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