Eight

On the way from Debnarayan’s quarters to Shakuntala’s, the manager Gangadhar Banshi suddenly took his leave of us. His mind, perhaps, was troubled about his son Liladhar, otherwise he would not have left us so easily. He said, "It’s time for my evening prayers, I must go now. You carry on." He went down the stairs. We entered Shakuntala Devi’s quarters. Evening darkness had begun to thicken; Ratikanta, flicking switches and lighting lamps as he went, led the way. First, a medium-sized room. In the Bengali style, a mattress spread over a low cot, a few cushioned, low chairs, in the corner a tall table with a silver vase of flowers. On the wall, a painting by Jamini Roy. Here, the family could spend the evening in adda, or seat intimate friends if they came. The room was empty. We passed through it and entered the adjoining room. This was a rather large chamber, two beds set against opposite walls. There was a big wardrobe, and on a dressing table with a mirror, several medicine bottles. It seemed this had been Dipnarayan’s bedroom. Now, both beds were covered with sujani quilts. This room too was empty. Byomkesh, in a low voice,

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He said, “This must have been Dipnarayan Babu’s bedroom. But why are there two beds?”

Ratikanta hesitated a little before replying, “When Dipnarayanji’s illness was at its worst, a nurse used to stay here at night.”

“Of course, I should have guessed.”

After that, we entered the third room and, looking around, were struck with wonder. This room was even larger, illuminated by a bluish neon light. On the back wall, three windows stood at equal intervals, and between them hung exquisitely painted, costly Egyptian carpets. On one side of the room was a fireplace, and around it, various musical instruments hung on the wall. On the other side were all sorts of painting supplies, and on the wall, a wide oil painting. The floor was covered with a thick velvet carpet, and at its center, like a princess with regal hips, lay a tanpura. It took no time to realize this was the artistic sanctuary of Shakuntala, the mistress of the house. The sight was soothing to the eyes. The difference in taste and sense of beauty between the two wings of the same house was so stark, one would not believe it without seeing for oneself.

Byomkesh’s gaze was immediately drawn to the oil painting on the wall. Without looking anywhere else, he walked up and stood before it. The painting was three feet high, five feet wide. The subject was not new: Shakuntala, clad in bark, was watering plants in the forest, while Dushyanta, hidden behind the trunk of a tree, watched her in secret. The style of the painting was good—Shakuntala’s arms and legs were not stick-thin, nor did Dushyanta resemble the villain Dushasan from a jatra troupe. The atmosphere of the painting was ancient, but the two figures were timeless. The painting filled the heart with satisfaction.

Turning my eyes to Byomkesh, I saw him absorbed in the painting. Following his example, Ratikanta and Pandeyji came and stood beside us. Byomkesh then turned to them, his voice brimming with enthusiasm, and said, “A marvelous painting. Who painted it?”

Pandeyji looked at Ratikanta, who replied hesitantly, “I think it was painted by Shakuntala Devi herself. I can’t say for certain.”

Byomkesh turned again to the painting and said, “That must be it. The Shakuntala of our time has painted the Shakuntala of another age. Do you see, Ajit, the serene simplicity on the face of the hermitage maiden Shakuntala, the enchanted longing in Dushyanta’s eyes, the vibrant greenery of the forest glade? Together, they create a rare harmony of worldly life and ascetic retreat. If only it were possible to take this painting away with me.”

I was a little surprised. Byomkesh might have an appreciation for art, but I had never seen him so moved. Seeing me staring at him, eyes wide, he collected himself; turning away from the painting, he cast his eyes around the room. Remembering Shakuntala Devi’s present condition, he said in a slightly pained voice, “This must be Shakuntala Devi’s room for music, painting… a cultivated garden… tools for forgetting—” He sighed and said, “Let’s go.”

After that, we passed through another empty room and a veranda, and arrived before Shakuntala’s bedroom. The door was ajar; when Ratikanta knocked, a middle-aged maid opened it. Ratikanta craned his neck inside and said in a hesitant voice, “We’ve come from the police to ask a few questions.”

A moment later, a muffled voice came from within, “Come in.”

We entered the room, somewhat self-conscious. Ratikanta nodded to the maid, who silently withdrew.

I shall not attempt to describe Shakuntala Devi’s bedchamber. It was the very thing that is born when impeccable taste is wedded to inexhaustible wealth. Shakuntala was seated upon the bed; as we entered, she drew a cream-colored Kashmiri shawl about her shoulders. Only her face remained uncovered. Her complexion was pale as wax, dark circles shadowed her eyes. Her hair was loose and disheveled—like dew-soaked, fallen shefali blossoms.

“Please sit,” Shakuntala lifted her weary, submissive eyes to us for a moment.

There were a few low, leather-cushioned stools in the room; Byomkesh and I dragged two of them close to the bed and sat down. Ratikanta and Pandeyji remained standing, hands resting on the bed’s edge. Byomkesh glanced at Pandeyji, silently seeking permission; Pandeyji gave a slight nod. Then, in a voice of utmost gentleness, Byomkesh addressed Shakuntala, “Forgive us for disturbing you at such a time. No one knows when calamity will strike in a man’s life, and so there is no way to be prepared beforehand. I met your husband only once, but it is clear to me what a good man he was. We assure you, whoever is responsible for his death will not escape justice.”

Shakuntala did not reply; she