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 noise through his nose as if to express disdain. His face was sharp as a jackal’s, his body clad in the latest Western fashion, his expression mocking and arrogant. Dipnarayan introduced him—“This is Dr. Jagannath Prasad, a young Bihari doctor.” Dr. Jagannath nodded at us with contempt, and from the few words he spoke, it was clear that he held nothing but scorn for senior doctors, especially if they happened to be Bengali. Had the responsibility for Dipnarayan Singh’s treatment been entrusted to him instead of to a handful of elderly Bengali doctors, he would have cured the illness in five days. Dipnarayan Singh listened to him with a wry, gentle smile. Dr. Palit, annoyed, returned to his seat. Dr. Jagannath, after a few more moments of oration, spotted a servant carrying drinks and, neighing like a horse, hurried off in that direction.

Dipnarayan Singh, in a voice tinged with both shame and resentment, said, “These are the Biharis of the new age. They have no respect for merit; under the guise of communalism, they only look out for themselves. Today, Bengalis are losing their standing in Bihar, and it is they who are to blame.”

Byomkesh said, “Perhaps the Bengalis are at fault too.”

Dipnarayan replied, “Perhaps. But the irony is, when they fall ill, when their lives hang in the balance, it is to the Bengali doctors that they run.”

This unpleasant provincial topic having arisen, we all felt a little awkward, but Pandeyji smoothed things over, changed the subject with a few words, and led us over to where Dr. Palit was seated.

Once we were settled, Dr. Palit smiled faintly and said, “What else did Horse Jagannath have to say?”

Pandeyji burst out laughing. “So his name is Horse Jagannath? Splendid name, suits him perfectly. But don’t pay any heed to their words, Doctor. Who takes them seriously anyway?”

Palit said, “But how can one not? They go about in groups, spreading their propaganda everywhere.”

BYOMKESH SAMAGRA

The clever ones may not pay them any heed, but ordinary folk listen to their every word.’

Our conversation might have continued a while longer, but suddenly it was interrupted by a strange kind of laughter from nearby. Turning my head, I saw that, not far from us, three men had settled themselves onto another sofa set. Among them, the one who was laughing so uproariously was so immense in size that he alone seemed to occupy the entire sofa. A barrel-chested, elephant-shouldered youth, with rolls of fat cascading from chin to hip in undulating waves. The bizarre laughter that issued from his throat was so peculiar, it was hard to believe that such a cacophony could emerge from a single human being—unless one witnessed it firsthand. Imagine a dozen jackals howling in unison, and, mingled with that, the wailing of several newborns snatched from their mothers—perhaps then you might begin to grasp the tumult of sound he produced.

The other two men sat silently, smirking. Curiously, the fat