The Mystery of the Fort

Part One

When I had accompanied Byomkesh to that town in the Santhal Parganas for a change of air to restore his health, I had not imagined that, within a year, we would be compelled to return there once more. This time, however, it was not in pursuit of health, but in search of the new quarry that Purandar Pandey Mahashay had brought to our notice. It was for this very investigation that Byomkesh and I set out together.

During our first visit to this town, I had become acquainted with several Bengalis residing there. Yet, no one had mentioned that, beyond the town’s limits, there lived a wealthy Bengali family. It is this very family around whom this strange tale revolves. Therefore, it is fitting to begin with their story. Of course, I did not learn everything at once; rather, I gathered fragments from the lips of various people. For the reader’s convenience, I have arranged these scattered accounts in a continuous narrative at the outset.

To the south of the town—that is, in the direction opposite the railway junction—runs a road stretching nearly six miles. This road is very old, dating back to the days of the Bardahi era. It is paved with large, sturdy stones; grass and weeds have sprung up between the gaps, yet it is still possible to drive a motorcar along it. The rugged, stony terrain on either side seems to hesitate before encroaching, allowing the road to maintain its hard, unyielding presence.

Where the winding path finally ends, there stand side by side two small hillocks. The description of Kalidasa comes to mind: "In the midst, dark as the space between two breasts." They are not very tall, but there is a deep cleft between the two peaks. Even without Kalidasa’s simile, the sight is captivating.

The hilltops are not barren. Atop one stands the crumbling ruin of an ancient fort; on the other, a whitewashed house of modern construction. Both the house and the fort belong to Shri Ramkishore Singh, who lives here with his family.

At this point, some introduction to the ancient fort and its modern owner is necessary. During the reign of Nawab Alivardi, a certain Janakirām, a Dakshin Rarhi Kayastha, became a particular favorite of the Nawab. He was granted the title of Raja Janakirām, and for some time governed the province of Bihar, amassing great wealth and property. But the country was entering a time of crisis; after Aurangzeb’s death, the Mughal empire was crumbling; the relentless Maratha raiders repeatedly ravaged Bengal and Bihar, leaving devastation in their wake; the English traders, shedding their mercantile guise, were reaching for the sceptre of power. The land was rife with unrest; neither king nor subject, rich nor poor, found peace of mind. Raja Janakirām was a man of keen intelligence; he had a small fort built amid these secluded hills, and there he secured his vast fortune and his family.

In the great flood of political upheaval, much was swept away. But Janakirām’s secluded fort remained safe. His descendants continued to reside here, generation after generation. Another hundred years passed after the Battle of Plassey.

Durgar Hashya 283

Under the rule of the Company, the land had grown somewhat quiet. In Janakirama’s fortress, his fourth and fifth generation descendants still resided—Rajarama and his son Jayarama. Rajarama was an elderly man, his son Jayarama a youth. The household ran smoothly on the income from ancestral wealth and the surrounding zamindari. The accumulated fortune had not diminished over these generations; rather, it had increased. The descendants of Janakirama had a habit: as soon as money came into their hands, they would convert it into gold and keep it safe. In this way, piles of mohurs, asharfis, and ornaments had been hoarded. No one harbored any ill intent. In this wilderness, where was there room for luxury or vice?

Suddenly, the country was set ablaze. The fire of the Sepoy Mutiny was not confined to the cities; like a wild beast, it spread into the forests and jungles as well.

Rajarama, head of the household, grew anxious. Looting and plunder everywhere—at some places, the English sepoys were looting, at others, the rebel sepoys. Rajarama received word that a band of sepoys was approaching. He prepared to safeguard his property.

But how was he to protect it? The century-old fortress could not withstand an assault by well-trained, firearm-wielding enemies. The crumbling gateway of the fort would be blown away by a single cannon shot. There was, it is true, a large cannon in the fort, but after years of disuse it had rusted and become useless; the iron hatch at its base was so jammed it could not be opened. As for the few muskets they possessed, they sufficed for hunting deer in the jungle or chasing off thieves, but were utterly inadequate to hold off a band of plundering sepoys.

After consulting with his worthy son, Rajarama arranged to relocate the women and children of the family. A few krosh from the fort, deep in the jungle, lay a Santhal village; his wife, daughters-in-law, and two or three grandchildren were sent there. All the servants and staff went with them; only Rajarama and his son Jayarama remained in the fort. At parting, Rajarama tied a few mohurs into the edge of his wife’s sari. He dared not give more—who knew if, tempted by too much gold, their own people might betray them? After their departure, father and son set about hiding the accumulated gold.

Three days later, a band of sepoys under the command of a firangi officer arrived. It seems Rajarama had intended, after hiding the gold and jewels, to disappear from the fort with his son; but they could not escape. The sepoys appeared suddenly and entered the fort without resistance.

What happened within the fort thereafter, no one knows. Two days later, the sepoys departed. But Rajarama and Jayarama were never seen in this