Ten

At five o’clock, the two of us set out.

Putiram had been briefed. On the table in the sitting room, a bottle, corkscrew, and glass had been arranged. At a knock on the outer door, Putiram would appear and open it, and with a face like a startled bhetki fish, he’d say, “Come in, babu, the masters have stepped out, they’ll be back soon.” He’d seat the bhetki-faced guest at the table, bring him a plate of fried eggs, and then vanish himself. After that—

Stepping onto the footpath, I asked, “Where are we headed?”

Byomkesh smiled and said, “No fixed destination. Kesto Das will come, polish off the bottle, and then we’ll return.”

“I see. But what shall we do until then?”

“Until then, let’s take the air at Gol Dighi.”

We went to Gol Dighi and began to circle it. Not much conversation passed between us; at one point, Byomkesh remarked, “Kesto Das didn’t drop the key in the alley.”

After a while, I noticed a crowd entering the University Institute—there must be some event. We’d grown weary from our aimless wandering, so I said to Byomkesh, “Come on, let’s see what’s happening there.”

Byomkesh agreed, “Let’s go. Probably a memorial gathering for some famous person.”

As we entered the University Institute, we ran into Indubabu. He was from the cinema world, and a musician as well—he’d come to attend the event. Byomkesh’s guess was correct: the film fraternity was mourning the death of one of their stalwarts with music and dance. I introduced Byomkesh to Indubabu. He took us to a row near the front and seated us, then sat down beside us himself.

On stage, I recognized a few familiar faces from the theatre, and some I didn’t know. The chairman was an elderly, silver-haired actor.

Among those on stage, one woman’s face drew my particular attention. Unfamiliar, not beautiful, but striking. Not slender, but full-figured; her complexion could be called fair, and a mass of hair tumbled in curls at her neck. What is called sexual allure—this young woman possessed it in abundance. A burly young man sat pressed close beside her, occasionally leaning in to whisper in her ear.

Adimriphu 473

The song that was playing came to an end. The president, holding a slip of paper, stood up and announced, “Now Kumari Shiuli Majumdar will sing—Kotha Jao Phire Chao Durer Pathik.”

The young woman I had been observing was indeed named Shiuli Majumdar. With a composed, measured step, she came forward and took her seat. The burly young man sat beside her with his tabla. The song began. Her voice was sweet, rounded, bewitchingly melodious. I closed my eyes and listened. Then, jolted by Byomkesh’s elbow, my reverie was broken. Byomkesh whispered in my ear, “Hey, look to your left.”

I turned my gaze cautiously to the left. Except for a few empty chairs, Prabhat was sitting in the front row. His face bore an absorbed, meditative expression, his unwavering gaze fixed on the singer. Prabhat, it seemed, had not noticed us; had he done so, he could not have appeared so engrossed. I turned to glance at Byomkesh—he was listening to the song with a faint, crooked smile on his lips.

A flash of lightning seemed to streak through my mind. Shiuli Majumdar—the very woman Prabhat had wished to marry—was this her?...

Shiuli Majumdar’s song ended. After that, a few others performed. I noticed that once Shiuli’s song was over, Prabhat quietly slipped out.

Before the gathering concluded, we too rose to leave. Indubabu accompanied us to the door. Byomkesh asked him, “That girl named Shiuli Majumdar—she sings beautifully! Is she from the movies?”

Indubabu replied, “No, not yet. But now that she’s got Gadananda, it won’t be long.”

“Gadananda?”

“The man who was playing the tabla. He’s a film agent. His profession is to teach music to girls from respectable families, but if he finds a suitable one, he drags her into the movies.”

“Is that so! Is his real name Gadananda?”

“His name is Jagadananda. In the film world, everyone calls him Gadananda. He’s ruined many a girl.”

“Do you know Shiuli’s father’s name?”

“I think I heard it—yes, Dayalhari Majumdar. Recently arrived from East Bengal.”

We returned home at seven o’clock.

The door was ajar; entering, we found Kestobabu kneeling on the takhtposh, his right index finger transformed into a gun, aiming steadily at the corner of the room. The liquor bottle lay on its side, empty. Kestobabu did not notice our arrival; he fired at the upper corner of the room—“Gudum—Phiss.”

Of course, he made the sound with his mouth.

Byomkesh asked, “Kestobabu, what’s going on?”

Kestobabu replied, “Shh, the bird will fly away. —Gudum—Phiss.”

Byomkesh burst out laughing, “Oh, you’re hunting birds. So, how many have you bagged?”

Kestobabu lowered his gun-hand and replied matter-of-factly, “I’ve shot three hotel doves.” A faint smile of satisfaction played on his slack face.

Byomkesh said, “Very good, very good. But why ‘Gudum—Phiss’? I understand ‘Gudum’ for the gunshot, but what’s ‘Phiss’?”

Kestobabu replied, “Don’t you get it? ‘Gudum’ is the sound of the gun, and ‘Phiss’ is the bird’s soul leaving its body.”

Byomkesh Samagra

Kestobabu lay down to rest. I saw that he had soon fallen asleep. After about an hour and a half, I woke him, and after he finished his meal, we returned to the takhtposh and sat down again. Kestobabu seemed much calmer now, the excitement for bird hunting had left him. Byomkesh offered Kestobabu a cigarette, lighting it for him. As he exhaled smoke, he said, “Kestobabu, looking at you, I’d say you must have been quite a strapping young man in your day.” Kestobabu shook his head with a rueful smile. “What a body I had, Byomkeshbabu, you wouldn’t believe it if you hadn’t seen. Broad chest, arms like clubs; I could finish off an entire goat by myself. People used to call me—Bheem Kesto.” “You must have been quite the brawler? Beat