Thirteen

It was late afternoon when Putiram brought in the tea. I noticed his face looked drawn and pained.

I asked, “What’s wrong, Putiram?”

He replied, “The pain from my acidity has started again, Babu.”

Byomkesh said, “I’ll give you some medicine. Go lie down, you don’t have to cook for us this evening.”

For some days now, Putiram had been suffering from gastritis; pure gravel and tamarind seed powder no longer agreed with him. Byomkesh gave him a dose of ajwain water and, returning, I said, “Let’s send word downstairs and have our meal at the mess today.”

Byomkesh thought for a moment and said, “No, let’s eat out at a hotel tonight. Five hundred rupees came into our hands today—it’s only right that a barbarian’s wealth be squandered.”

I couldn’t agree with his lightheartedness. “Byomkesh, don’t mind me. When you realized that five hundred rupees was a bribe, was it right for you to take it?”

Byomkesh replied, “I could offer you many arguments in response, but I won’t. I needed the money, so I took it. I can’t chase wild buffaloes while starving at home.”

“But suppose—suppose in the end we find out that Nimai and Nitai are the murderers. What then? Will you hush it up because you took a bribe?”

“No, I won’t hush it up. I’ll hand them over myself—if the police want to catch them, that is. Remember, they paid me to investigate Anadi Haldar’s murder, not as a bribe.”

“If that’s so, then it’s a different matter.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t commit a sin for a bribe. If I intended to do wrong, I wouldn’t have settled for five hundred—I’d have made sure my own interests were well served.” Byomkesh smiled as he spoke.

I finished my tea and lit a cigarette. I was thinking perhaps there would be no more visitors this evening, when Prabhat arrived. He carried a bundle in his hand; his appearance betrayed that he was only recently recovered from illness—the signs of weakness still lingered in his eyes.

Byomkesh said, “Come in. How are you feeling now?”

Prabhat smiled shyly. “I’m well. I troubled you a lot the other day.”

“It was nothing. What’s that in your hand?”

“A little sweet. I was passing by Bheem Nag’s shop and thought I’d bring something.”

When he opened the bundle, we saw it was no small amount—a good twenty or twenty-five rupees’ worth of dense, syrupy sandesh. The other day, Byomkesh had helped him, refusing to take any fee for the doctor or the car fare, so Prabhat was now trying, with utmost politeness, to return the favor. Byomkesh exclaimed with delight, “Ah, this is heavenly! Ajit, can you guess whose face I saw first this morning?”

Adimriphu 485

I said, “As far as I recall, you saw my face, and I saw yours.”

“Then you understand—our faces are not ordinary.” He paused. “Anyway, it’s best to put the food away. It’s not wise to leave things out.” Byomkesh took the sandesh inside and, returning, asked, “Prabhatbabu, will you have some tea?”

“No, thank you, I’ve already had tea.” He glanced around the room. “Only you two live here, I suppose?”

Byomkesh replied, “The two present are the only ones here. My wife and son are in Patna at the moment.”

Prabhat’s eyes seemed to dance—“In Patna!”

Byomkesh said, “Yes, with all the commotion here, I’ve kept them away. You still haven’t forgotten Patna, have you?”

“Forget Patna!” Prabhat’s voice grew deep. “I’ve spent my whole life there. So many friends. Ishaq Saheb is there.”

“Ishaq Saheb?”

“My master. I used to work in his shop—he taught me the clerk’s trade, guided me by the hand. There’s no one like him, a man like a god. He’s old now… who knows who works in his shop these days… perhaps he works alone.” Prabhat sighed.

Byomkesh asked, “Which para in Patna does he live in?”

“He lives in the city. Everyone there knows him. I haven’t been that way since I left Patna. Byomkeshbabu, you go to Patna from time to time, don’t you? Next time you go, will you visit Ishaq Saheb? See how he’s doing—I long to see him.”

“I’ll certainly visit him. And what news from this side? How is Kestobabu?”

Prabhat said, “Kestobabu has left.”

“He’s left?”

“Yes. He couldn’t get along in my house. He and my mother quarreled day and night. Then, one day, he left on his own.”

“Well, that’s one burden off your shoulders. And Nripenbabu? Does he work in your shop now?”

“Yes.”

“What does he do?”

“There’s a lot of running around in a bookshop. You have to fetch books from other shops, go to the post office to send V.P. parcels. I used to do all that myself. Now Nripenbabu does it.”

“Good.”

Prabhat had been speaking with Byomkesh all this while, occasionally glancing at me; now he turned fully towards me and said, “Ajitbabu, perhaps you remember I said I would come to see you. I couldn’t, with all this trouble. I have a request.”

“What request? Tell me.”

“You must give me one of your novels. I’m a poor publisher, just started a new shop. Still, I’ll pay you what any other publisher would.”

Byomkesh Samagra

There is always a risk in giving your book to a new publisher; you never know when the red light will flash. Once, I was cheated by an unknown publisher. I hesitated and said, “Well, at the moment, I have nothing on hand—”

Byomkesh said, “Why not give him the novel you’re working on? Prabhatbabu, don’t worry, you’ll get Ajit’s book.”

Prabhat, encouraged, replied, “You can give it to me when your book is finished. Right now, my shop isn’t doing well; selling other people’s books on commission brings hardly any profit. If I have your blessings, I’ll expand my shop; I’ll work with all my might, I won’t let it go to waste.”

Byomkesh said, “That’s what I want to