Nineteen

Byomkesh shifted and sat up straight. “Putiram!” Putiram poked his head in through the door. “Bring the fire tongs.” I said, “I’ve been hearing about these tongs for a long time, but I still don’t know what they’re for. Are you going to perform a homa or something?” Byomkesh replied, “Yes, I am. These notes will be our offering to the fire.” “What do you mean?” “I mean, I’m going to burn the notes.” I cried out in anguish, “What! You’re going to burn two lakh rupees?” “Yes. These notes are black money, cursed money; they have no rightful owner. On this auspicious day, this will be our offering at the feet of Mother India.” “But—but if you burn them, will Mother India get anything? Wouldn’t it be better to give the money to our new government—” “It’s the same thing, Ajit. Even if we burn them, it’s the state that will benefit. Think about it—the notes aren’t real money, they’re just government hand-notes. If we burn the hand-notes, the government won’t have to redeem them; it’ll be two lakh rupees gained. But if we try to return them now, there’ll be all sorts of complications. The government will want to know where the money came from, and in digging for earthworms, we might unearth snakes. What’s the point? Better to offer them to the fire, where the gods will receive them. What do you say, Prabhatbabu?”

Prabhat sat staring blankly, as if his wits had deserted him. With effort, he managed to say, “I have nothing to say. Do as you think best.”

Putiram brought the fire tongs and placed them before Byomkesh. Byomkesh told him, “You can go get some sleep now.” Putiram left. Byomkesh looked at our faces and smiled. Then he began tearing pages from the book and feeding them to the fire. In a deep voice, he intoned, “Swaha, swaha, swaha—”

I could not sit and watch any longer; I got up and stood by the window. Byomkesh is my friend; I love him, I respect him. But today, I saw a new side to his character. What he did, I could never have done—burning two lakh rupees with his own hands.

Adimriphu 509

I could never have brought myself to burn the money. ‘Swaha, swaha—’ An hour later, Byomkesh and Prabhat came to stand beside me. The sun had risen, and all around, the auspicious wedding drums were beating. I turned to look back—the ring was now encircled by heaps of burnt paper ash. Black money, turned to black ash.

The three of us stood by the window for a while in silence. It was Prabhat who spoke first, his voice trembling. “Byomkesh-babu, I—about myself—if you hand me over for murder, I will not deny it.”

Byomkesh turned to him, his voice softened by compassion. “I will not hand you over. In every civilized country, there is a tradition—on festival days, prisoners are set free. Today, you too are free. We had told