The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (25 page)

F
eluda stopped reading and shut his book with a bang. Then he snapped his fingers twice, yawned heavily and said, ‘Geometry.’

I asked, ‘Were you reading a book on geometry all this while?’ The book was covered with newspaper, so I could not see its title. All I knew was that Feluda had borrowed it from Uncle Sidhu, who was passionate about books. He bought quite a few, and took great care of them. In fact, he did not like lending his books to anyone, but Feluda was an exception. Feluda knew it, so he always put a protective cover on any book that he brought from Uncle Sidhu’s house.

Feluda lit a Charminar and blew out two smoke rings, one after the other. ‘There is no such thing as a book on geometry,’ he told me. ‘Any book may be seen as one because everything around us is related to geometry. Did you see those smoke rings? When they left my mouth, they were perfect circles. Now just think. There are circles everywhere. Look at your own body. The iris in your eye is a circle. With the help of the iris, you can look at the sun and the moon. If you think of them as flat objects, they are circles, but of course they are actually spheres—each a solid bubble. That’s geometry. The planets in the solar system are orbiting the sun in elliptic curves. There’s geometry again. When you spat out of the window a little while ago—you shouldn’t have done that, it’s most unhygienic and if you do it again, you’ll get a sharp rap on the head, but anyway—that spit went out in a parabolic curve. Geometry, see? Have you ever looked at a spider’s web in any detail? It starts with a simple square. Then two diagonal lines run through it and the square is divided into four triangles. After that, the spider starts weaving a spiral web from the intersecting point of those diagonal lines. That keeps growing in size, until it covers the entire square. If you think about it, your head will start reeling . . . it’s something so amazing!’

It was a Sunday morning. The two of us were sitting in our living room on the ground floor. Baba had gone to visit his childhood friend, Subimal, as he did every Sunday. Feluda was seated on a sofa, his feet resting on a low table.

I was on a divan, leaning on a cushion placed against the wall. In my hand was a game. It was a maze, made of plastic. Inside the maze were tiny metal balls. Over the last half hour, I had been trying
to make those metal balls slip through the various lanes in the maze and go straight to its centre. Now I realized that the game was a matter of complex geometry, too.

A Durga Puja was being held in Nihar and Pintu’s house, which was near ours. Someone was playing a song over a loudspeaker—
Yeh jo muhabbat hai from the film Kati Patang.
Fine spiral grooves on a circular record. More geometry!

‘Geometry applies not just to objects you can see,’ Feluda continued. ‘The human mind often follows geometric patterns. A simple man’s mind will run along a straight line. Others who are not so simple may have minds that twist and wriggle like a snake. And the mind of a lunatic? No one can tell how that’s going to run. It’s a matter of the most convoluted geometry!’

Thanks to Feluda, I had come across plenty of people from every category. What kind of geometric pattern did he fall into? When I asked him, Feluda said, ‘You might call me a many-pointed star.’

‘And I? Am I a satellite of that star?’

‘You are merely a point, something that indicates a position, but has no significance of its own.’

I like to think of myself as a satellite. The only problem is that I cannot play that role all the time. I managed to be with Feluda when we had trouble in Gangtok because that was during school holidays. Two cases had followed—one was a murder in Dhalbhoomgarh, and the other was to do with a forged will in Patna—which I missed altogether. Now my school was closed once again for Puja. I was wondering if a new case would come along. Who knew whether it really would? But then, Feluda did tell me that if one badly wants something to happen, and if one’s will is strong enough, then a particular wish may well come true, more or less automatically. I quite like to think what happened that Sunday morning was simply a result of my willing it.

A song from the film Johnny Mera Naam had just started on the loudspeaker; Feluda had flicked a quantity of ash into an ashtray and picked up the Hindustan Standard; I was toying with the idea of going out, when someone rattled the knocker on our door very loudly. Baba, I knew, would not be back before twelve o’clock. This had to be someone else. I opened the door and found a simple, mild looking man, wearing a dhoti and a blue shirt.

‘Does a Pradosh Mitter live in this house?’ he asked, raising his
voice to make himself heard. The loudspeaker was making quite a racket.

Feluda rose from the sofa and came to the door on hearing his name. ‘Where have you come from?’ he asked.

‘All the way from Shyambazar,’ the man replied.

‘Please come in.’

The man stepped into the living room.

‘Please sit down. I am Pradosh Mitter.’

‘Oh. Oh, I see. I didn’t know . . . I mean, I didn’t realize you were so young!’ The man sat down on a chair next to the sofa, looking visibly impressed. But the smile on his face disappeared almost at once.

‘What can I do for you?’ Feluda asked.

The man cleared his throat. ‘I have heard a lot about you from Kailash Chowdhury. He seems to think very highly of you. He . . . he is one of my customers, you see. My name is Sudhir Dhar. I have a book shop in College Street—Dhar & Co. You may have seen it.’

Feluda nodded briefly, before saying to me, ‘Topshe, please shut that window.’

I shut the window that overlooked the street. That reduced the noise, and Mr Dhar could then speak normally.

‘About a week ago, there was a press report about my son. Did you . . .?’

‘Press report? What did it say?’

‘About his being a jatismar . . . I mean . . .’

‘About a boy called Mukul?’

‘Yes.’

‘So the report’s true?’

‘You see, from the way he speaks, the kind of things he says, it does seem as if . . .’ Mr Dhar broke off.

I knew what the word jatismar meant. A person who can recall events from a previous life is called a jatismar. Apparently, there are people who get periodic flashes of memory related to a life that they had lived long before they were born in their present incarnation. Mind you, even Feluda does not know whether or not there is any truth behind this whole business.

Feluda picked up the packet of Charminar and offered it to Mr Dhar, who smiled and shook his head. Then he said, ‘Perhaps you remember what my son told the reporter? He’s only eight, but he described a place which he is supposed to have seen. Yet I am sure
nobody from ray family—not even my forefathers—has been there, let alone my son. We are very ordinary people, you see. I only have that shop, and the book trade these days is . . .’

‘Doesn’t your son talk of a fortress?’ Feluda interrupted him. ‘Yes, that’s right. A golden fortress. There was a cannon on its roof, a lot of fighting, and several people were killed . . . my son says he has seen it all. He used to wear a turban and ride a camel on the sand. He mentions sand quite frequently. And animals—camels, elephants and horses. Oh, and peacocks. There is a mark near his elbow. We always thought it was a birthmark, but he says he was once attacked by a peacock, and the mark shows where the bird pecked him.’

‘Has he ever mentioned exactly where he used to live?’

‘No, but he does say that he could see this golden fortress from his house. Sometimes he draws funny squiggles with a pencil and says, “Look, that’s my house!” If you look at it, well yes, it does appear to be a house.’

‘Could he not have seen all that in a book? I mean, you have a book shop, don’t you? So maybe he saw pictures of this place in a book?’

‘Yes, that’s a possibility. But other children also look at pictures in books; they don’t talk incessantly about what they’ve seen, do they? If you’d seen my son, you’d know what I mean. To tell you the truth, his mind seems to be elsewhere. His own family—his parents, brothers and sisters, other relatives—no one seems to matter to him. In fact, he doesn’t even look at us when he talks.’

‘When did this whole thing start?’

‘About two months ago. It started with those pictures, you see. One day, when I got back home from the shop—it had rained a lot that day—my son began showing me the pictures he had drawn. At first, I paid him no attention. Every child likes talking about imaginary lands, and he was chattering away. So I ignored him. It was my wife who first noticed that there was something odd. Then we listened more carefully to his words, and watched his behaviour over the next few weeks . . . then, one of my other customers, Dr Hemanga Hajra . . . have you heard of him?’

‘Yes, yes. He’s a parapsychologist, isn’t he? I’ve certainly heard of him. But didn’t that press report say he was going to travel somewhere with your son?’

‘Not going to. Has gone. They’ve already left. Dr Hajra came to
my house three times. He thought Mukul was talking of Rajasthan. So I said, yes, that could be true. Then, in the end, Dr Hajra told me he was doing research on this whole business of recalling a previous life. He wanted to take Mukul to Rajputana. He thought that if Mukul could actually go back to the same place, he might remember several other things, and that would help his research. So he said he’d pay for everything, and take great care of my son, I wouldn’t have to worry.’

‘And then?’ Feluda leant forward. His voice had changed. Clearly, he was finding all this quite interesting.

‘Then they left, that’s all.’

‘Didn’t Mukul mind leaving home?’

Mr Dhar smiled a little wanly. ‘Mind? Oh no. He was ready to go with Dr Hajra the minute he offered to show him the golden fortress. My son, you see, is not like other children. He’s very different. We find him awake at three in the morning sometimes. He’d be humming a song. Not any film song, mind you. Something like a folk song, like the kind of music you hear in villages—but certainly it doesn’t come from any village in Bengal. That much I can tell you. I know a little about music . . . I play the harmonium, you see.’

Mr Dhar had told us a lot about his son. But he had said nothing about why he had come to see Feluda, or why he needed to consult a detective. Feluda’s next question made the whole conversation take a different turn.

‘Didn’t your son say something about hidden treasure?’

Mr Dhar began to look even more depressed. ‘That is the biggest problem!’ he sighed. ‘He told me about it some time ago, but when he mentioned it to the reporter . . . well, that proved disastrous!’

‘Why do you say that?’ Feluda asked. Then he called out to our cook Srinath, and told him to bring tea.

‘Let me explain,’ Mr Dhar continued. ‘Dr Hajra left for Rajasthan with Mukul yesterday morning by the Toofan Express. And . . .’

‘Do you know where in Rajasthan he’ll go?’ Feluda interrupted. ‘Jodhpur, so he said. Since Mukul had mentioned sand, he said he’d start with the northwest. Anyway, what happened was that yesterday evening, someone kidnapped a boy from our area. He was about Mukul’s age.’

‘And you think that boy was kidnapped by mistake? Because they thought he was Mukul?’

‘Yes, there is no question about that. My son and this other boy
happen to look similar. The other boy is Shivratan Mukherjee’s grandson. Mr Mukherjee is one of our neighbours, he’s a solicitor. The boy is called Neelu. They were naturally most upset, had to call the police, and there was an enormous fuss, as you can imagine. But now that they’ve got him back, things have calmed down.’

‘Got him back? Already?’

‘Early this morning. But how does that make any difference, tell me? I am going mad with anxiety, I tell you. Those kidnappers obviously realized they got the wrong boy. And Neelu has told them that Mukul has gone to Jodhpur. Suppose they chase Mukul all the way to Jodhpur just to lay their hands on that treasure?’

Feluda did not reply. He was lost in thought; four deep lines had appeared on his forehead. My heart was beating faster. Could it mean that we’d go to Rajasthan during these Puja holidays? Jodhpur, Chittor, Udaipur . . . I had only heard these names and read about these places in history books—and, of course, in Raj Kahini by Abanindranath Tagore. Uncle Naresh had given me a copy on my birthday.

Srinath came in with the tea. He placed the tray on a table. Feluda offered a cup to Mr Dhar.

‘From what I heard about you from Kailash Chowdhury,’ Mr Dhar began hesitantly, ‘it appears that you were most . . . er . . . I mean . . . anyway, I was just wondering if you might be able to go to Rajasthan. If you found that Dr Hajra and Mukul were safe, that’s well and good. But suppose they were in danger? Suppose you saw something odd? I mean, I’ve heard that you’re brave, you’d tackle criminals. I am only an ordinary man, Mr Mitter. Perhaps it is impertinent of me to have come to you. But . . . if you did decide to go, I would certainly pay for your travel.’

Feluda continued to frown. After a minute’s silence, he said, ‘I shall let you know tomorrow what I decide. I assume you have got a photo of your son in your house? The one printed in the newspaper was not very clear.’

Mr Dhar took a long sip of his tea. ‘My cousin is fond of photography. He took some photos of Mukul. My wife will have them.’

‘Very well.’

Mr Dhar finished his tea, put the cup down on a table and rose. ‘I have a telephone in my shop, 345116. I am usually in the shop from ten o’clock.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘Mechhobazar. 7 Mechhobazar Street. My house is on the main road.’

I went with Mr Dhar to see him out. When he’d gone, I shut the front door and returned to the living room. ‘There’s one word that I didn’t quite understand,’ I said to Feluda.

‘You mean parapsychologist?’

‘Yes.’

‘Those who study certain hazy aspects of the human mind are called parapsychologists. Take telepathy, for instance. You can actually get into the mind of another person and read their thoughts. Or, if your own mind is strong enough, you can influence other people’s thoughts, even change them totally. Strange things happen sometimes. Suppose you were sitting here, thinking of an old friend. Suddenly, out of the blue, the same friend rang you. A parapsychologist would tell you that there was nothing sudden or unexpected about it. If your friend rang you, it was because of strong telepathy. But there is more—like extra-sensory perception, or ESP for short. It can warn you about future events. Or, for that matter, take this business of recalling a previous life. All these could be subjects a parapsychologist might wish to study.’