Magnamainak

Fifteen years have passed since we gained independence. According to the ancient laws of India, our Goddess of Liberty has now come of age; the time has come to cast aside our escapist tendencies and face the hard truth. Therefore, this story may now be told.

I begin this tale with a precocious youth named Nengti Dutta, for had it not been for him, we would never have become involved in this affair. It was Nengti who, almost by force, made his way into our home and struck up an acquaintance with Byomkesh. He was an exceedingly self-assured boy, quick of tongue and sharp of wit, perhaps seventeen or eighteen years old, though his thin and wiry frame made him appear even younger. At this age, he had already acquired considerable intelligence, yet there was a touch of childish foolishness about him as well—a curious blend of boyishness and premature cunning. At first acquaintance, he seemed rather cheeky and impudent, but we soon discovered he was not ill-natured at heart. He harbored a deep, secret admiration for Byomkesh, though from his manner of speaking, one might think he had seen through all of Byomkesh’s cleverness and fancied himself the more astute of the two.

Whenever he visited our house, he would engage Byomkesh in discussions on criminology, speaking with the air of a seasoned expert. He had long since abandoned formal studies, but was by no means ignorant. Byomkesh, amused, would indulge him with a smile. Despite the difference in their ages, a bond of affectionate banter soon developed between them.

After a few days of coming and going, Nengti suddenly reached out his hand one day and said, “Byomkesh-babu, give me a cigarette, won’t you?”

Byomkesh stared at him in astonishment, then rebuked him, “You’re just a boy, and you smoke cigarettes?”

Nengti replied, “Where would I get them to smoke? My aunt never gives me a single paisa, and now and then I steal one or two from my uncle’s tin. Besides, is it even possible to smoke at home? The moment my aunt smells smoke, she comes charging at me. Come on, give me one.”

Byomkesh handed him a cigarette, which he smoked with great care, then departed, promising to return soon.

Thereafter, whenever he visited, we had to give him a cigarette.

One day, Nengti arrived in a state of great excitement and said, “You know, Byomkesh-da, a girl has come to our house—she looks just like an English mem!”

Byomkesh, entirely unperturbed, replied, “Is that so?”

Nengti said, “Yes, I’ve never seen such a beautiful girl in my life. If you saw her, you’d be left cross-eyed.”

Byomkesh said, “In that case, I’d better not see her. Who is she?”

Nengti said, “She’s my uncle’s friend’s daughter. Used to live in East Bengal. Her parents were killed in the Hindu-Muslim riots; the girl barely escaped with her life. My uncle gave her shelter, let her stay in the house. Her situation is much like mine.”

Inwardly, I offered my respects to Nengti’s uncle, Santosh Samaddar. Though I had never met him in person, I knew of him through Nengti. He was a renowned figure; his political and business exploits were well known throughout Bangladesh. We were also familiar with his family circumstances. In fact, the story I am about to recount is a family affair of Santosh Babu himself.

What I learned about the members of this family, both before and after the incident, I shall record here in brief. It was a sudden death that brought us into contact with this prosperous household. And again, it was a sudden death that drew the final curtain on the last act of this drama. I haven’t seen Nengti in many days—but let that be.

Santosh Samaddar was a wealthy businessman, closely involved in the independence movement in the political sphere. A little way south from Chowringhee, on a side street, stood his sprawling two-storied, garden-surrounded house. Yet Santosh Babu was seldom at home; he spent his days absorbed in business matters and political meetings, returning only after dusk. Even then, on Saturday evenings he was never to be found at home; after finishing his office work, he would go to the house of a kirtan singer to listen to music, and from there, on Monday mornings, he would head straight to the office. At that time, he was about forty-eight years old.

His wife, Chameli Samaddar, was two or three years younger than he. A tall, slender, nervous woman, she had been involved with the revolutionaries in her youth. After marrying Santosh Babu, she spent several years quietly fulfilling her domestic duties and had given birth to twin sons. Gradually, however, she developed obsessive tendencies; her nature grew sharp and fault-finding. Fish and meat disappeared from the household, and apart from sharing the same roof, all other relations with her husband ceased. Thus passed the last ten or twelve years.

Their twin sons were Jugalchand and Udaychand. Twenty years old, both attended college. Though twins, the brothers were utterly different in appearance and character; Jugalchand was slim and delicate-featured, while Udaychand was burly and rough-hewn. Jugalchand was calm by temperament, good at his studies, secretly wrote poetry. Uday was arrogant and unruly, quarreled with everyone, and, defying his mother’s wishes, would go to hotels to eat chicken. Sreemati Chameli could not control him, but perhaps, in her heart, she loved him a little more than his brother.

Besides these four, three others lived in the house. First, Nengti and her younger sister Chingri. Two years ago, their parents had died together of cholera, leaving Nengti and Chingri orphans. Sreemati Chameli was not their actual maternal aunt, but she had brought them into her home; they had been there ever since. I have already introduced Nengti; Chingri was three or four years younger. She was petite, but on the whole, pretty; even at her age, she had become clever and adept at household work. Owing to