Two

Byomkesh listened with closed eyes to Nonibala’s rambling, wordy tale; when she finished, he opened his eyes. Suppressing his irritation, he said as politely as possible, “Miss Ray, what can I do in such a matter? Even if your suspicions are correct, I cannot follow your son around like an armed guard. I think, under the circumstances, it would be best to go to the police.”

Nonibala replied, “I mentioned the police to Anadibabu, and he flew into a rage; he said—there’s no need to stir up trouble over this, and if you’re so afraid for your lives, go back to Patna.”

Byomkesh said, “Then what else do you suggest should be done?”

Nonibala’s voice grew tremulous, on the verge of tears. “What can I say, Byomkesh-babu? Please, find some way. I have no one but Prabhat—I'm a helpless woman—” and with that, she dabbed at her eyes with the end of her sari.

Though no one, seeing Nonibala’s appearance, would ever mistake her for a helpless woman, still, her...

Byomkesh Samagra

It must be admitted that the heart in question is that of a helpless woman. She loves her adopted son as dearly as if he were her own flesh and blood, and, fearing misfortune for him, she has become excessively anxious. Perhaps her fears are unfounded, but even so, they cannot be dismissed.

For a while, Byomkesh watched Nanibala’s tearful outpouring with a look of irritation. Suddenly, in a harsh voice, he asked, “Where do the two nephews stay?”

Nanibala lifted her hopeful eyes from the edge of her sari. “They live under the lemon tree. Are you—?”

“What’s the address? What number?”

“That I don’t know—Prabhat knows. Are you going to see them, Byomkesh Babu? If you scold them properly, they’ll be frightened—”

“If I go to scold them, they might end up scolding me instead. I just want to see them once. If I see them, I’ll be able to guess if they’re hiding something. Prabhat knows their address? What’s Prabhat’s address—meaning, your house address?”

“House number 172/2, Bowbazar Street. But there—it's better if you don’t go to the house. Anadibabu—”

“Anadibabu might not like it. Very well, then. Tell me the address of Prabhat’s shop.”

“Prabhat’s shop—I don’t know the address—but the name is Jiban-Prabhat. It’s near Gol Dighi, there’s a big signboard hanging over the door—”

Byomkesh stood up, and in a tired, dry voice said, “I understand. You may go now. If there’s any news, you’ll hear of it.”

Nanibala, perhaps a little hurt, took her leave. Byomkesh glanced up at the rafters and murmured, “How strange you are, O world, how endlessly strange your forms!”

That evening, Byomkesh was idly leafing through a Puja annual when, all at once, he tossed the magazine aside and said, “Let’s go out for a bit.”

Since the outbreak of the great war, we had stopped going out after dusk, unless absolutely necessary. I asked, “Where do you want to go?”

He replied, “In search of Jiban-Prabhat.”

We had two stout sticks ready; taking them in hand, the two of us set out. However discontented Byomkesh might be with Nanibala, her story had, in truth, piqued his interest.

Gol Dighi was not far from our lodgings. After a single circuit of the pavement, the enormous signboard caught our eye. The shop itself, however, was rather small in comparison, almost dwarfed beneath the sign. It was a room by the roadside, with a little cubicle behind. By the main door stood a squat, sharp-eyed Gurkha.

We entered the shop; the Gurkha cast us a sidelong glance but said nothing. I saw that the walls were crammed with books up to the rafters, making the room seem even narrower. On the shelves, ten or twelve copies of the same book were stacked side by side. Books from various publishers, but seemingly none from their own press. Even two or three of my own books were there.

But the shopkeeper was nowhere to be seen; there was no one at the counter.

Behind the counter, the door to the cubicle stood slightly ajar. Through the gap, as much as could be seen—

Adimriphu 439

I saw that inside, a small cot had been laid out, and upon it sat a young man, his head bowed, binding the cover of a book. Above his head, a bare electric bulb glowed; all around, papers, pieces of cardboard, pots of glue, and a fearsome-looking paper-cutting knife lay scattered. Amidst this chaos, the young man sat, utterly absorbed in his work.

Byomkesh cleared his throat a little loudly. The young man raised his head, wiped the glue from his fingers with a torn rag, and came to stand behind the counter; he asked no questions, only gazed at us with an inquiring look.

Now I observed him properly. In appearance, there was nothing to distinguish him from the countless ordinary young men of Bengal. His height was about five and a half feet, his skin a dusky, grimy brown; his face and frame a little lean. The line of a moustache above his lip had not yet filled out; his teeth were good to look at, but their shape was somehow wild, perhaps a trace of some ancient maternal blood. There was a hint of distraction in his gaze, but this was not an expression of mind—rather, a peculiarity in the structure of his eyes. His hair was somewhat rough and unkempt, showing no sign of care. He wore a loose, open-collared panjabi with sleeves rolled up. Altogether, the picture he presented was utterly commonplace and unremarkable.

Byomkesh said, "Are you Prabhat Kumar Ray, the proprietor of Jiban-Prabhat?"

The young man replied, "My name is Prabhat Haldar."

"Oh—yes—that’s right. You are Anadi Babu’s—" Byomkesh hesitated a little.

"Adopted son," Prabhat completed Byomkesh’s unfinished sentence in a detached tone, then asked Byomkesh, "And you are?"

"My name is Byomkesh Bakshi."

At last, Prabhat seemed a little more animated, studying Byomkesh, then turned his