The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (82 page)

Bulakiprasad’s wife made arahar daal and chicken curry for lunch. We did full justice to it, and then left in the car. Feluda was clearly as curious as Lalmohan Babu about the escaped tiger. He rang the local police station before we left. He had had to work with the police in Bihar on his last case, and Sarveshwar Sahai’s name was well known in Hazaribagh. The inspector who answered the phone—Inspector Raut—recognized Feluda’s name as soon as he had introduced himself and explained why he was calling. We did need help from the police to see the owner of the circus, under the present circumstances. ‘One of our men is posted outside the main entrance,’ Inspector Raut said. ‘He will let you in.’ Feluda told him he wanted to go there purely out of curiosity, not to start an investigation.

On our way to the circus, we saw groups of men gathered around street corners, still talking animatedly. Near a big crossing, someone was actually beating a drum and shouting words of caution. Feluda stopped at a small stall to buy a packet of cigarettes. The stallholder told him the tiger had been seen near a village called Dahiri to the north of Hazaribagh, but there were no reports of any damage.

My heart suddenly lifted at the sight of the tents as we got closer to the circus. It reminded me of all the circuses Feluda had taken me to when I was a small child. The blue-and-white striped tent of The Great Majestic Circus was very neat and tidy, which meant they were true professionals and knew their trade well. A yellow flag fluttered on top of the tent, and rows of bunting had been carefully arranged between the compound fence and the main entrance. Hundreds of people were jostling outside near the ticket counters. The show was going to go on even without the tiger. Various other posters showed what else the circus had to offer. The artist who had drawn them did not appear to be particularly gifted, but what he had managed was enough to arouse both curiosity and excitement.

The constable on duty had been told about us. He gave Feluda a smart salute, and let us in immediately. ‘Mr Kutti—that’s the owner—has been informed, sir. He’s waiting for you in his room,’ the constable said.

Behind the tent was an open space. It ended where a partition made with corrugated tin sheets began. Mr Kutti’s caravan stood just behind the partition. Like the tent, it was tidy and well maintained. There were rows of windows on both sides. Curtains with attractive patterns hung at these, through which the sun came in and formed patches on the furniture. Mr Kutti rose as he saw us arrive and shook our hands. Then he gestured towards a mini sofa. He seemed to be around fifty, although his hair had turned totally white. When he smiled, his teeth gleamed in the semi-darkness of the caravan. They were clearly his own, not dentures.

Feluda explained, as soon as we were seated, that he had decided to call not because he had anything to do with the police, but because he had heard a lot about the Great Majestic and wanted to see their show. ‘It’s such a pity we can’t see your best item!’ he exclaimed. Then he introduced Lalmohan Babu as a famous writer who was interested in the circus and wanted to write a book about it.

Mr Kutti nodded. ‘Before I joined a circus, I spent six years in Calcutta working for a shipping company,’ he told us. ‘I like Bengalis. They seem to understand and appreciate the true spirit of the circus. Please don’t be disappointed just because our tiger is missing. There are quite a lot of other things to be seen. We had a special show yesterday. Many well-known personalities were invited. I am inviting you now, you are welcome to any of our shows.’

‘Thank you,’ Lalmohan Babu spoke unexpectedly. ‘How did it happen? I mean, the tiger
. . .
?
’

‘It’s all very unfortunate, Mr Ganguli,’ said Mr Kutti, ‘the door of the cage was not fastened properly. The tiger pushed it open. Even so, it might not have got out in the open, but someone had removed a portion of the partition to make a short-cut and then forgotten to replace it. So the tiger slipped out through the gap. I have taken steps to find out who was responsible, and make sure it does not happen again.’

‘Didn’t a tiger once escape like this in Bombay?’ Feluda asked. ‘Yes, from the National Circus. It actually got out in the streets of Bombay, but the ringmaster caught it before it could get very far.’

Mr Kutti told us something else about the escaped tiger. Apparently, it had been spotted by at least fifty different people. There had been reports from various sources. A lady had seen it enter her courtyard and promptly fallen into a swoon. Why and how the tiger had left her unharmed was not known. Then there was a Nepali man who had seen the tiger cross a road. He himself happened to be driving a scooter at the time. Startled by the sight, he had driven straight into a lamp-post and was now in a hospital with three broken ribs.

‘Surely you have a ringmaster?’ Lalmohan Babu asked.

‘Yes, Karandikar. But he hasn’t been too well for sometime. He is nearly forty, you see. He gets a pain in his neck every now and then, but goes on to perform despite that. I have told him a million times to see a doctor, but he won’t listen. So, about a month ago, I got another trainer, called Chandran. He’s from Kerala and is very good in his work. It is he who acts as the ringmaster when Karandikar feels unwell.’

‘Who performed with the tiger at the special show yesterday?’ Feluda wanted to know.

‘Karandikar. He seemed fine. There is one special item which only he can do. Chandran has never tried it. Karandikar puts his hands into the tiger’s mouth, opens it wide, then puts his head in it. Unfortunately, something went wrong yesterday. He tried twice, but the tiger refused to open its mouth. Instead of trying again, Karandikar simply gave up and finished his show. There was some applause, but many people booed and jeered at him.’

‘Didn’t you do anything about it?’

‘Of course. He’s been with me for seventeen years, but I had to speak to him very sternly last night. Now he’s saying he will leave the circus. That would be most unfortunate, both for him and for us. He can easily perform for at least another three years, I think. His work with the Great Majestic has made him quite well known.’

‘Hasn’t anyone from your team gone to look for the tiger?’

‘Karandikar should have gone, but he flatly refused to have anything to do with a search party. So I sent Chandran with people from the Forest Department.’

‘Could we see Karandikar?’ Lalmohan Babu asked rather boldly. ‘You could try, but there’s no guarantee he’ll agree to see you. He’s extremely moody. I’ll ask my bearer, Murugesh, to take you to his tent.’

Murugesh was standing outside. He came with us as we thanked Mr Kutti and left his caravan.

The ringmaster’s tent was divided into two sections. One half of it acted as a living room. The other was clearly where he slept. Much to our surprise, he came out of this ‘bedroom’ as soon as he was informed of our arrival. One look at him told me why a tiger obeyed his command. I had rarely seen anyone who looked so strong physically. He was as tall as Feluda, but his body was much more muscular. A jet-black moustache on a fair skin gave him an added air of strength and power. His eyes seemed distant, but sometimes they glowed with emotion as he spoke. He told us he could speak Marathi, Tamil and Malayalam, in addition to English and Hindi. Feluda decided to speak to him in English.

The first thing Mr Karandikar asked was whether we had been sent by a newspaper. Perhaps the notebook and pencil in Lalmohan Babu’s hands prompted this question. Feluda had to choose his words carefully before making a reply. ‘Suppose we were newspaper reporters. Would that make any difference? I mean, would you object to talking to the press?’ Feluda asked.

‘Oh no. On the contrary. I’d be glad to talk to them. People must be told that if the tiger escaped from his cage, it was certainly not the fault of his old trainer. The owner of this circus must take all responsibility. A tiger does not obey two different trainers. It can respond to only one. Sultan had started to get irritable soon after the other trainer arrived. I had explained this to Mr Kutti, but he didn’t pay any attention to me. Now I hope he’s happy with the result.’

‘Why didn’t you go to look for your tiger?’

‘Why should I? Let them find him again!’ he said, sounding deeply hurt.

Lalmohan Babu whispered something into Feluda’s ear. This meant he wanted to ask Mr Karandikar something, but was afraid to. Feluda translated quickly.

‘Would you go if the others fail, or if your presence becomes absolutely necessary for some reason?’

‘Why, yes! If I hear anyone is thinking of killing my Sultan, I’ll certainly go and try to save him. I look upon him as family—no, I think he’s even closer to me than a family member.’

I, too, wanted to ask him something. As it turned out, I didn’t have to. Feluda spoke before me.

‘Did a tiger ever scratch your face?’

‘Yes, but it wasn’t Sultan. I used to work for The Golden Circus before I joined the Great Majestic. It was one of their tigers. It clawed my face; one of my cheeks and my nose were badly injured.’ He than took his shirt off. We were amazed to see endless scars on his body. Heaven knows how many times he had been mauled.

Before we left, Feluda asked him one last question. ‘Will you continue to stay here?’

‘I don’t know. A small tent in a circus has been my home for more than seventeen years. Now . . . I may well have to look for something different. Who knows?’

Lalmohan Babu wanted to see all the other animals. He had already spoken to Mr Kutti about it. When we left Mr Karandikar, Murugesh took us to where the animals were kept. There were two other tigers, a large bear, a hippopotamus, three elephants and six horses. Sultan’s cage stood on one side. There was something rather eerie about its emptiness.

By the time we got back home, it was five o’clock. Bulakiprasad came in with the tea a little later, and told us that someone from Mr Chowdhury’s house had called in our absence. He would call again later, he had said.

Pritindra Chowdhury arrived at half past six. The sun had set by this time, and the temperature had dropped appreciably. We had all slipped on our woollen pullovers.

‘You didn’t tell me you were a detective!’ Pritin Babu said most unexpectedly. ‘When I told my father about you, he said he knew you were coming. Your client, Mr Sahai, knows him, you see. He had happened to mention your visit. I am here now to invite you to our picnic tomorrow. Baba would like all of
you to come.’

‘A picnic?’ Lalmohan Babu raised his eyebrows.

‘Didn’t I tell you? It’s Baba’s birthday tomorrow, so we are all going to Rajrappa for a picnic. We’ll have lunch there. If you came to our house in your car at around nine o’clock, we
could all leave together. Our house is called Kailash. It’s not far from here, I’ll tell you how to find it. And,’ he added, ‘if you came a little earlier than nine, you’d be able to see my father’s collection of butterflies and rocks.’

Rajrappa was fifty miles from Hazaribagh. It had a waterfall and an old Kali temple called the temple of Chhinnamasta. It was well known for its scenic beauty. We had heard of it before and had, in fact, planned to go there ourselves during our stay.

‘But . . .’ Lalmohan Babu began doubtfully, ‘haven’t you heard about the tiger?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Pritin Babu laughed, ‘but there’s no cause for alarm. My brother is a crack shot. He’ll be taking his gun with him. Besides, the tiger is supposed to have gone to the north. Rajrappa is to the south of Hazaribagh, near Ramgarh. You may relax.’

Feluda thanked him and said we would arrive at his house at eight-thirty. Pritin Babu gave us the necessary directions and left.

‘Why is the house called Kailash, I wonder?’ Lalmohan Babu asked.’

‘Possibly because its owner is called Mahesh,’ Feluda replied. ‘Mahesh is another name for Shiva, isn’t it? Since Shiva lives in Mount Kailash, Mahesh Chowdhury decided to call his house by the same name.’

It was now pitch dark outside. But we did not switch the lights on since the moon had risen and we wanted to sit by its light on the veranda. For some strange reason, Lalmohan Babu was muttering the word ‘Chhinnamasta’ under his breath, over and over. Then he suddenly stopped at ‘Chhin—’ because Feluda had raised a hand.

We sat in silence for a few seconds. There was no noise outside except the steady din made by crickets. Then, from the far distance, came a different noise. It froze my blood, for I had heard it before. It was the roar of a tiger. We heard it three times.

Sultan was calling from somewhere. Only an experienced shikari could tell how far he was, and from which direction he was calling.

I had thought the news of an escaped tiger would be the highlight of our stay. But who knew something else would happen, and Feluda would get inextricably linked with it? I will not be able to forget Mahesh Chowdhury’s birthday on 23 November for a long time to come. And the memory of the scenes in Rajrappa, particularly the temple of Chhinnamasta, standing against its strangely beautiful dry and rocky background, will always stay alive in my memory.

But I must go back to the previous evening. The roar of the tiger made Lalmohan Babu go rather pale. However, just as I was about to suggest he should sleep in our room, he announced that he was fine, but could he please have the big torch with five cells? The
reason for this was that he had heard somewhere a tiger would retreat if a bright light shone in its eyes for more then a few seconds. ‘Mind you,’ he said before going to his own room, ‘if the tiger roared outside my window, I’m not sure if I’d have the nerve to open it and shine the torch in its face. But Bulakiprasad tells me he has a weapon, and he’s not afraid of wild animals.’

Luckily, even if the tiger did pay us a visit in the middle of the night, it decided not to roar; so all was well.

We reached Kailash the following morning on the dot of eight-thirty. Lalmohan Babu took one look at the house and said, ‘The Shiva who lives in this Kailash must be an English one!’ Feluda and I had to agree with him. It might have been built only ten years ago, but its appearance was that of a house built fifty years ago during British times.

A chowkidar opened the gate for us. We passed through and parked in one corner of the compound. There were three cars. Pritin Babu’s black Ambassador, a white Fiat and an old yellow Pontiac.

‘Look, Felu Babu, I have found a clue!’ Lalmohan Babu exclaimed. He had found a piece of paper near the edge of the lawn. Like Mr Sahai’s house, Kailash had a garden on one side.

‘How can you find a clue when there’s no mystery?’ Feluda laughed.

‘I know, but just look at what’s written on it. Doesn’t it seem sort of mysterious?’

It was a leaf torn from a child’s exercise book. A few letters from the alphabet were written on it. There was no mystery in it at all. Whoever had written it seemed to be rather fond of the letter ‘X’. It said:

XLNC

XL

XPDNC

NME

OICURMT

Feluda put it in his pocket with a smile.

A very old Muslim bearer was standing near the portico. He said ‘Salaam, huzoor’, and took us inside. A familiar voice had already
reached our ears. We saw Pritindra Chowdhury as soon as we stepped into the drawing room. He came forward to greet us warmly: ‘Oh, do come in. So kind of you to come!’

We returned his greeting, then stood still, staring at the walls. Instead of framed paintings, they were covered by framed butterflies. Each frame had eight of them, carefully pinned and beautifully displayed. There were eight such frames, which made a total of sixty-four butterflies, each with its wings spread, looking as though they were ready to take flight. The whole room seemed to glow with their bright colours.

The collector himself was seated on a sofa. He rose with a smile when he saw us enter the room. In his youth, he must have been both good looking and physically strong. He was still tall, and held himself straight. His complexion was very fair, he was clean-shaven and dressed in a fine dhoti, a silk kurta and a heavily embroidered Kashmiri shawl. On his nose were perched rimless glasses.

Pritin Babu only knew Feluda’s name, so Lalmohan Babu and I had to be introduced by Feluda. Before Mahesh Chowdhury could say anything, Lalmohan Babu piped up, ‘Happy birthday to you, sir!’

Mr Chowdhury laughed. ‘Thank you, thank you! I don’t see why an old man like me should celebrate his birthday, but this whole thing was arranged by my daughter-in-law. Look, she even made me dress up. But I am very glad you were able to come. Hope you didn’t find it difficult to find our K dash eyelash?’

Lalmohan Babu and I stared dumbly at him. But Feluda raised his eyebrows only for a fleeting second before saying, ‘No, sir, we found it quite easily.’

‘Good. I knew you’d get my meaning. You must be used to dealing with codes and ciphers. However, your friends are still looking puzzled.’

Feluda had to take out his small notebook and pen and write the code down to explain. ‘K—eyelash,’ he wrote. ‘Now say the words quickly,’ he said with a smile. Lalmohan Babu promptly started saying ‘K eyelash, K eyelash’ rapidly, breaking off suddenly to say, ‘Oh, oh, I see. It does sound like Kailash, doesn’t it?’

I had to laugh. Then I saw a little girl of about five, who was sitting on the floor in the middle of the room with a doll in her lap. In her hand was a pair of tweezers. She kept pinching the doll’s forehead with it, possibly to pretend that she was tweezing its eyebrows.

‘That’s my granddaughter,’ Mr Chowdhury said. ‘She’s a double-bee.’

‘I see. You mean she is called Bibi?’ Feluda asked. This time, even I could figure out double-bee could only mean BB. Feluda and I often played word games at home, so this wasn’t difficult.

‘Yes. I like playing with words,’ Mahesh Chowdhury explained. ‘Let me get my brother,’ said Pritin Babu and left the room. We sat down. Mr Chowdhury was smiling a little, looking straight at Feluda. Feluda returned his look without the slightest trace of embarrassment, and smiled in return.

‘Well, well, well!’ Mr Chowdhury said finally. ‘Sarveshwar Sahai praised you a lot. So when I heard you were here, I told Trey to call you. My life is full of mysteries, Mr Mitter. Let’s see if you can solve any.’

‘Trey? Do you mean your third son?’

‘Right again.’

‘I like word games, too.’

‘Very good. My oldest son—I call him Ace—can occasionally understand my meaning when I speak in codes, but Trey is quite hopeless. Anyway, how long have you been working as a detective?’

‘About eight years.’

‘I see. What about Mr Ganguli? What does he do?’

‘He writes murder mysteries, under the pseudonym of Jatayu.’

‘Really? What a fine combination! One creates mysteries, the other destroys them.’

‘I can see your collection of rocks and butterflies,’ Feluda remarked, ‘but is there anything else you used to collect?’

The rocks and stones were displayed in a glass case that stood in a corner. I had no idea stones could be of so many different types and colours. But what did Feluda mean? Mr Chowdhury looked quite taken aback and asked, ‘Why do you ask about other collections? What else could I have collected?’

‘Those tweezers young Bibi is using appear to be quite old.’

‘Brilliant! Brilliant!’ Mr Chowdhury exclaimed. ‘What sharp eyes you’ve got! But you are absolutely right. I used to collect stamps, and those were my tweezers. Even now, I sometimes look at the Gibbons catalogue. Philately was my first passion in life. When I used to practise as a lawyer, one of my clients called Dorabjee gave me his own stamp album to show me how grateful he was. He must have lost his interest in stamps by then, or certainly he would not have
given it away like that. It had quite a few rare and valuable stamps.’

I felt quite excited to hear this. I had started to collect stamps myself, and knew that Feluda, as a young boy, used to do the same.

‘May we see that album?’ Feluda asked.

‘Pardon?’ Mr Chowdhury said after a few moments of silence. He had suddenly grown a little preoccupied. Then he seemed to pull himself together.

‘The album?’ he said. ‘No, I’m afraid I cannot show it to you. It’s lost.’

‘Lost?’

‘Yes. Didn’t I just tell you my life was full of mysteries? Mysteries . . . or you may even call them tragedies. But let’s not talk about it on a fine day like this . . . Come on, Ace, let me introduce you!

Pritin Babu had returned with his brother. He
was much older, but there was a marked resemblance between the two brothers. ‘Ace’ was a handsome man, if just a little overweight.

‘Trey could probably tell you a lot about mikes,’ Mr Chowdhury said. ‘Ace can only talk about mica. He has a business that deals with mica His real name is Arunendra. His office is in Calcutta, but his work often brings him to Hazaribagh.’

‘Namaskar,’ Feluda said, ‘you are Ace and Pritin Babu is Trey. Is that Deuce?’ He was looking at a photograph in a silver frame. It was a family group photo, taken at least twenty-five years ago. Mahesh Chowdhury and his wife were standing with two young boys. A third much smaller boy was in his wife’s arms. The younger of the two boys standing had to be Deuce.

‘Yes, you are right,’ Mr Chowdhury replied, ‘but you might never get the chance to meet him, for he has vanished.’

Ace—Arun Babu—explained quickly: ‘He was called Biren. He left home at the age of nineteen to go to England, and did not return.’

‘We don’t know that for certain, do we?’ Mr Chowdhury sounded doubtful.

‘If he did, Baba, surely you’d have heard about it?’

‘Who knows? He didn’t write me a single line in the last ten years!’ Mr Chowdhury’s voice sounded pained.

No one spoke after this. The atmosphere suddenly seemed to have become rather serious. Perhaps Mr Chowdhury realized this. He stood up, and said cheerfully, ‘Come on, let me show you around.
Akhil and Shankar haven’t arrived yet, have they? So we have a little time.’

‘You don’t have to get up, Baba,’ Arun Chowdhury said. ‘I can take them upstairs.’

‘No, sir. This is my house; I planned it and I had it built. I will, therefore, show it to my visitors.’

We followed him upstairs. There were three bedrooms, and a lovely wide veranda that overlooked the street on the north side. The Kanari Hills were dimly visible in the distance. Mr Chowdhury’s bedroom was in the middle. The other two were occupied at the moment. Arun Babu was in one, and Pritin Babu was in the other with his wife and daughter. There was a guest room on the ground floor, we were told. Mahesh Chowdhury’s friend, Akhil Chakravarty, was staying in it.

I noticed more butterflies and rocks in Mr Chowdhury’s bedroom. A bookshelf in a corner contained rows of notebooks, almost identical in appearance. Mr Chowdhury caught Feluda looking at these and said they were his diaries. He had kept diaries regularly over a period of forty years. On a bedside table was another small framed photograph of a man, but not of anyone from the family. Lalmohan Babu recognized him instantly.

‘Ah, it’s Muktananda, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. My friend Akhil gave it to me,’ Mr Chowdhury replied. Then he turned to Feluda and added, ‘He has three continents to back him up.’

‘Correct!’ Lalmohan Babu sounded quite excited. ‘He is a famous Tantric sadhu. Asia, Europe and America—he has followers everywhere.’

‘How do you know so much about him? Are you a devotee yourself?’

‘Oh no. But one of my neighbours is. He told me about his guru.’ There was nothing more to see on the first floor. As we began climbing down, I heard a car arrive. The two men Mr Chowdhury was waiting for soon made an appearance. One of them was of about the same age as Mahesh Chowdhury. He was wearing an ordinary dhoti and kurta and had a plain dark brown shawl wrapped around his shoulders. It was obvious that he had never had anything to do with the complex world of the law; nor did he seem even slightly westernized in any way. The other man was much younger, probably under forty. He had a smart and intelligent air.
He came forward quickly and touched Mr Chowdhury’s feet as soon as he saw him. The older gentleman was carrying a box of sweets. He passed it to Pritin Babu and said, ‘Look, Mahesh, please listen to me. Drop the idea of a picnic. The time’s not auspicious at all, and then there’s that tiger to be considered. What if he decides to visit the temple of Chhinnamasta?’

Mr Chowdhury turned to us. ‘Please allow me to introduce you. This man here who cannot stop seeing danger and pitfalls everywhere is a very old friend, Akhil Bandhu Chakravarty. He used to be a schoolteacher. Now he dabbles in astrology and ayurveda. And this is Shankarlal Misra. I am exceedingly fond of this young man. You might say I look upon him as a sort of replacement for my missing son.’

We greeted one another, and then everyone began to get ready to leave. Akhil Chakravarty tried one last time: ‘So nobody’s going to heed my warning?’

‘No, my dear,’ Mr Chowdhury replied. ‘I hear the tiger is called Sultan. That means he’s a Muslim. He’s not likely to want to visit a Hindu temple, never fear. Oh, by the way, Mr Mitter, do go and see the circus, if you can. We were invited the day before yesterday. I went with little Bibi and her mother. I had no idea that Indian circus had made such progress. The items with the tiger, particularly, were most impressive.’

‘But didn’t something go wrong towards the end?’

‘Yes, but that wasn’t the ringmaster’s fault. Even animals have moods, don’t they? The tiger was not in the right mood, that’s all. After all, it’s a living being, not a machine that will run each time you press a button.’

‘Yes, but see what the animal’s mood has done,’ Arun Babu remarked. ‘There’s panic everywhere. That tiger ought to be killed. This would never have happened if it was a foreign circus.’

His father smiled dryly, ‘Yes, your hands must be itching to pick up your gun. Anyone would think you were the president of the Wildlife Destruction Society!’

We met another person before leaving for Rajrappa. It was Pritin Chowdhury’s wife, Neelima Devi. Like the rest of her family, she was very good looking.