A Killer in Kailash: Adventures of Feluda Read online

  THE ADVENTURES OF FELUDA

  A KILLER IN KAILASH

  Satyajit Ray

  Translated from the Bengali by Gopa Majumdar

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Contents

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Read more in Feluda

  Copyright

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  THE ADVENTURES OF FELUDA

  A KILLER IN KAILASH

  Satyajit Ray (1921-1992) was one of the greatest filmmakers of his time, renowned for films like Pather Panchali, Charulata, Aranyer Din Ratri and Ghare Baire. He was awarded the Oscar for Lifetime Achievement by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Science in 1992, and in the same year, was also honoured with the Bharat Ratna.

  Ray was also a writer of repute, and his short stories, novellas, poems and articles, written in Bengali, have been immensely popular ever since they first began to appear in the children’s magazine Sandesh in 1961. Among his most famous creations are the master sleuth Feluda and the scientist Professor Shonku.

  ∗

  Gopa Majumdar has translated several works from Bengali to English, the most notable of these being Ashapurna Debi’s Subarnalata and Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay’s Aparajito, for which she won the Sahitya Akademi Award in 2001. She has translated several volumes of Satyajit Ray’s short stories and all of the Feluda stories for Penguin Books India. She is currently translating Ray’s Professor Shonku stories, which are forthcoming in Puffin.

  A STOLEN YAKSHI HEAD. A PLANE CRASH. A VANDAL ON THE LOOSE IN ELLORA …

  An American buys a yakshi head stolen from a Bhubaneshwar temple and subsequently dies in a plane crash. Trying to prevent the smuggling of priceless sculptures out of India, Feluda, Topshe and Jatayu follow the lead of the yakshi to the Ellora caves. But the appearance of a Bollywood film crew and a sudden murder complicate matters, and Feluda must draw on all his investigative skills to solve the case before the vandal strikes again.

  Feluda's twelve greatest adventures are now available in special Puffin editions. This is the fifth book in the series.

  Translated from the Bengali by Gopa Majumdar

  Cover photograph by Ashish Chawla

  Cover design by Ajanta Guhathakurta

  CHAPTER 1

  It was the middle of June. I had finished my school final exams and was waiting for the results to come out. Feluda and I were supposed to have gone to a film today, but ten minutes before we were to leave, it began raining so heavily that we had to drop the idea. I was sitting in our living room, immersed in a Tintin comic (Tintin in Tibet). Feluda and I were both very fond of these comics which had mystery, adventure, and humour, all in full measure. I already had three of these. This one was new. I had promised to pass it on to Feluda when I finished it. Feluda was stretched out on the divan, reading a book called Chariots of the Gods. He had nearly finished it.

  After a while, he shut the book, placed it on his chest, and lay still, staring at the whirring ceiling fan. Then he said, ‘Do you know how many stone blocks there are in the pyramid of Giza? Two hundred thousand.’

  Why was he suddenly interested in pyramids? He went on, ‘Each block weighs nearly fifteen tonnes. From what is known of ancient engineering, the Egyptians could not have polished to perfection and placed together more than ten blocks everyday. Besides, the stone it's made of had to be brought from the other side of the Nile. A rough calculation shows that it must have taken them at least six hundred years to build that one single pyramid.’

  ‘Is that what your book says?’

  ‘Yes, but that isn't all. This book mentions many other wonders that cannot be explained by archaeologists and historians. Take our own country, for instance. There is an iron pillar at the Qutab Minar in Delhi. It is two thousand years old, but it hasn’t rusted. No one knows why. Have you heard of Easter Island? It's a small island in the South Pacific Ocean. There are huge rocks facing the sea, on which human faces were carved thousands of years ago. These rocks were dragged from the middle of the island, taken to its edge, and arranged in such a way that they were visible from the sea. Each weighs almost fifty tonnes. Who did this? How did the ancient tribal people get hold of adequate technology to do this? They didn't have things like lorries, tractors, cranes, or bulldozers.’

  Feluda stopped, then sat up and lit a Charminar. The book had clearly stirred him in a big way. ‘In Peru,’ he went on, ‘there is an area which has geometric patterns drawn on the ground. Everyone knows about these patterns, they are visible from the air, but no one can tell when and how they came to be there. It is such a big mystery that scientists do not often talk about it.’

  ‘Has the author of your book talked about it?’

  ‘Oh yes, and he's come up with a very interesting theory. According to him, creatures from a different planet came to earth more than twenty-five thousand years ago. Their technological expertise was much higher than man's. They shared their knowledge with humans, and built structures like the pyramids—which, one must admit, modern man has not been able to match despite all his technical know-how. It is only a theory, mind you, and of course it need not necessarily be true. But it makes you think, doesn't it? The weapons described in our Mahabharata bear resemblances to atomic weapons. So maybe …’

  ‘… The battle of Kurukshetra was fought by creatures from another planet?’

  Feluda opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted. Someone had braved the rain and arrived at our door, pressing the bell three times in a row. I ran and opened it. Uncle Sidhu rushed in, together with sprays of water. Then he shook his umbrella and shut it, sending more droplets flying everywhere.

  Uncle Sidhu was not really a relation. He and my father used to be neighbours many years ago. Since my father treated him like an elder brother, we called him uncle.

  ‘What a miserable day get me a cup of tea quick the best you've got,’ he said in one breath. I ran back inside, woke Srinath and told him to make three cups of tea. When I returned to the living room, Uncle Sidhu was seated on a sofa, frowning darkly and staring at a porcelain ashtray.

  ‘Why didn't you take a rickshaw? In this weather, really, you shouldn't have—’ Feluda began.

  ‘People get murdered everyday. Do you know there's a different type of murder that's much worse?’ Uncle Sidhu asked, as if Feluda hadn’t spoken at all. We remained silent, knowing that he was going to answer his own question.

  ‘I think most people would agree that our present downfall notwithstanding, we have a past of which every Indian can be justly proud,’ Uncle Sidhu went on. ‘And, today, what do we see of this glorious past? Isn't it our art, chiefly paintings and sculptures? Tell me, Felu, isn't that right?’

  ‘Of course,’ Feluda nodded.

  ‘The best examples of these—particularly sculptures—are to be found on the walls of old temples, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  Uncle Sidhu appeared to know about most things in life, but his knowledge of art was probably the deepest, for two out of his three bookcases were full of books on Indian art. But what was all this about a murder?

  He stopped for a minute to light a cheroot. Then he coughed twice, filling the whole room with smoke, and continued, ‘Several rulers in the past destroyed many of our temples. Kalapahar alone was responsible for the destruction of dozens of temples in Bengal. You knew that, didn't you? But did you know that a new Kalapahar has emerged today? I mean, now, in 1973?�
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  ‘Are you talking of people stealing statues from temples to sell them abroad?’ Feluda asked.

  ‘Exactly!’ Uncle Sidhu almost shouted in excitement. ‘Can you imagine what a huge crime it is? And it's not even done in the name of religion, it's just plain commerce. Our own art, our own heritage is making its way to wealthy Americans, but it's being done so cleverly that it's impossible to catch anyone. Do you know what I saw today? The head of a yakshi from the Raja-Rani temple in Bhubaneshwar. It was with an American tourist in the Grand Hotel.’

  ‘You don't say!’

  I had been to Bhubaneshwar when I was a child. My father had shown me the Raja-Rani temple. It was made of terracotta and its walls were covered by beautiful statues and carvings.

  Uncle Sidhu continued with his story. ‘I had a few old Rajput paintings which I had bought in Varanasi in 1934. I took those to Nagarmal to sell. I have known him for years. He has a shop in the Grand Hotel arcade. Just as I was placing my paintings on the counter, this American arrived. It seemed he had bought a few things from Nagarmal before. In his hand was something wrapped in a newspaper. It seemed heavy. Then he unwrapped it, and—oh God!—my heart jumped into my mouth. It was the head of a yakshi, made of red stone. I had seen it before, more than once. But I had seen the whole body. Now the head had been severed.

  ‘Nagarmal didn't know where it had come from, but could tell that it was genuine, not a fake. The American said he had paid two thousand dollars for it. If you added two more zeros after it, I said to myself, even then you couldn't say it was the right value. Anyway, that man went up to his room. I was so amazed that I didn't even ask him who had sold it to him. I rushed back home and consulted a few of my books just to make sure. Now I am absolutely positive it was from a statue on the wall of Raja-Rani. I don't know how it was done—possibly by bribing the chowkidar at night. Anything is possible these days. I have written to the Bhubaneshwar archaeological department and sent it by express delivery, but what good is that going to do? The damage is already done!’

  Srinath came in with the tea. Uncle Sidhu picked up a cup, took a sip, and said, ‘This has to be stopped, Felu. I am now too old to do anything myself, but you are an investigator, it is your job to find criminals. What could be worse than destroying and disfiguring our ancient art, tell me? Shouldn't these criminals be caught? I could, of course, write to newspapers and try to attract the attention of the police, but do you know what the problem is? Not everyone understands the true value of art. I mean, an old statue on a temple wall isn't the same as gold or diamonds, is it? You cannot put a market price on it.’

  Feluda was quiet all this while. Now he said, ‘Did you manage to learn the name of that American?’

  ‘Yes. I did speak to him very briefly. He gave me his card. Here it is.’ Uncle Sidhu took out a small white card from his pocket and gave it to Feluda. Saul Silverstein, it said. His address was printed below his name.

  ‘A Jew,’ Uncle Sidhu remarked. ‘Most undoubtedly very wealthy. The watch he was wearing was probably worth a thousand dollars. I had never seen such an expensive watch before.’

  ‘Did he tell you how long he's going to stay here?’

  ‘He's going to Kathmandu tomorrow morning. But if you ring him now, you might get him.’ Feluda got up and began dialling. The telephone number of the Grand Hotel was one of the many important numbers he had memorized.

  The receptionist said Mr Silverstein was not in his room. No one knew when he might be back. Feluda replaced the receiver, looking disappointed. ‘If we could get even a description of the man who sold that statue to him, we might do something about it.’

  ‘I know. That's what I should have asked him,’ Uncle Sidhu sighed, ‘but I simply couldn't think straight. He was looking at my paintings. He said he was interested in tantric art, so if I had anything to sell I should contact him. Then he gave me that card. But I honestly don't see how you'll proceed in this matter.’

  ‘Well, let's just wait and see. The press may report the theft. After all, Raja-Rani is a very famous temple in Bhubaneshwar.’

  Uncle Sidhu finished his tea and rose. ‘This has been going on for years,’ he said, collecting his umbrella. ‘So far, the target seems to have been smaller and lesser known temples. But now, whoever’s involved has become much bolder. Perhaps a group of reckless and very powerful people are behind this. Felu, if you can do something about it, the entire nation is going to appreciate it. I am positive about that.’

  Uncle Sidhu left. Feluda then spent all day trying to get hold of Saul Silverstein, but he did not return to his room. At 11 p.m., Feluda gave up. ‘If what Uncle Sidhu said is true,’ he said, frowning, ‘whoever is responsible is a criminal of the first order. What is most frustrating is that there's no way I can track him down. No way at all.’

  A way opened the very next day, in such a totally unexpected manner that, even now, my head reels when I think about it.

  CHAPTER 2

  What happened was a terrible accident. But, before I speak about it, there's something else I must mention. There was a small report in the newspaper the next day, which confirmed Uncle Sidhu’s suspicions:

  The Headless Yakshi

  The head from the statue of a yakshi has been stolen from the wall of the Raja-Rani temple in Bhubaneshwar. This temple serves as one of the best examples of old Indian architecture. The chowkidar of the temple is said to be missing. The archaeological department of Orissa has asked for a police investigation.

  I read this report aloud, and asked, ‘Would that mean the chowkidar is the thief?’

  Feluda finished squeezing out toothpaste from a tube of Forhans and placed it carefully on his toothbrush. Then he said, ‘No, I don't think stealing the head was just the chowkidar's idea. A poor man like him would not have the nerve. Someone else is responsible, someone big enough and strong enough to think he is never going to be caught. Presumably, he—or they—simply paid the chowkidar to get him out of the way for a few days.’

  Uncle Sidhu must have seen the report too. He would probably turn up at our house again to tell us proudly that he was right.

  He did arrive, but not before half past ten. Today being Thursday, our area had been hit by its regular power cut since 9 a.m. Feluda and I were sitting in our living room, staring occasionally at the overcast sky, when someone knocked loudly at the door. Uncle Sidhu rushed in a minute later, demanding a cup of tea once more. Feluda began talking of the headless yakshi, but was told to shut up.

  ‘That's stale news, young man,’ Uncle Sidhu barked. ‘Did you hear the last news bulletin?’

  ‘No, I'm afraid not. Our radio is not working. Today is …’

  ‘I know, it's Thursday, and you've got a long power cut. That is why, Felu, I keep asking you to buy a transistor. Anyway, I came as soon as I heard. You'll never believe this. That flight to Kathmandu crashed, not far from Calcutta. It took off at seven-thirty, but crashed only fifteen minutes later. There was a storm, so perhaps it was trying to come back. There were fifty-eight passengers. All of them died, including Saul Silverstein. Yes, his name was mentioned on the radio.’

  For a few moments, neither of us could speak. Then Feluda said, ‘Where did it crash? Did they mention the place?’

  ‘Yes, near a village called Sidikpur, on the way to Hasnabad. Felu, I had been praying very hard for that statue not to leave the country. Who knew my prayer would be answered through such a terrible tragedy?’

  Feluda glanced at his watch. Was he thinking of going to Sidikpur?

  Uncle Sidhu looked at him sharply. ‘I know what you’re thinking. There must have been an explosion and everything the plane contained must have been scattered over miles. Suppose, among the belongings of the passengers, there is—?’

  Feluda decided in two minutes that he'd take a taxi and go to Sidikpur to look for the head of the yakshi. The crash had occurred three hours ago. It would take us an hour and a half to get there. By this time, the police and the fire brigade wou
ld have got there and started their investigation. No one could tell whether we’d succeed in our mission, but we could not miss this chance to retrieve what was lost.

  ‘Those paintings I sold to Nagarmal fetched me a tidy little sum,’ Uncle Sidhu told Feluda. ‘I would like to give you some of it. After all, you are going to get involved only because of me, aren’t you?’

  ‘No,’ Feluda replied firmly. ‘It is true that you gave me all the details. But, believe me, I wouldn't have taken any action if I didn't feel strongly about it myself. I have thought a great deal about this, and—like you—I have come to the conclusion that those who think they can sell our ancient heritage to fill their own pockets should be caught and punished severely.’

  ‘Bravo!’ Uncle Sidhu beamed. ‘Please remember one thing, Felu. Even if you don't need any money, you may need information on art and sculpture. I can always help you with that.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Thank you.’

  We decided that if we could find what we were looking for, we would take it straight to the office of the Archaeological Survey of India. The thief might still be at large, but at least the stolen object would go back to the authorities.

  We quickly got ready, and got into a yellow taxi. It was 10.55 a.m. when we set off. ‘I've no idea how long this is going to take,’ Feluda said. ‘We can stop for lunch at a dhaba on Jessore Road on our way back.’

  This pleased me no end. The food in dhabas—which were usually frequented by lorry drivers—was always delicious. Roti, daal, meat curry … my mouth began to water. Feluda could eat anything anywhere. I tried to follow his example.

  There was a shower as soon as we left the main city and reached VIP Road. But the sun came out as we got close to Barasat. Hasnabad was forty miles from Calcutta. ‘If the road wasn’t wet and slippery, I could have got there in an hour,’ said our driver. ‘There's been a plane crash there, sir, did you know? I heard about it on the radio.’