you that you really enjoyed watching Teerandaj !’
Lalmohan babu could be seen smiling to himself from time to time, as he recalled the previous night’s events. Mr Ghoshal had noticed that smile and misunderstood the reason for it. Lalmohan babu laughed loudly and said, ‘Bravo, my boy—to think that a boy from our Gorpar in Calcutta could achieve so much! You have shown them all. . . ha ha!’
Since we were going to be out all day, Feluda told me to take all the edible stuff in our hand luggage. We packed the oranges, biscuits and sweets that Lalmohan babu had bought the day before and put them in the car. Then Lalmohan babu deposited all his cash with the hotel manager and took a receipt from him. ‘Who knows,’ he told us, ‘whether a real bandit or two won’t get mixed up with the actors?’
Feluda went out for a while—to buy cigarettes, he said. He had run out completely, and the place where we were going might not have a shop within miles. We left shortly after he got back. The car was still smelling of Gulbahar.
Thane station was about twenty-five kilometers from Bombay. The road made a right curve there, joined the national highway and went towards Pune. Khandala was eighty kilometers down that same road. The weather that morning was quite good. Broken clouds were flitting across the sky, driven by a strong breeze—and the sun was peering frequently through them, bathing the city with its light. Mr Ghoshal had already remarked on the weather. It was said to be ‘ideal’ for shooting outdoors. Lalmohan babu was pleased, not just with the weather, but with everything he could see. ‘Now I needn’t worry about going abroad!’ he announced. ‘Bombay is such a wonderful place, who wants to go to England? Have you seen the buses? Not one is overcrowded, not one has people hanging out of it. Oh, what tremendous civic sense these people have!’
It took us nearly an hour to reach Thane, at around a quarter past nine. As we had plenty of time on our hands we stopped at a tea stall and had masala tea. Our driver, Swaruplal, joined us.
Only a few minutes after we left Thane, I realized we were travelling alongside the hills of the Western Ghats. The railway track I had noticed before had disappeared. It had gone towards Kalyan to the north. From Kalyan, it would turn back and go south again, passing through Matheran before going to Pune. Our level crossing was situated somewhere in the middle of that particular stretch.
Our journey was eventless, except for Lalmohan babu choking on some orange pips at one point. Feluda remained silent throughout— it was impossible to tell from his face what he was thinking. I knew from experience that even when he lapsed into silence, it did not necessarily mean that he was worried about anything.
At around half past twelve, we passed through Khandala. Only a mile later, a large number of people came into view. It seemed as if a fair had sprung up by the roadside. As we got closer, I was struck by the number of vehicles I could see. Why should there be so many of them at a fair? Then I noticed something else—horses! Now I realized that the ‘fair’ was Mr Ghoshal’s unit, gathered here to start shooting Jet Bahadur. There were at least a hundred people milling about; and there was a lot of equipment and other material . . . cameras, reflectors, lights, large durries . . . it was a huge affair.
Our driver slipped into a gap between an Ambassador and a bus, and parked the car there. Mr Ghoshal came forward to greet us as soon as we emerged. He was wearing a white cap, and from his neck hung an object that looked like binoculars.
‘Good morning! Everything all right?’ he asked.
We nodded. ‘Listen,’ he went on, ‘I have a message from Mr Gore. He’s gone to Matheran—I think to talk to some railway officials, and perhaps make some payments. He will make his own way here, either on the same train that we’re going to use, or by car. You will be told the minute the train gets here. In any case, whether or not Mr Gore arrives on time, you three should get into the first-class compartment. Is that clear?’
‘Perfectly,’ said Feluda.
We met some of the other workers as we waited. I had no idea so many Bengalis worked in the Bombay film industry. It was hardly surprising that one of them should recognize Feluda. The cameraman, Dashu Ghosh, wrinkled his brows upon hearing Feluda’s name. ‘Mitter? Are you the detec—?’
‘Yes,’ Feluda said hurriedly, ‘but please keep it to yourself.’
‘Why? You are our pride. When that statue in Ellora—’
Feluda placed a finger on his lips. Dashu Ghosh lowered his voice, ‘Are you here on a case?’
‘No, no. I am here on holiday, with this friend of mine.’
Dashu Ghosh had lived in Bombay for twenty-one years. Even so, he read Bengali books regularly, and had read two or three books by Jatayu. There were two other cameramen working with him that day. They came from other parts of India. Two of the four assistants who worked with Mr Ghoshal were Bengalis. But among the actors, none came from Bengal. Apart from Arjun Mehrotra, there was Micky playing the villain. He was just Micky, without a surname. He was considered the best amongst villains who were on their way up in Bombay at the moment. It was said that he had signed contracts for thirty-seven films, but twenty-nine of those were being rewritten, simply to reduce the number of fights. Thank goodness Jet Bahadur had only four fights. If it had more, Mr Ghoshal and Mr Gore would have been in big trouble.
We learnt all this from the production manager, Sudarshan Das. He was from Orissa. Like Dashu Ghosh, he had been in Bombay for many years; but as soon as Jet Bahadur was completed, he planned to return to Cuttack and start directing Oriya films.
Feluda had walked over to another group. All the actors who were going to play the bandits were being made up and dressed for the big scene. Suddenly, I noticed one of those men chatting with Feluda. Curious, I went forward and realized, as I heard his voice, that it was none other than the kung-fu master, Victor Perumal. He was made up to look like the hero’s twin. It would be his job to jump from a galloping horse and land on the roof of the train. Then he would have to walk over as many as six coaches and enter the engine to fight with Micky, the villain, and kill him. That would be followed by a dramatic clash with the hero, who had been separated from his twin twenty years ago.
Lalmohan babu saw the elaborate arrangements and sank into silence. He really ought to have been pleased since all that action was centred around his story. He told me of his feelings: ‘I feel kind of peculiar, Tapesh,’ he explained. ‘At times, it’s giving me a sense of power, you see, to think that I wrote the story that’s led to so much work, such complex arrangements, so much expense! Yet, sometimes, I feel a little guilty for causing a lot of headache to a lot of people. And I cannot forget that the writer gets no recognition here. How many people in this unit know Jatayu’s name, tell me?’
I tried to comfort him. ‘If the film is a success, everyone will learn your name!’
‘I hope so!’ Jatayu sighed.
The bandits who had finished their make-up were already on their horses, running around. All the horses were initially gathered under a large banyan tree. There were nine of them.
A minute later, a huge white Lincoln Convertible turned up, its tinted glass windows rolled up. It contained the hero and the villain. There was no need for the heroine that day, as the scenes in which she would appear, with her hands and feet tied, would be shot later in a studio. It was just as well, I thought. The two male stars caused enough sensation in the crowd. The presence of the heroine would only have made matters worse.
Sudarshan Das had given us some tea. We were in the process of returning the empty cups, when suddenly a raucous voice could be heard on a loudspeaker: ‘The train is coming! Train’s here! Everybody ready!’
Ten
An old-fashioned engine came into view, huffing and puffing, blowing thick black smoke. Behind it were eight coaches. It stopped at the level crossing at exactly five minutes to one.
Even from a distance, we could see that there was only one first-class compartment. Other coaches already had passengers in them— they had been planted there when the train left Matheran. There were men, women and children, both young and old. Mr Ghoshal became extremely busy as soon as the train arrived. We could see him rushing from one camera to another, from the hero to the villain, and from one assistant here to another assistant there. Even Lalmohan babu was forced to admit that it wasn’t simply the producer’s money that made a film.
Arjun Mehrotra—the hero—was ready. He was at the wheel of his car, wearing sunglasses. Beside him sat his make-up man, and two other men, possibly hangers-on. A jeep with an open top was ready, too. In it stood a camera on a tripod. Victor and his men had already departed with their horses. They would wait for a signal from the moving train, and then ride down a particular hill. Then they would be seen galloping alongside the train. I saw Micky go towards the engine, accompanied by one of Mr Ghoshal’s assistants.
We didn’t know what to do. There was no sign of Mr Gore. Was he on the train? There was no way to tell.