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 you we would buy your shop—if you wish to sell and leave, we will take it. Or, if you want to sell us half and become our partner, we have no objection to that either.”

Prabhat broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. At last, wiping his eyes, he said, “Byomkesh-babu, this is beyond anything I could have imagined.”

Byomkesh replied, “The times we live in are themselves beyond imagination. Who could have dreamt that we would live to see India’s independence? But let that be. You have escaped the death penalty, but you will not be entirely free. Some punishment you must still bear. In this world, the fruits of action cannot be wholly escaped.”

Prabhat said, “Tell me what punishment, whatever you decree, I will accept with bowed head.”

Byomkesh said, “You must learn your own identity.”

Prabhat’s eyes widened—“My own identity!”

“Yes. Do you know who you are?—Your father’s name?”

Prabhat shook his head. “No. My mother told me I was born in a hospital. I know nothing more.”

“I know. Your father’s name was Anadi Halder.”

I will not attempt to describe Prabhat’s reaction to this revelation, for I myself was dumbfounded. At last, regaining my composure, I said, “Byomkesh! What are you saying? Do you have any proof?”

Byomkesh replied, “Of course. The proof is on Prabhat-babu’s own body.”

“On his body!”

“Yes. Prabhat-babu has a red birthmark on his waist, like a half-rupee coin. Prabhat-babu, may I see it?”

Like an automaton, Prabhat lifted his shirt. Near the seam of his garment on the right, the birthmark was visible.

Byomkesh said to me, “You remember where you’ve seen one exactly like this before, don’t you?”

I did remember. When Byomkesh had been fastening the key to the waist of the dead Anadi Halder, he had shown it to me. Yet my amazement did not abate; overwhelmed, I asked, “But how did you know that Prabhat-babu had such a birthmark on his waist?”

“The day I took Prabhat-babu to Dr. Talukdar, I asked the doctor to examine his waist.”

Still, my mind was not at ease. I said, “But can this really be called proof?”

Byomkesh replied, “If you refuse to call it proof, then call it a reasonable inference, a legitimate—”

Byomkesh Samagra

Inference must be drawn. Why did Anadi Halder suddenly go to Patna? Why did he want to adopt the office assistant as his foster son? What need was there to give Prabhatbabu five thousand rupees to set up a shop? Consider all these together, and you will have no doubts left.”

Prabhat, staggering, went and collapsed onto the armchair, lying there for a long while with his face buried in his hands.

I began to reflect—the pieces were indeed falling into place. Prabhat, born of Anadi Halder, raised by Nanibala. Having earned a fortune in the black market, he had secretly gone to see his son. When he saw the boy working as a clerk, perhaps that was when the idea struck him—to bind