The city where Byomkesh and I had come to spend a week in exile could well be called a coal-town. Encircling the city, at a distance of three or four miles, lay four or so coal mines. The city itself sat at the center, like a spider in its web, as coal from all directions was gathered at the railway station and dispatched by freight trains to distant places. It was a bustling, prosperous city; wealthy businessmen had set up their haunts here, several large banks operated, and lawyers, doctors, engineers, brokers, and moneylenders abounded. The streets bustled with motors, taxis, buses, and trucks. There was a constant exchange of raw materials and ready cash. The city was ruled—by coal. Everywhere, the song of coal, the clamor of coal. The city was by no means ancient, yet it seemed as if the invisible dust of coal had cast a premature shadow of age upon its every surface.

The man who had summoned us to this city was the owner of a coal mine called Phuljhari—his name, Manish Chakraborty. For several months, his mine had been plagued by various covert disturbances. Fires breaking out deep within the mine, valuable machinery being damaged and destroyed—such accidents had occurred; even among the laborers and coolies, needless discontent had begun to brew. There was no doubt that a group of people were trying to harm him. In such circumstances, as was only natural, Manish Babu called the police. He dismissed many new workers. But nothing came of it. At last, in secret, he sent for Byomkesh.

One evening in the month of Chaitra, we arrived at Manish Babu’s residence—a spacious, two-storied house surrounded by gardens, situated in the city’s most distinguished quarter. Manish Babu had just returned from the mine and greeted us cordially. He appeared to be around fifty, a fair-complexioned and handsome man, still in robust health. The firmness of his jaw suggested a somewhat stern temperament.

After we had sat conversing for a while in the drawing room, Manish Babu said, “Byomkesh Babu, you must stay here under assumed names. You will be Gagan Babu, and Ajit Babu will be Sujit Babu. If people hear your real names, they will immediately guess your purpose here. That would not be desirable.”

Byomkesh smiled and replied, “Very well, for as long as we are here, I shall be Gagan Babu. Ajit has no objection to becoming Sujit either.”

At the doorway, a young man stood shifting uneasily, perhaps waiting for an introduction to Byomkesh. Manish Babu called out, “Phani!”

The young man entered the room eagerly. Manish Babu turned to us and said, “My son, Phanish. —Phani, you know who they are, but make sure no one else outside the house finds out.”

Thus Spake Poet Kalidas 675

Phanish said, “No, sir.”

“Then take them to the guest room. See that they have no inconvenience. —You gentlemen, please wash your hands and faces, tea is being prepared.”

The guest room adjoined the drawing room. A large chamber, with two beds. Table, chairs, and other suitable furnishings arranged neatly, with an attached bathroom. Phanish led us to the room and lingered by the door.

The boy struck me as gentle and good-natured. Handsome like his father, but his body and mind had yet to reach full maturity; a trace of boyishness still clung to his mannerisms. He seemed to be about twenty-three or twenty-four.

As we changed our clothes, a few words were exchanged; Phanish answered Byomkesh’s questions shyly. He was his father’s only son, married just a year ago. Every day he accompanied his father to the coal mine to oversee the work. I noticed that, as he replied to Byomkesh, he seemed to be trying to say something else, but hesitated and fell silent out of embarrassment.

What Phanish wished to say remained unheard, for we returned to the sitting room. In the meantime, tea and refreshments had arrived; we took our seats.

At the tea table, however, there were no women to be seen—only the four of us. Yet there were certainly at least two women in the house. It seemed Manish Babu had not entirely renounced swadeshi customs. But in this modern, cosmopolitan age, is a little seclusion such a bad thing?

Having finished our refreshments and lit our cigarettes, a large car pulled up in front of the house. From it descended a middle-aged man. He had the appearance of a gorilla, with eyes ringed in darkness, slow and cunning. If it were possible to read character from a face, I would have said this man was a great villain.

Manish Babu welcomed the newcomer warmly, brought him into the room, and introduced us. “This is Mr. Gobinda Haldar, owner of one of the local coal mines. And these are Mr. Gagan Mitra and Sujit Bandyopadhyay; my friends, visiting from Calcutta.”

Gobinda Babu surveyed us with his Saturnine gaze, then said to Manish Babu, “I came to get the news. Any more trouble at the mine?”

Manish Babu replied gravely, “There’s always trouble. Night before last, another incident. Suddenly, the pump in Number Five Pit stopped working. Luckily, the watchmen were alert, so no great harm was done. Otherwise—”

Gobinda Babu clicked his tongue. Manish Babu said, “You seem to be doing well; all the mischief is reserved for my mine. I can’t understand why these wretches have their eyes fixed on me.”

Gobinda Babu replied, “There was trouble at my mine too, about six months ago. I knew the police would be useless, so I set spies directly. Planted eight men as informers, and within eight or nine days they brought me word of who was behind the mischief. Five ringleaders—had them brought in one day and gave them a good thrashing. Didn’t have to dismiss them; they ran off on their own. Since then, everything’s been quiet.” He gave a characteristic gorilla grin.

Manish Babu said, “I set spies too, but nothing came of it. Let’s leave