TWO

The following evening, around seven, Pandeyji arrived and bundled us into his car, taking us to Dipnarayan Singh’s house.

Dipnarayan Singh’s residence was in the old quarter of the city—a sprawling, two-storied house from a bygone era, surrounded by high walls like a prison. When we arrived, we saw the house and garden aglow with Japanese lanterns, the faint strains of a shehnai drifting through the air, and a crowd of guests already assembled.

The main gathering was in the large hall on the ground floor, though guests were seated in the surrounding rooms as well. In one room, a bridge adda was underway; in another, elderly, official-looking guests had formed their own exclusive circle and were deep in conversation. Liveried servants, their uniforms adorned with badges, circulated with trays of tea, coffee, and stronger drinks.

The hall itself was vast, furnished in the English style with sofa sets arranged here and there. Each sofa set hosted its own little group. In the center of the room, facing the main door, was a divan-like seat. Reclining against its cushions sat a middle-aged man—this was our host, Dipnarayan Singh. He wore a long, warm coat and a woolen scarf around his neck. His features were pleasant; at fifty, he had not yet succumbed to the stiffness of age, though the pallor and gauntness of his face suggested he was only recently recovering from a long illness. With utmost courtesy, he rose and shook our hands in both of his.

Bohni - Patanga 515

Pandeyji said, “Congratulations on your recovery.”

Dipnarayan smiled sweetly, his face still gaunt. “Many thanks. I had no hope of surviving, Pandeyji. If it weren’t for Dr. Palit, I wouldn’t have made it this time.” He gestured toward a corner of the room.

In the corner, seated alone on a sofa, was a gentleman in coat and trousers—of medium build, his attire lacking any particular elegance, about fifty years old by estimate. Noticing the gesture, he came over and stood before us. Introductions were made. Dipnarayan Singh said, “It is thanks to him that I have been granted a new lease on life.”

Dr. Palit seemed a little embarrassed. He was a man of grave disposition. After a brief silence, he said, “I did nothing more than what is required of a doctor. Besides, though I treated him, all the eminent doctors of the city examined him as well. Mr. Tridib—”

Pandeyji asked, “What was the illness?”

From the symptoms Dr. Palit described, in the manner of Western medical science, I gathered that a variety of malignant germs had conspired with the liver to cause anemia and were on the verge of injuring the heart. It had taken injections and other infernal treatments to bring them under control. Now, of course, the patient’s condition was much improved, though he still required careful monitoring.

At that moment, a sound like someone blowing his nose startled us from behind. Turning, I saw a young man standing there, making a