In all the fifteen years that Byomkesh had known Rameswarbabu, I doubt whether we’d met the gentleman as many times. During the last five years or so, we had not seen him at all. But twice a year, the gentleman took it upon himself to send reminders that he had not forgotten us. On the annual occasions of the Bengali New Year and then Dussehra, the gentleman sent Byomkesh a missive by post.

Rameswarbabu was a wealthy man. He owned no less than eight houses in the city and his cash reserves were just as abundant. The lion’s share of the rent collected from those houses enhanced his accumulated wealth. His immediate family comprised his second wife, Kumudini, and his offspring from his first marriage: son Kusheswar and daughter Nalini. But most of all, he had an unlimited fund of humour.

Rameswarbabu was a witty man. He loved a good laugh and enjoyed making others laugh too. In my experience of life and people, I had discovered a natural law: Those who were humorous by nature, seldom succeeded in acquiring wealth. In fact, Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, only smiled upon the dour owl, her chosen mount. Rameswarbabu had turned this theory of mine on its head. At least, I was now aware that there were exceptions to the rule.

Rameswarbabu’s other great virtue was that once he got to know someone really well, he never let that person slip out of his mind. He had met Byomkesh in connection with a trifling matter—a minor theft that had taken place in his home. The incident had ended on a comic note, but he had fondly remembered Byomkesh ever since. On a few occasions, we had even been invited to his home for meals. He was a great deal older than us and, lately, his health had begun to deteriorate. But it was clear from his biannual missives that his sense of humour had remained intact.

I shall give an account today of Rameswarbabu’s final practical joke. The incident took place some years ago. At the time, no law was in force, granting a daughter equal inheritance rights to her father’s property.

It happened to be the day the Bengali New Year is celebrated. Rameswarbabu’s letter had arrived in the post that afternoon. The envelope in which it had been dispatched was a thick one, made of parchment. A neat hand had written the name and the address on it. A smile hovered on Byomkesh’s lips even as he picked it up. I had noticed that the very thought of Rameswarbabu brought a smile to people’s lips. Byomkesh’s expression was one of affection as he contemplated the envelope. ‘Ajit,’ he asked, ‘can you guess Rameswarbabu’s age?’

‘Ninety?’ I ventured.

‘Perhaps not quite as much,’ Byomkesh reflected, ‘but it must be some years since he celebrated his eightieth birthday. Yet, he’s still all there. Even his handwriting remains quite firm and legible.’

He tore open the envelope carefully and pulled out the letter. The expensive writing paper with a monogrammed letterhead was in mint condition and folded in two. There was no sign of age-related debility in the clear, rounded script. Rameswarbabu had written:

Byomkeshbabu,

My greetings to you and to Ajitbabu for the year to come. May your intelligence grow keener like the waxing moon with every passing day and may Ajitbabu’s literary style acquire the dazzling hues of the plumage on a peacock’s tail!

I must be on my way now and bid you farewell. The Lord of Death has sent his summons and very soon he’ll come to lead me away. But what are my feet there for? Before his messengers can get to me, I shall be on my way to heaven. It’s a pity, though, that the following year I shall not be present to bless you all on the occasion of the New Year.

I have already distributed my accumulated assets before the moment of parting arrives. Please ensure that my last wish is respected. I have immense faith in your intelligence.

Farewell. Please do not treat this letter of mine lightly. I shall be checking from the heavens to see that you receive the five thousand rupees.

Auf wiedersehen, Rameswar Roy

After he had finished reading the letter, Byomkesh sat back with a frown marring his features. I too read its contents. It was, perhaps, typical of Rameswarbabu to jest about his own death. But I could make no sense of what he had written towards the end of his missive. ‘My last wish …’ What last wish was he referring to now? We knew of no such wish and there was nothing in the letter to offer us a clue. Then, ‘… to see that you have got the five thousand rupees …’ Which five thousand rupees was that? Was Rameswarbabu up to a new prank or was he finally leaning towards senility?

All of a sudden, Byomkesh suggested, ‘Let’s go and visit Rameswarbabu tomorrow. One never knows where one stands in matters of life and death.’

‘Fine,’ I agreed, ‘let’s do that. Did you get a feeling from the letter that Rameswarbabu is beginning to grow senile?’

Byomkesh remained silent for a few minutes. Then he said, ‘Did Grandfather Bheeshma (à la Mahabharata) ever grow senile?’

Of late, Byomkesh had begun re-reading the Ramayana and the Mahabharata. Whenever he had time to spare, he sat with the epics. I wasn’t sure whether his preoccupation with them had anything to do with the natural inclination towards the spiritual that came with the passing years or was merely an attempt to examine and weigh the literary merits of the poems. There could have been other reasons as well. But his conversation these days occasionally gave off whiffs of the epics.

‘Is Rameswarbabu Grandfather Bheeshma?’ I asked.

‘They share some traits,’ he replied. ‘But he has more in common with Dasaratha of the Ramayana.’

‘Dasaratha did grow senile,’ I reminded him.

‘Perhaps,’ he agreed. ‘But that