Fourteen

From the time of our journey to Patna until Independence Day, the continuity of our lives was somewhat disrupted for several months. Caught up in a swirl of strange events, the thread of the Anadi Halder affair slipped from our grasp. There is no need to recount in detail all those irrelevant incidents in this narrative; I shall only give a brief sense of how those eight or nine months passed before returning to the matter at hand.

After arriving in Patna, we spent ten or twelve days in relative peace. Then, one day, we ran into Purandar Pandey. Pandeyji had been transferred to Patna about a year ago. Since the time we had come into contact with him during the Durga mystery, we had not met. Pandeyji was delighted, and we were no less pleased. Pandeyji is a harbinger of deathly mysteries. Within a day or two of meeting us, a mysterious death occurred, and in the end, it was Byomkesh who had to unravel it. Someday, I hope to tell that story.

It was not only in our small lives that strange events were gathering; all across India, a great turning point was rapidly approaching. Independence was coming—coming, wounded and bloodied, breaking through insurmountable barriers. When freedom finally arrived, perhaps the dying...

Adimriphu 489

A bloodless body will appear before us. To revive it, every Indian will have to wring out the very blood of their hearts. Yet, independence is coming; even if the straw-like, ruthless foreign ruler is split in two, it may still survive. The memory of those days, trembling between hope and fear, still sends a shiver down my spine.

One evening, while strolling on the Maidan, I ran into a childhood friend. Despite the sherwani and pyjama he wore, I recognized him at once—Fazlur Rahman, with whom I had shared a soul-deep friendship at school. We both recognized each other almost simultaneously, and, with great enthusiasm, embraced.

“Fazlu!”

“Ajit!”

After a moment, freeing myself from his arms, I stepped back and, craning my neck toward Fazlu, said, “Come on, Fazlu, draw your knife. I’m offering you my neck.”

Fazlu handed me his thick walking stick and said, “Here, take the stick—bring it down on my head. There’s nothing you people can’t do.”

Then we sat down on the grass, and I introduced Fazlu to Byomkesh. Fazlu now practiced law at the Patna High Court, a staunch Pakistani. Naturally, a fierce debate broke out; neither of us spared the other. At last, Fazlu said, “Byomkesh Babu, it’s pointless to argue with Ajit—there’s nothing in his head. But you’re an intellectual man, you tell me—whose fault is it, the Hindus’ or the Muslims’?”

Byomkesh replied, “Ash and cinders, who can weigh guilt and virtue?”

That day, we returned home late from our walk. In the days that followed, I met Fazlu several more times. He invited us to dine at his home. And then—

The frenzied, demonic dance of violence began anew. First Noakhali, then Bihar. There is no need to elaborate. Fazlu lost his life in that sacrificial fire of hatred. He was a man of truth and courage, who proclaimed his beliefs at the top of his voice; perhaps that is why he had to die. Some days later, when the air had cooled a little, we went to Patna City to look for Ishaq Saheb. He, too, was gone; only his shop remained, half-burnt. Ash and cinders—who can weigh guilt and virtue?

But let that be. Let us return to more personal, smaller matters. In the meantime, a letter had arrived from Bikash Dutta in Calcutta; Bikash had written—

“Countless salutations. I got your address from Putiram and am writing this letter. I hope you’ll return soon.

I am teaching now. Dayalhari Majumdar has a precocious eight- or nine-year-old son, whom I tutor. The salary is five rupees; I go to teach him morning and evening. The boy is a thorough rascal—never have I seen such a sly, impish little devil. He keeps track of everything going on in the house, everything that happens, everywhere.

Dayalhari Majumdar is from Dhaka; he used to work as an insurance agent and did some other things as well. Sensing the first whiff of political trouble about a year ago, he fled to Calcutta ahead of time. He has only his daughter and son with him. The man is suspicious and slippery.

The daughter, Shiuli, is quiet and seems to be a good person. From the outside, she appears scholarly, but in truth, she is not. She sings well, spends her days and nights with music. She has recorded songs for the gramophone, and also sings at gatherings for a fee. It seems the household runs on Shiuli’s earnings.”

The old man does not do any work.

You had asked me to remember two names—Anadi Haldar and Prabhat. I have not found any news of Anadi Haldar, but I have gathered some information about Prabhat. A few months ago, there was a marriage proposal between Prabhat and Shiuli, but the engagement was broken off. I could not find out why, but I suspect there is some secret behind it. Before the engagement was called off, Prabhat used to visit frequently; even after the engagement ended, he came once more. Dayalhari Majumdar insulted him and drove him away.

There is a man who visits the house often, his name is Jagadananda Adhikari. He comes under the pretext of teaching Shiuli music. The man’s intentions are not good. He wants to cultivate intimacy with her beyond the guise of music lessons.

That is all for now. I will inform you if I learn anything new. When will you return? I have given my address below.

With respects, Bikash Dutta.

There was nothing particularly new in Bikash’s letter. It merely scattered what we already knew.

Meanwhile, we had been in Patna for quite some time. We were preparing to return to Calcutta when a telegram arrived for Byomkesh from