Seven

By the time I returned after finishing my work at Howrah Station, dusk was about to fall. The main door was half-closed. Entering, I saw that Ushapati Babu had already left; in the shadowy room, at the far end by the window, Satyabati and Byomkesh were sitting so close their shoulders touched. A gentle southern breeze drifted in through the window. Seeing me, Satyabati shifted a little.

I approached and said, “Well, well, like a pair of doves, you sit here enjoying the Malaya breeze. —Where’s Khoka?”

Satyabati, a little embarrassed, replied, “Putiram has taken Khoka for a walk in the park.”

Byomkesh said, “You see, Ajit, the poets are not liars. There’s good reason for the way they lose themselves at the advent of spring. It’s true, the Malaya breeze strikes hardest at young men and women, but the elders aren’t spared either. I believe, if it hadn’t been spring, Ushapati Babu might not have murdered Satyakam.”

I said, “You don’t say! The poets never wrote about such deadly powers of spring.”

Byomkesh replied, “Even if they didn’t write it plainly, they hinted at it. All power is dangerous; the same fire that gives light can also burn everything to ashes. —But let that be. Tell me, what news from Kashmir?”

I said, “There’s fighting in Kashmir, ordinary people aren’t being allowed in. To go, you need a permit from the Government of India.”

I fetched a chair and sat down on Byomkesh’s other side. Byomkesh said, “Getting a permit won’t be hard. The Government of India and I are on excellent terms these days, at least as long as Vallabhbhai Patel is alive. But the question is, is it wise for all of us to go to Kashmir? Khoka has only just started school, and there’s still time before the summer holidays. I don’t think it’s right to take him out of school.”

Satyabati said, “Why should Khoka go? He’ll stay at home. Thakurpo, can’t you look after Khoka?”

I gazed at Satyabati for a moment and then said, “Ah—so that’s the plan. You two will fly off to Kashmir like a pair of swans, and I’ll be left at home with Khoka. My friend Byomkesh, you’re right, spring is indeed a dangerous season. But, no matter. Go on, wander as you please, I’ll stay at home with Khoka and enjoy myself. To tell the truth, I never had the slightest desire to go to Kashmir. Bengal is my own earthly paradise—janani janmabhumishcha swargadapi gariyasi.” With that, I lit a cigarette.

Satyabati pressed her sari’s edge to her lips to hide a smile. Byomkesh, in a low hum, recited poetry, “Youth is the sweetest time, but it will not last—so drink the nectar of love while you can. —Give me a cigarette.”

Handing him one, I said, “Reading poetry has corrupted your character. But leave that for now—do you mind telling us the tale Ushapati just confided in you?”

Byomkesh said, “Not at all. I was waiting for you. I want both of you to hear it. It’s a tragic story.”

Lighting his cigarette, Byomkesh began—

“Satyakam had come to me with a strange proposition—if I were to die suddenly, you must investigate. He knew who wanted to kill him, but he didn’t tell me the name—”

No! Even then, the question arose in my mind—why does he refuse to reveal his name? Now I understand, there was a grave reason for his silence; had he spoken, a sordid family scandal would have come to light. He was illegitimate, his mother disgraced—how could he confess such a thing? How many men can bring themselves to utter their own tale of shame? Not everyone is a Satyakam from the age of truth.

Yet he did leave me a clue—his date of birth. But he gave it in such a way that it never once occurred to me that the key to his death lay hidden within that date. He knew, if I began to investigate, the date of birth would serve me well. Satyakam was a conscienceless libertine, but he was not lacking in intelligence.

Let me begin the story from the very start. The thread of this tale stretches back to before Satyakam’s birth. I heard most of it from Ushapati Babu himself, and yet, there is no doubt as to its truth. He did not spare himself; he confessed his own faults and weaknesses with disarming honesty.

In the second decade of the twentieth century, Ramakanta Chowdhury founded Suchitra Emporium. Ramakanta Chowdhury’s only daughter was named Suchitra; the shop bore her name. Chowdhury-moshai was a shrewd businessman—within a few years, his shop was thriving. A new house was built in Dharmatala, business was booming. Chowdhury-moshai’s Suchitra Emporium began to rival the British shops.

In 1925, Ushapati Das joined Suchitra Emporium as a humble shop assistant. He was then twenty-one or twenty-two; a poor orphan, not much educated. But he was good-looking, intelligent. Within a few days, he had mastered the art of selling merchandise, learned the tricks of keeping customers happy. He quickly became popular among his colleagues. Soon, even the proprietor himself took notice. His salary began to rise by a few rupees at a time.

Two years passed. Then, suddenly, one day, Ushapati Babu’s fortune changed dramatically. Ramakanta Chowdhury summoned him to his office and said, “I wish to marry my daughter to you.” The proposal was beyond Ushapati’s wildest dreams—it was as if he had caught the moon in his hands. Like the fairy tale where the beggar marries the princess. Ushapati had seen Suchitra many times before; she often visited the shop. She was sweet-faced, gentle. Ushapati’s heart filled with the fragrance of romance.

Within a month, the wedding took place. It was a grand affair. Ushapati’s colleagues presented him with gifts and congratulated their friend. Until then, Ushapati Babu had lived with his married sister; now, arrangements were made for him to stay at his father-in-law’s house. The in-laws’ house—meaning the