Rose, I held you close to my heart In return, you tore my chest with thorns My blood has flowed in torrents Paint your face with that crimson.

Here, it is not difficult to guess who the rose is!

At that moment, Jugal cleared his throat twice and said, “Yes, I wrote it.”

Byomkesh, his voice laden with sympathy, said, “You were in love with Hena.”

Jugal sat with his head bowed for a while. Then, raising his face, he said, “Love—who knows. As long as Hena was alive, I was intoxicated—afterwards, now—”

Byomkesh said cheerfully, “The intoxication is wearing off. Good, good. Was it you who threw the rose through the window?”

“Yes.”

“Hena wasn’t in the room then?”

“No.”

“Jugalbabu, that night your brother Udaybabu accused you of killing Hena. What was the reason for that accusation?”

Jugal replied slowly, “The reason—jealousy!”

Byomkesh said, “Then Udaybabu, too, was infatuated with Hena?”

“Yes.”

The same old tale of Nishumbha and Mohini. By some twist of fate, the ending of this story has turned out differently.

Byomkesh asked, “Between the two of you, whom did Hena like more?”

Jugal was silent for a moment, then said, “Now it seems Hena didn’t like either of us.”

“Other than you two brothers, was there anyone else who was drawn to Hena? For instance—Ravivarma?”

Jugal’s head jerked up. Disbelief flashed across his face.

He said, “Ravivarma! I don’t know, I can’t say.”

Uday was sitting in his own room, oiling the strings of his tennis racket. As we approached the doorway, he glared at us from beneath his thick brows and said harshly, “What do you want now?”

Byomkesh’s face grew stern. Raising his forefinger, he said, “You brought Hena wool to knit your sweater.”

Uday replied arrogantly, “Yes, I did. What does that prove?”

Byomkesh said, “It proves you were close to her. That day, when she went up to the roof, you followed her. There, you quarreled with her and pushed her off the roof.”

Uday stood stunned, his face turning pale. He stammered in fear, “No—no! I didn’t go to the roof. I followed Hena up the stairs, but before I reached the roof, Hena bolted the door. I—I didn’t push her—I loved her, she loved me too.”

Byomkesh said coldly, “Whatever else Hena may have felt, she did not love you. She was making you dance to her tune. Come, Ajit.”

We went and sat by the round table in the middle of the hall. Glancing back, I saw Uday stand dazed for a moment, then silently close the door to his room.

MAGMAINAKE

Turning around, I saw Sreemati Chameli emerging from a room in the back row. She seemed to have just bathed; droplets of water still trickled from the ends of her wet hair, the edge of her sari hastily thrown over her head, her eyes clouded with suspicious anxiety. We rose to our feet.

In a sharp but low voice, Sreemati Chameli said to Byomkesh, “What was Uday telling you?”

Byomkesh replied, “Nothing grave, don’t be alarmed. Please sit, there are a few things I’d like to ask you.”

Sreemati Chameli did not sit; perhaps she thought her body was still impure from the bath. In a tone of displeasure, she said, “You know best why you people are harassing us. What do you want to know?”

We remained standing as the questioning continued. Byomkesh asked, “Were you once involved with the revolutionaries?”

Sreemati Chameli replied, “Yes, I was.”

Question: You do not believe in non-violence?

Answer: No, I do not.

Question: At present, you and your husband are estranged?

Answer: Everyone knows that.

Question: What is the reason for this estrangement?

Answer: There are ample reasons.

Question: Do you suspect that Hena was your husband’s mistress?

Answer: Yes. My husband’s character is not good.

Byomkesh seemed momentarily taken aback by this fearless candor. At last, changing the subject, he asked, “Are Nengti and Chingri your own nephew and niece?”

Sreemati Chameli paused for a moment; the sharpness in her reply softened a little. She said, “No, their mother was my childhood friend, we had sworn sisterhood with Ganga water. There is no blood relation.”

Question: Do they know?

Answer: No, I haven’t told them yet. I will, when the time comes.

With a smile, Byomkesh folded his hands in a namaskar and said, “Thank you. We won’t trouble you any further. We’ll take our leave.”

Sreemati Chameli fixed us with a piercing gaze as we descended to the lower floor.

Nengti accompanied us to the gate. Casting a mysterious glance at Byomkesh, he asked, “Did you understand anything?”

Byomkesh, a touch irritated, replied, “No. Did you?”

Nengti said, “Why should I need to understand? You are the satyanweshi, you will understand.”

On the footpath, Byomkesh checked his watch—“Half past ten. Come, there’s still time, let’s go pay a visit to Sreemati Sukumari.”

Sreemati Sukumari’s residence was in a genteel neighborhood of central Calcutta, not far from our own. Shops occupied the ground floor, while Sreemati Sukumari lived on the upper story.

As we climbed the stairs, the faint sound of mridangam and khanjani reached our ears, accompanied by a fluid, melting...

Byomkesh Samagra

A voice—“Radhe Shyam, Jai Radhe Shyam!”—Surely, this must be Sukumari the Vaishnavi, practicing her vocal exercises.

In answer to our knock, an elderly woman opened the door. She was round-faced, draped in a sari, steel-rimmed spectacles perched on her nose, her countenance seasoned by the experience of life. I surmised—Sukumari’s ‘Mashi’, and her business manager.

She seated us in a small room and went inside. We settled ourselves on the edge of a takht covered with a jute mat. There was no other furniture in the room, save for a single painting of Gaura-Nitai hanging on the wall.

The music from the inner room ceased. Mashi returned and led us inside. This was a much larger room, the floor carpeted. A thin, ascetic-looking Vaishnav sat cross-legged with a mridang in his lap,