Yes, everything seemed easy once Feluda had explained it. Lalmohan babu had clearly grasped the whole story by now, but even so, he did not look very happy. That surprised me. Why was there no smile on his face? Eventually, a question from Mr Ghoshal changed everything.
Tea was over, and the whole unit was getting ready to go back. The sun had disappeared behind the hills and now it was really quite cold. I felt myself shiver, and saw Mr Ghoshal striding towards us busily.
‘Laluda, all the posters and hoardings for Jet Bahadur are going up on Friday. But there’s something I need to know now,’ he said.
‘What is it?’
‘How do you wish to be named? I mean, should we use your real name, or your pseudonym?’
‘The “pseudo” is the real name, my friend!’ replied Lalmohan babu with a huge grin. ‘And it should be spelt J-a-t-a-y-u!’
The Mystery of the Walking Dead
One
‘Didn’t you once tell me you knew someone in Gosaipur?’ Feluda asked Lalmohan Babu.
We—the Three Musketeers—had just visited the Victoria Memorial and come walking to the river. We were now sitting under the domes near Princep Ghat, enjoying the fresh breeze and munching daalmut. It was five o’clock in the evening.
‘Yes,’ Lalmohan Babu replied, ‘Tulsi Babu. Tulsicharan Dasgupta. He used to teach mathematics and geography in my school. Now he’s retired and lives in Gosaipur. He’s asked me to visit him more than once. He loves my books. In fact, he writes for children himself. A couple of his stories were published in Sandesh. But why are you suddenly interested in Gosaipur?’
‘Someone called Jeevanlal Mallik wrote to me from there. His father’s called Shyamlal Mallik. I believe the Malliks were once the zamindars of Gosaipur.’
‘What did Jeevanlal Mallik write?’
‘He is worried about his father. He thinks someone is planning to kill him. If I can go and throw some light on the matter, he’ll be very grateful and he’ll pay me my fee.’
I knew the letter had arrived this morning, but had no idea about its contents. Now I remembered seeing Feluda looking thoughtful and smoking quietly after he had finished reading it.
‘Why don’t we all go?’ Lalmohan Babu sounded quite enthusiastic. ‘Look, we are both free at this moment, aren’t we? Besides, I think we’ll enjoy a visit to a small village after all the hectic travelling we have done in the past.’
‘To be honest, I was thinking of going, too. Mr Mallik said he could not have me stay in his house—there is some problem, apparently. He’s spoken to a relative who lives three miles away. I could stay with him, but then I’d have to travel in a rickshaw every day. It struck me that it might be simpler to stay somewhere within walking distance. That’s why I thought of your friend.’
‘My friend will be delighted, especially if he hears you are going to join me. He’s a great admirer of yours.’
Lalmohan Babu wrote to his friend the next day, and Feluda answered Jeevanlal’s letter. Tulsi Babu was so pleased that he wrote back instantly, saying that the Gosaipur Literary Society wanted to give a joint reception to Lalmohan Babu and Feluda. Lalmohan Babu was thrilled by the idea, but Feluda put his foot down. ‘Leave me out of receptions, please,’ he said firmly. ‘No one must know who I really am and why I’m visiting Gosaipur. Please tell your friend not to tell anyone.’
Rather reluctantly, Lalmohan Babu passed the message on, adding that he was perfectly happy about the reception. With this event in mind, he even packed a blue embroidered kurta.
We had to take a train to Katwa Junction, and then a bus to get to Gosaipur, which was seven miles from Katwa. Tulsi Babu was going to wait for us at a provision store near the bus stop. His house was just ten minutes away.
On our way there, I saw a palanquin from the bus. This surprised me very much for I didn’t know palanquins were still in use. Feluda and Lalmohan Babu were similarly taken aback.
‘I wonder which century these people think they live in?’ Lalmohan Babu exclaimed. ‘I hope Gosaipur has electricity. I had no idea the area was so remote.’
The conductor of the bus knew where we wanted to get off. He stopped the bus before the provision store, shouting, ‘Gosaipur! Go-o-sai-pu-u-r!’ We thanked him and got down quickly.
The elderly gentleman who came forward to greet us with a smile had the word ‘ex-schoolmaster’ written all over him. In his hand was an ancient patched-up black umbrella, on his feet were brown canvas shoes, on his nose were perched his glasses and under his arm was a very old copy of the National Geographic magazine. He was wearing a kurta and a short dhoti. On being introduced to Feluda, he winked and said, ‘I did what you said. I mean, I didn’t tell anyone about you. You are only a tourist, you’ve lived in Canada for years, now you want to see an Indian village. I thought of this because it occurred to me that you might have to ask questions, or visit places unseen. A tourist can claim to be both curious and ignorant. No one’s going to be offended by what you say or where you go.’
‘Good. I hope you have books on Canada I can read?’ Feluda asked with a smile.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Tulsi Babu grinned. Then he turned to Jatayu. ‘For you, my friend, I have arranged a function on Friday. It’s going to be a small informal affair—a couple of songs and dances, then you’ll be presented with a citation, and there’ll be speeches. The barrister, Suresh Chakladar, will preside. The citation is being written out by a young boy, but its contents—I mean the actual words—are mine, heh heh.’
‘There was no need . . . you didn’t have to . . .’ Lalmohan Babu tried to look modest.
‘We wanted to. It isn’t every day that a celebrity deigns to visit us!’
‘We saw a palanquin on the way,’ Feluda said. ‘Is that still used here as a mode of transport?’
Tulsi Babu stopped to prod a young calf with his umbrella to get it out of the way. Then he looked at Feluda and replied, ‘Oh yes. If you want a palanquin, you’ll get it here. But that isn’t all. We specialize in providing all sorts of things from the past. Do you want guards in uniform, carrying spears and shields? You’ll find them here. A man who spends his time getting hookahs ready? You’ll find him here. A punkha-puller? Oil lamps? Yes, we’ve got those, too!’
‘But you’ve got electric connections, haven’t you?’
‘Oh yes. Every house has electricity, except the one where it’s most needed.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The house where Mr Mallik lives.’
All of us stared at him in surprise.
‘Shyamlal Mallik?’ Feluda asked.
‘Yes, sir. There’s no other Mallik in Gosaipur. They used to be local zamindars. Shyamlal’s father, Durlabh Singh, was an utterly ruthless man. People were terrified of him. Shyamlal himself did not stay a zamindar long, for by then the government had changed the laws regarding the zamindari system. However, he went to Calcutta, built a plastic factory and made a lot of money. Then, one day, he came home in the dark and tried to switch on the light. He did not know that there was a loose, exposed wire in the switchboard. He nearly got electrocuted! After spending a few weeks in a hospital, he handed over his business to his son, returned to Gosaipur and removed the electric connection to his house. If he had stopped there, it might have made some sense. But he decided to remove everything that was modern, or “Western”. He gave up smoking cheroots, and went back to hookahs. He stopped using fountain pens, his toothbrush was replaced by neem twigs, every book in his house that was written in English was thrown out, as were all the medicines. Now he relies purely on ayurvedic stuff. The only man to benefit from all this was the local ayurvedic doctor, called Tarak Kaviraj. And yes, Shyamlal’s car has been sold as well. What he uses is a palanquin. There was an old palanquin in his house. He simply had it repaired and painted. He’s appointed four bearers to carry it for him. There are many other things that he’s started to do . . . you’ll get to see everything for yourself, I am sure.’
?
??Yes, I probably shall. I am here because his son asked me to come.’
‘I know his son is visiting him, but why did he want you here?’
‘Are you aware that someone is planning to kill Shyamlal Mallik? Have you heard any rumours or gossip?’
Tulsi Babu appeared quite taken aback by this. ‘Why, no! I’ve certainly heard nothing. But if someone wants to get rid of him, you shouldn’t have to look very far to see who it is.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The same man who wrote to you. He and his father don’t get along at all. Mind you, I don’t blame Jeevanlal. It can’t be easy to deal with a father who has such perfectly weird ideas. After all, Jeevanlal has to stay in the same house when he visits. It’s enough to drive one mad.’
We reached Tulsi Babu’s house just before four o’clock. His wife had died a few years ago, and his sons worked in Calcutta. He had only one daughter, who was married. She lived in Azimganj. Tulsi Babu lived here alone, with a servant called Ganga. ‘In a place like this,’ he told us with a smile, ‘one may live alone, but there’s no chance of being lonely. My neighbours and other friends in the village drop in at all times. We look after one another very well.’
Ganga was told to make tea as soon as we arrived. Feluda had brought a packet of good quality tea. That was the only thing he was really fussy about. A few minutes later, Ganga served us tea on the front veranda, with plates of beaten-rice and coconut, a typical evening snack in rural Bengal.
There were two bedrooms on the ground floor, one of which was Tulsi Babu’s. We were given a much bigger room on the first floor. Three beds had been placed in it. One of its doors opened on to a terrace.
‘I told Jeevanlal I’d call on him at five-thirty,’ Feluda said, sipping his tea, ‘so I’ll have to find his dark and dingy house.’
‘I’ll take you there myself, don’t worry. Shyamlal’s house is only five minutes from here. But I hope you’ll come back soon? I am expecting a few people later in the evening. They want to talk to Lalmohan Babu, and then I’d like to take you to see Atmaram Babu.’
‘Atmaram Babu? Who’s he?’
‘That’s what some people call him. His real name is Mriganka Bhattacharya. He can speak to the dead, get souls and spirits to visit him in seances . . . you know, that kind of thing. He’s one of our local attractions. But I think he’s really got a certain power. I don’t laugh the whole thing off.’
I wanted to ask what had made him think so, but couldn’t, for at this moment we saw the palanquin again. Tulsi Babu’s veranda overlooked the main road. The palanquin was making its way to the village. As it got closer, Tulsi Babu said, ‘Why, Jeevanlal appears to be in it!’
A man was peering out of the window. The bearers were carrying the palanquin in exactly the same style that one reads about, making a strange rhythmic noise. The noise stopped as they put the palanquin down. The man inside got out with some difficulty. Clad in trousers and a shirt, he looked terribly incongruous as he emerged.
‘Mr Mitter?’ he asked, looking at Feluda with a smile.
‘Yes.’
‘I am Jeevanlal Mallik.’
‘Namaskar. This is my friend, Lalmohan Ganguli, and that’s my cousin, Tapesh. You know Tulsi Babu, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Namaskar. Er . . . do you think you could come to my house?’
Lalmohan Babu stayed back to wait for his visitors. Feluda and I went with Jeevanlal Mallik. He left the road and began walking through a bamboo grove, possibly to take a short cut.
‘I had to go to the station to make a phone call,’ he said.
‘Is that why you had to take the palanquin?’
Jeevanlal gave Feluda a sidelong glance. ‘Did Tulsi Babu tell you everything about my father?’
‘Yes, we learnt what an electric shock did to him.’
‘Things were not so bad in the beginning. He simply did not want to have anything to do with electricity. That was understandable. But now . . . he’s become absolutely impossible. You’ll soon see what I mean.’
‘Do you come here often?’
‘Once every two months, to talk about business matters.’
‘You mean your father still takes an interest in his business?’
‘Oh no. But I don’t want to give up. I keep trying to bring him back to normal.’
‘Have you had any luck?’
‘No, not so far.’
Two
Mr Mallik’s house was clearly quite old, but had been well maintained. It was large enough to be called a mansion, if not a palace. As we passed through the front gate, I saw a pond to our right. A number of trees behind the house suggested a garden. Only the compound wall did not appear to have been repaired for some time. It was broken in many places, showing gaps. Seedlings had grown through large cracks in it.
A guard stood at the gate, clutching a shield and a spear, looking as if he was dressed for a part in a historical play. A bearer, wearing an old-fashioned uniform and looking just as peculiar, gave us a smart salute at the front door. It was all done seriously, and certainly the atmosphere inside the house was far from lighthearted, but both men looked so comical that I almost burst out laughing.
We were taken into the living room. It had no furniture. A mattress, covered with a spotless sheet, was spread on the floor. We went and sat on it. There were a few pictures on the wall, of Hindu gods and goddesses and scenes from the Ramayana. There were bookshelves on the wall, but apart from half-a-dozen books in Bengali, they were empty.
‘Would you like the fan? If so, I can ask Dashu to pull it for you,’ Jeevanlal said.
I had not noticed it at first, but now I glanced up and saw the fan—two mats edged with large frills—hanging from an iron rod. The rod hung from two hooks fixed to the ceiling. A rope tied to the rod went outside to the veranda, through the wall over the door to our left. I had only read about such fans. The servant called Dashu presumably sat on the veranda and pulled the rope, so that the fan swung from side to side, creating a breeze. But it was an October evening. None of us needed a fan.
‘Let me show you something. Can you tell me what this is?’ said Jeevanlal, opening a cupboard and taking out a square piece of cloth. What made it special was that one corner was knotted around a small stone.
Feluda frowned, then swung the cloth a few times in the air. ‘Topshe, stand up for a minute.’
I rose. Feluda stood a few feet away from me swinging the cloth once more. Then he threw it at me as though it was a fishing net. The end that was knotted around the stone wound itself round my neck instantly.
‘Thugee!’ I cried.
Feluda had told me about thugees. They were bandits who used to attack travellers in this fashion and then loot their possessions. One swift pull was usually enough to tighten the noose and kill their innocent victims.
Feluda nodded, took the cloth away and asked, ‘Where did you get something like this?’
‘Someone threw it into my father’s room through an open window, in the middle of the night.’
‘When?’
‘A few days before I got here.’
‘What were the guards doing?’
‘Guards?’ Jeevanlal laughed. ‘They like dressing up to please their master, but that’s as far as it goes. They are bone idle, each one of them. Besides, they know their master has become quite senile, and there’s really no one to control them.’
‘Who else lives here?’
‘My grandmother. She is perfectly happy with these old-fashioned arrangements. Then there’s Bholanath Babu. He is a sort of manager—in fact, he takes care of everything from shopping to running errands for my father, fetching the doctor if need be, going to the next town to get things we can’t get in the village . . . everything. There is no one else except a cook, two guards and a bearer. They live here. The four bearers for the palanquin and the punkha-puller come from the village.’
‘Where did Bholanath Babu originally come from?’
‘He is from this
village. His family were our tenants. His forefathers were farmers. But he went to school, and I believe was quite bright as a student. Now he’s nearly sixty.’
‘Is that your grandfather?’ Feluda asked, pointing at a painting on the wall. It was the portrait of a man with an impressive moustache. I had not noticed it so far. He was sitting on a chair, holding a walking stick with a silver handle in one hand, the other resting on a marble table. The look in his eyes was cold and hard.
‘Yes, that is Durlabh Singh Mallik.’
‘The zamindar everyone was terrified of?’
‘Yes, I am afraid so. He was devoid of compassion or mercy.’
A bearer brought two glasses and a cup on a saucer on a tray and placed the tray before us. Feluda glanced at the hot drink they contained and said, ‘Does this mean your father still drinks tea?’
‘No, no. That’s coffee, and it’s mine. I always bring a cup and a tin of Nescafé. He couldn’t find other cups and saucers, so you’ve been given glasses. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘No, of course not. I have drunk coffee out of bronze glasses in south India.’
A loud tapping noise coming from upstairs made Feluda glance up. ‘Does your father wear clogs?’
‘Oh yes. Isn’t that far more natural than wearing shoes?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. Tell me, was it just this piece of cloth that made you think someone was planning to kill your father, or was there something else?’
In reply, Jeevanlal simply took out a piece of paper from his pocket and offered it to Feluda. Written on it in pencil with large, distinct letters, were the following words: