Six

At Byomkesh’s invitation, Ushapati Babu came in and sat down on a chair. His figure was weary, exhausted; his eyes were tinged with red, his body seemed on the verge of collapse.

Byomkesh offered him the cigarette case. For a while, the two of them gazed at each other with searching eyes, then Ushapati Babu spoke, “No, I won’t stay long. After your phone call, I went to the thana, but they had no news at all. So I thought I’d see if you had heard anything.”

Byomkesh did not answer the unspoken question in Ushapati Babu’s words directly. He said, “This isn’t the work of a single day, it will take time. You’re going through a great deal, you needn’t have left the house today. Your wife needs to be looked after as well.”

I watched Ushapati Babu’s face; at the mention of his wife, there was no change in his expression—no sign of the long estrangement between them. He said, “It’s my wife I’m worried about. She’s completely broken down.” Pausing a moment, he added, “I’m thinking of taking her away for a few days. If we leave Calcutta, perhaps her mind—”

“That’s a good idea! Have you decided where you’ll go?”

“No. Anywhere away from Calcutta should do. Kashi, Vrindavan, Agra, Delhi— But will the police object?”

“Let them know before you go. I don’t think they’ll object.”

“If they don’t, I’ll leave within a day or two. Calcutta feels poisonous to me now. Well then, namaskar.” With that, Ushapati Babu stood up.

Byomkesh asked, “Will you keep your shop closed?”

“The shop—Suchitra? No, why should I close it? The old cashier, Dhananjoy Babu, is there. A trustworthy man; he’ll manage. I’m thinking of bringing my nephew Shite into the shop as well—what’s the point of studying further, let him look after the shop! I have no one else.” With a sigh, he made his way to the door.

“Are you going to the shop now?”

“No, not now. I’ve already called Dhananjoy Babu and informed him.”

“Very well then—namaskar.”

Ushapati Babu departed. Byomkesh, after reducing three cigarettes to ashes in quick succession, stood up. “I’m stepping out for a bit. You stay home.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Suchitra Emporium. I need to speak with the cashier, Dhananjoy Babu.”

When Byomkesh returned, it was already half past one. I had finished my bath and was waiting; Satyabati was pacing restlessly in and out. Byomkesh took off his panjabi, turned on the fan, and stretched out on the takhtposh. Though it was spring, the midday sun was fierce.

I said, “It seems your conversation with the cashier went on for quite a while.”

Byomkesh replied, “Hmm. Do you know who that man is? The day before yesterday, on the second floor of Suchitra, the cashier who—”

Rokter Daag 581

'It was he who cut the cal-memo.'

'Really? And what did you get from him?'

'What did I get—' Byomkesh glanced at the whirring fan and smiled, 'A token of affection.'

'A token of affection!'

'Yes. Twenty or twenty-five years ago, it was quite the fashion to give printed tokens of affection at weddings. Now, it’s become rare! Poems printed in red ink on flimsy, kite-paper handkerchiefs, with a butterfly spreading its wings above. You must have seen them.'

'I have. Khajanchi-moshai gave you such a token?'

'Yes. It’s in the pocket of my panjabi, take it out and have a look.'

'But—whose wedding token is it?'

'Read it and see.'

I drew the token of affection from the pocket of the panjabi. A poem printed in red ink on thin, yellowed paper, a butterfly with open wings above, and encircling it in the shape of a rainbow, it read—Auspicious union of Kumari Suchitra with Ushapati. Then, the poem. There is not a single learned soul on earth who could make sense of this poem. At the end, the poet’s name: Shridhononjoy Mondol and the staff of Suchitra Emporium.

I said, 'This poem might have some historical value. Did you get anything else?'

'Nothing else is needed. Everything is in this token.'

'What is there? I don’t see anything.'

'Alas, blind one! Look carefully.'

I read the poem again. It was a struggle, but I managed. Then I said, 'If there’s any hint or clue in this poem, it’s beyond me. Suchitra is surely Ushapati-babu’s wife’s name, and the marriage of Ushapati-babu and Suchitra made Dhananjoy Mondol and the staff of Suchitra Emporium very happy, that much I can guess.'

'Not the poem, the date—the date! Look at the wedding date.'

In the lower left corner, it was written:

Calcutta, 13th February, 1927.

I said, 'I see the date, but my ignorance is not dispelled.'

Byomkesh sat up, 'Satyakam told us his date of birth, remember?'

'I remember he said, but I don’t recall the date.'

'I remember.'

I grew impatient, 'What do these dates mean? And what do they have to do with Satyakam’s murder?'

'They are closely related, think about it.'

'I can’t think. If you know who the murderer is, say it plainly.'

'You still don’t see?'

'No. Who killed Satyakam?'

'Ushapati-babu.'

'The father killed his own son?'

'Even if he had, it wouldn’t have been unjust. But Satyakam is not Ushapati-babu’s son.'

My head spun; I sat there, stunned for a while. Then Satyabati poked her head out from the inner doorway and said, 'Hey, are you two fasting today?'

Byomkesh Samagra

At four in the afternoon, Ushapati Babu came again. Once more, he arrived unannounced. The exhaustion and melancholy of the morning were gone; now his eyes were sharp, alert. He sat down before Byomkesh, fixed him with a piercing gaze for a moment, and said, “You went to see Dhananjay Babu?” Byomkesh replied in a calm voice, “Yes, I did.” “What did you go to find out?” “What I went to find out, I have learned.” “What did you go to find out?” “I have learned everything, Ushapati Babu. Even the