Nine

As we drove in the motorcar, the scene in Shakuntala’s bedroom floated before my eyes. It felt as though I had just witnessed a profound moment from a heart-rending drama. If Shakuntala had not fainted, and if Chandni had not entered and broken the spell—

Why did Shakuntala suddenly lose consciousness? Of course, in such circumstances, a fainting spell at any moment is not unusual, but was the intensity of her grief the only cause?

I looked at Byomkesh; he seemed lost in the depths of thought. I asked,

“Are you thinking about Shakuntala’s swoon?”

He roused himself and replied, “The swoon? No—I was thinking about the letterbox.”

In surprise, I said, “You were thinking about the letterbox!”

He said, “Yes, the letterbox at the corner of Dipnarayan’s house. It’s in a very peculiar spot. When you look at it, it seems like a plump little sepoy in a red coat, standing guard at the street corner. But that’s not what it really is.”

“What is it, then?”

“In truth, it’s the messenger of Shri Radhika.”

“I don’t follow. Stop being cryptic and speak plainly.”

But Byomkesh did not speak plainly. With a crooked smile, half to himself, he murmured, “The idea of a clandestine rendezvous is rather sweet, of course, if the woman is someone else’s wife. If it’s your own, perhaps it’s not so sweet.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, ‘Ratisukhasare gatamabhisare madana-manohara-vesham.’”

“What nonsense are you spouting!”

Byomkesh replied gravely, “It’s not nonsense, it’s from the Gita Govinda. If you want nonsense, I can oblige—the rhythm is the same. ‘Baburam the snake-charmer, where are you off to, my good man—’”

Pandeyji, driving the motorcar, burst out laughing. Disappointed, I decided to rein in my curiosity for the time being.

When we reached Pandeyji’s house, we found tea was ready. Alongside it, there were steaming hot beguni, pakora, and spicy dal fritters. Byomkesh, without a word of protest, sat down. We joined him.

After we had helped ourselves generously to the fare, Byomkesh, in a tone of deep satisfaction, said, “I hadn’t realized it before, but my soul had been yearning for these very things.”

Pandeyji smiled and said, “Now that your wait is over, tell us what you saw and heard.”

Byomkesh took a long sip from his teacup, set it down with care, drew a few foundational pulls from the hookah, and then, in a slow, thoughtful voice, said, “I saw and heard many things, but the end is not yet in sight.”

Pandeyji asked, “Still?”

Byomkesh said, “Two motives are emerging. One—money, two—the poison of passion. I can’t yet tell which outweighs the other. It’s possible the two motives have become entangled.”

I said, “Whatever the motive, who is the man?”

Byomkesh replied, a shade impatiently, “How can I say? The person who mixed the poison with the medicine could be a hired hand. The one who hired him is the one we’re after.”

Pandeyji said, “Among those we know, who could have