Six

From the doctor’s chamber to Dipnarayan Singh’s house was a five-minute drive by motor. In those five minutes, not a word passed between us. Each of us remained deep in thought. We stopped the car outside the gate and got down. In the gateway, a constable was sitting on a stool; he sprang up and saluted Pandeyji. Byomkesh said, “Come, let’s take a look around the outside of the compound.” As I’ve mentioned before, the house was surrounded on all sides by high walls, like a jail. We walked once around the perimeter, close to the wall. In front was the main road; on both sides and at the back, mango and jackfruit orchards. In this area, mango and jackfruit orchards were plentiful, and all of them belonged to Dipnarayan. Perhaps once there had been a neighborhood here, but Dipnarayan’s ancestors had gradually acquired the entire para and turned it into fruit orchards. Now, Dipnarayan’s house was the only one left in the area. Yet there was no lack of modern, scientific conveniences; electric and telephone wires crossed over the wall and entered the house. There was even a red mailbox, standing guard at one corner of the wall like a sepoy in a red tunic. If you wanted to send a letter, you didn’t have to go far. I don’t know what Byomkesh saw as we circled the wall; there was nothing of note to my eyes. On the sides and at the back, the mango and jackfruit trees pressed right up to the wall, and along the edge of the field ran a narrow footpath. From the direction of the mailbox, if you went along the side, there was a small wicket gate—probably the servants’ entrance. Other than this, there was no other way through the side or back walls. The wicket gate was open, and we entered through it. As Byomkesh went in, he examined the door carefully. It was an old-fashioned, squat, sturdy door, with thick planks studded with heavy nails; yet for all that, the two leaves of the door had become rickety. A chain hung near the top, probably to lock the gate at night. Byomkesh’s curiosity about the wicket gate struck me as a little odd; I couldn’t quite fathom the direction of his thoughts. In any case, once inside, we saw a row of rooms built right up against the wall. These were the offices, where the zamindar’s clerks sat and did the serestha’s work. Seeing us, a man emerged from inside and

Bohni - Patanga 529

He arrived. I had seen the man last night—the manager, Gangadhar Banshi, with a turban wound around his head.

He advanced swiftly, stopping near the back door, and introductions were made.

Pandeyji said, “I’m just taking a look around the place.”

Though a question flickered in the experienced eyes of the manager, he merely said, “Very well, very well. Come, let me show you.”

Byomkesh pointed toward the back door and asked, “Tell me, is this door always left open?”

The manager looked a little uncomfortable, scratched his neck, and replied, “Eh—can’t say for sure. I think it’s kept shut at night. But why do you ask?”

Byomkesh said, “Pure curiosity.”

At this moment, a servant was seen at the back of the house. The manager raised his hand and called out to him. When the servant approached, he asked, “Bishun, is the back door kept shut at night?”

Bishun also scratched his neck. “I don’t really know, huzoor! I think the chain is put up. The chowkidar would know.”

“Call the chowkidar.” Bishun went off to fetch the chowkidar.

Byomkesh asked, “Does the chowkidar keep watch over the house at night?”

The manager replied, “Yes, sir. There’s a darwan at the main gate, and two chowkidars take turns keeping watch.”

Soon after, Bishun returned with a chowkidar in tow. The chowkidar looked like a skeleton in a palm-leaf uniform, but with his enormous mustache and sideburns, he tried to lend his gaunt face the fierce air typical of his kind. His eyes, perhaps from sleeplessness or the effects of ganja, were red as cranberries. The manager questioned him, “Gajadhar Singh, is the back door kept open at night, or is it shut?”

Gajadhar replied in a broken voice, “Sahib, sometimes it’s open, sometimes the chain is fastened.”

Byomkesh asked, “Is it ever locked?”

Gajadhar said, “No, huzoor, there used to be a lock long ago, but now it’s broken. But there’s nothing to fear—we two brothers keep such a watch that not even a mouse could sneak in.”

“Really! And how do you keep watch?”

“From ten at night, huzoor, the watch begins. From ten to two, one of us keeps guard, and from two to six, the other. There’s a bell in the gateway; when it rings, we get up and make a round, then the bell rings again and we make another round. In this way, we keep circling the house all night, sahib.”

“Then, between the ringing of the bells, if someone were to go out from inside, or come in from outside, you wouldn’t know?”

“Who would come in from outside, huzoor? Who has ten heads on his shoulders?”

“I see. You may go now.”

When Gajadhar had left, manager Gangadhar Banshi said in a tone of justification, “There’s no need for very strict security in this house; the thieves and ruffians know there’s a darwan and chowkidar here—if they’re caught, there’s no escape. Not a twig has ever been stolen.”

Byomkesh said, “I wasn’t thinking about theft. Anyway, let’s go and take a look over there.”

Afterwards, Gangadhar Banshi took us around, showing us every corner. In between, he expressed his condolences to the late master; without being asked, he tried to find out the cause of death. But we did not indulge his curiosity, instead conducting a thorough, silent inspection with deep concentration.

In front of the house was a flower garden, and behind it, a patch