Bohni-Patanga

One

We spent ten or twelve days in Patna in relative peace. Then, one day, we happened to meet Purandar Pandey. It had been about a year since Pandeyji had been transferred to Patna. Ever since we had come into contact with him during the Durga mystery, we had not met again. Pandeyji was delighted, and we were no less pleased. Pandeyji is a harbinger of deathly mysteries; and sure enough, just a day or two after meeting us, a mysterious death occurred, and—

The very death-mystery I mentioned in "Adim Ripu" I shall now record here in detail.

One evening, after dusk, we were gathered at Pandeyji’s house. There were no outsiders present—only Byomkesh, Pandeyji, and myself. With tea, roasted Kabul chickpeas, laddus from Munir, and tobacco from Gaya—this quartet as our companions—we were reminiscing about old times. The servant would appear now and then to replace the chillum of the hookah.

Ever since we had met Pandeyji, our gatherings had become almost a daily affair—sometimes at our house, sometimes at his. Today, it was at Pandeyji’s. He had invited us to dinner the next evening, promising us Kashmiri chicken korma. Our idle exile in Patna had become sweet indeed.

Though Pandeyji had been promoted upon his transfer to Patna, I noticed that his heart was not at ease. Though the flames of the Great War had died down, the air was still thick with the ashes of the pyre, and on top of that, the birth-pangs of Independence. Our reminiscences soon descended into the present, in the manner of history. Pandeyji recounted to us several recent, hair-raising true incidents. At last, he said—

“Since the time of the Great War, the number of thugs, cheats, murderers, and scoundrels in the world has increased, and with them, the work of the police has grown as well. Crimes we never imagined before are now daily occurrences. Foreign soldiers have come and taught all manner of alien villainy. Who knows how many kinds of intoxicants and poisons have entered the country? Just the other day, a most ordinary petty thief in Patna was found with a vial of medicine; upon examination, it turned out to be a deadly poison, native to South America.”

Byomkesh, removing the hookah pipe from his lips, asked in a languid tone, “What poison? Curare?”

“Yes. I see you know the name. Such a terrible poison that a single drop mixed with blood brings instant death. The vial that was found could wipe out the entire city of Patna. Just think, how many such vials have been imported.”

Byomkesh asked, “Have you found any evidence that this poison has been used anywhere?”

Byomkesh Babu, do you think the police ever hear of every case of poisoning in our country? You don’t even need a doctor’s certificate to cremate a corpse. Perhaps if someone of importance is poisoned, there’s a bit of an uproar. Even then, the family hushes it up. Yet I believe the number of poisonings in this country is not at all insignificant.”

Byomkesh, drawing deeply on his hookah, said after a pause, “Tell me, all these poisons and narcotics you people seize—where do they end up?”

Pandeyji replied, “Where else would they go? They stay with us for a while, then are sent to the head office, and they take care of it. But that’s just a fraction. Most of it is out there, circulating in the black market. Whoever needs it, buys it and uses it.” Pandeyji sighed—“War and revolution strip civilized men of their civility. Then the mask of conscience and reason falls away, and the raw, ravenous beast emerges. How fragile our civilization is! At heart, we are barbarians.”

Byomkesh seemed to weigh the words, then said, “Indeed, we are barbarians. But when we regress from civilization to barbarism, we take with us at least one trait of civilization. The mask doesn’t fall so easily, Pandeyji; it takes time to uncover the beast within. Outwardly, a calm, gentle, harmless creature—inside, sharp claws and fangs. That is the most terrifying thing of all.”

The clock struck eight. It was a winter night, but we felt no particular urge to return home; so when Pandeyji proposed another round of tea, we did not object.

At that moment, the servant entered and announced, “Inspector Chowdhury has arrived.”

Pandeyji said, “Who—Ratikanta? Bring him in. And prepare four cups of tea.”

The servant departed. A moment later, a young man in police uniform entered. Tall and sturdy, with a ruddy complexion, sharp features, and blue eyes—at first glance, one might mistake him for a sahib. He was about thirty. He came in, raised his right hand in a salute, and stood beside Pandeyji.

Pandeyji asked, “What news, Ratikanta?”

Ratikanta replied, “Sir, there’s an invitation letter.” Saying this, he produced an envelope from his overcoat pocket. Ratikanta’s speech was pure Hindi of northern India, not the adulterated dialect of Bihar.

Pandeyji smiled and said, “What’s the invitation for? Your wedding, perhaps?”

Ratikanta made a woeful face and replied, “Who would marry me, sir? It’s an invitation from Dipanarayan Singh.”

As Pandeyji opened the envelope, he said, “But why did you bring Dipanarayan Singh’s invitation?”

Ratikanta, with a playful, embarrassed smile, said, “What can I do, sir? He’s a big man, a relative—might become a minister someday, so I have to keep up appearances. I drop by now and then to pay my respects. Went today, and he handed me all the invitation letters for the police officers to deliver.”

Pandeyji drew out a glossy card embossed in gold and read it. “Hmm, looks like a serious affair. A proper dinner. But what’s the occasion?”

Ratikanta replied, “He’s recovered after a long illness, so he’s treating his friends. He’s invited all the city’s notables.”

Pandeyji, slipping the card back into the envelope, said, “The invitation is for tomorrow night. But—”

Bahni-Patanga 513

“I won’t be able to come, Ratikanta.”

“Why, sir? Are you going out for inspection