Sixteen

Poet Hemchandra once wrote, ‘Dawn breaks on the thirty-first night of August.’ How many years have passed since then; not a soul remains alive who remembers that first day of municipal self-rule. Now, another August night has dawned. Once again, there are celebrations in every home, once again, the tenants and the widows and the courtesans make merry in their quarters. Only now, the stage is broader, stretching from the seas to the Himalayas, across all of Bharatvarsha.

That morning, as I awoke, I sat down to ponder. Now that India is free, how much credit do I deserve? I didn’t even wave a flag to help. (Byomkesh had gone to Delhi and worked for seven months.) There are hundreds of thousands like me who did nothing, yet will enjoy the fruits of freedom. One man pulls the boat’s rope, ten cross the river. If this is the way of the world, then where is the connection between action and its reward?

I shared my spiritual dilemma with Byomkesh. He said, “We’ve gained freedom through others’ efforts, but we must make it meaningful through our own. The work isn’t finished yet.”

At half past nine, Byomkesh said, “Come, let’s go. We’ll stop by Prabhat’s house, then head to his shop.”

I asked, “Why do we need to go to Prabhat’s house?”

Byomkesh smiled faintly and said, “I have a strong desire to see Nanibala Devi.”

On the ground floor of the Bowbazar house, the inevitable Shasthibabu sat enthroned, hookah in hand. At the sight of us, he started and removed the pipe from his lips. Byomkesh asked in his sweetest voice, “No more trouble with the upstairs folks these days, I hope?”

Shasthibabu looked at us with anxious eyes and replied, “No—well—no, there’s never been any trouble on my part. I’m an old man, I keep to myself, don’t meddle in anyone’s affairs—”

Byomkesh smiled. We climbed the stairs.

A maid opened the door for us. Seeing two unfamiliar men, she stepped aside, and we entered. The room that once contained nothing but a hard wooden bench was now furnished with several comfortable chairs; a Ravi Varma painting adorned the wall. Nanibala Devi sat in a large chair, spectacles perched on her nose, perusing a well-known English weekly magazine; a pencil in her hand.

Nanibala Devi’s attire was striking. Over a glossy jute sari, she wore a blouse embroidered with vines and leaves. Both arms were adorned with thick bangles and bracelets—gold, perhaps, though gilt was not out of the question. Her face bore the dignified gravity of a householder. There could be no doubt that Nanibala, freed from the shadow of Anadi Halder, had reclaimed her true self.

Nanibala seemed a little flustered at the sight of us, but then she closed the harmonium lid and greeted us, “Come in, come in. How are you?—Chinibas, bring two cups of tea. Byomkeshbabu, a little sweet for you—?”

“No, no, nothing for us. We came looking for Prabhatbabu.”

“Prabhat? He left for the shop at eight. —Won’t you sit for a while?”

We sat, barely touching the edge of the chairs. Not just the maid, but a servant named Chinibas was present as well; perhaps even a cook had been hired. Such sudden prosperity is rarely seen unless Jupiter’s favor is at its peak.

Byomkesh asked, “What are you working on?”

Nanibala replied, “Breaking the crossword puzzle. You know, I won the first prize—twenty-one thousand rupees.” The notes of the harmonium seemed to echo in her voice.

So the jewelry wasn’t gilt after all. We, too, had tried our hand at solving crosswords for a while, but luck was not on our side; we never managed to crack the puzzles.

Offering his congratulations, Byomkesh said, “Then we’ll take our leave for today. Has Nripenbabu gone to the shop?”

Nanibala replied in a displeased tone, “No. I don’t know what’s come over him since yesterday—he’s locked himself in his room. Who knows what he’s up to, not even eating properly, not going to the shop—can’t rely on him anymore.”

We took our leave. As we walked down the street, Byomkesh said, “I don’t think Nanibala knows that Prabhat is selling the shop.”

Arriving in front of the shop, Byomkesh glanced around and then said, “You go on inside. I’ll be along. There’s a nail in my shoe.”

Across the street, pressed against the wall of Goldighi, a young cobbler sat with his tools. Byomkesh went over to him to have his shoe repaired. I entered the shop.

Prabhat was shuffling through the account books. He looked up and said, “Ah! Byomkeshbabu didn’t come?”

Adimriphu 497

“He’s coming. Have you finished the calculations?” “Yes. Here, take a look.” I sat down to examine the accounts. After a while, Byomkesh joined us; by the time we finished checking the figures, it was already afternoon. We rose. Byomkesh said, “We’ll pay three thousand rupees. Tomorrow morning at eight you’ll receive the cheque, and you must hand over possession immediately.” “Yes, sir.”

That afternoon, Byomkesh said, “Why don’t you telephone Indubabu, see if there’s any recent news of Gadananda?” I said, “But Gadananda has run away—how would Indubabu know where to find him?” Byomkesh replied, “Gadananda has eloped with Shiuli, but he isn’t a fugitive. Shiuli is of age; if she’s left her father’s house with someone, it’s not a criminal matter. Most likely, Gadananda has taken her to his own home.” “All right, let me see—” I called Indubabu. Hearing my question, he said, “Of course I know about Gadananda. The whole cinema world is abuzz with him right now. Didn’t I mention it to you the other day? Gadananda ran off with Shiuli, then married her at the Registry Office. That makes it three times for Gadananda.” “Three times! Three times what?” “Three marriages.” “You don’t say—he had two other wives?” “Not anymore. The first wife was very beautiful, but she didn’t do well in cinema; her looks didn’t come out well on