Chowringhee Read online

  ‘Try one,’ he said.

  When I refused, he had laughed loudly. ‘Don’t like this brand, eh? Very faithful, can’t leave someone you’ve loved once!’

  At first I had thought he was a salesman for that cigarette company, but just as I was about to tell him it was no use offering such pleasures to an ascetic, he spoke again. ‘Got a case?’

  Case? It was we who accepted cases. Before I could reply, he said, ‘I’m available for any investigation, family or personal.’ After a pause, he added, ‘Any case, however complicated and mysterious, will be made as clear as daylight, as transparent as water.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have anything right now.’

  He put on his hat and got up. ‘That’s all right, that’s all right. But no one can say when or where I might be needed. If not by you, perhaps by people you know.’

  He handed me a card. it said: B. BYRON, YOUR FRIEND IN NEED. TELEPHONE:

  There was no number. Just a blank space after the word TELEPHONE. ‘I don’t have a telephone as yet,’ he said. ‘But I’m bound to in the future, so I’ve left space for the number. I’ll get it. Eventually, I’ll get it all. Not just a telephone, but also a car and a house and a large office. You have no idea what a private detective can do if he puts his mind to it. He can earn more than the chief justice.’

  Private detective! I’d only read about them. I must have devoured a thousand detective stories ever since I laid my eyes on the printed word. Had I applied the same sincerity and devotion to Jadab Chakraborty, K.P. Bose and Nesfield’s textbooks as I had to Byomkesh, Jayanta–Manik, Subrata–Kiriti, Blake–Smith and other famous detectives, I wouldn’t have been in such dire straits. But these detectives existed only in my fantasies. Never for a moment had I imagined that they could be physically present, roaming around in this mortal world—that too in this city of Calcutta.

  With great awe and reverence I had requested Byron to sit, and enquired whether he would like some tea. He agreed readily, and drained his cup in a minute. As he stood up to leave, he said, ‘Don’t forget me.’

  I felt rather depressed. Surely detectives didn’t have to go from door-to-door looking for cases! As far as I knew, it happened differently: The detective chats with his assistant over toast, omelette and a cup of tea in his south Calcutta residence, when the telephone starts ringing. A trifle irritated, he rises from his sofa to take the call. A voice, perhaps the daughter or widow of the slain raja-bahadur pleads with him, ‘You must take up the Shibgarh murder case. Don’t worry about fees, we’ll pay whatever you want.’

  Or, on a rain-soaked June evening, when a deluge descends on Calcutta, when trams and buses stop plying, when there’s no way of stepping out, a stranger clad in a dripping black raincoat bursts into the detective’s drawing room. Placing a fat cheque on the table, he starts recounting the thrilling tale of his mysterious past. unruffled, the detective emits a cloud of smoke from his Burma cigar and says, ‘You should have gone to the police.’ Whereupon the stranger jumps up, grabs the sleuth’s hand and begs him, ‘Don’t disappoint me, please.’

  And look at Byron here. He was out himself, case-hunting!

  With many unusual people frequenting the legal offices of Old Post Office Street, I had thought I’d be able to help him—and taking up a case on my request, Byron would solve the mystery and earn nationwide fame. ‘Keep in touch,’ I had said to him.

  Byron did present his varnished countenance again at Temple Chambers. This time he was carrying some life insurance papers. I was worried at first, for, despite the short time I had been here, I’d been accosted by at least two dozen agents already. Looking at those papers out of the corner of my eye, I began planning a way out. He seemed to read my mind, though, for he sat down and said, ‘Don’t worry, I won’t try to sell you a policy.’

  My face reddened in embarrassment. Without giving me a chance to answer, he said, ‘A detective has to be a chameleon. One of my disguises is of an insurance agent.’

  I had ordered a cup of tea for him, which he’d drained, and left.

  I’d felt rather sorry for him—I really would have loved to be of use. If only wishes were horses... But I couldn’t get hold of anything for him. I told Chhoka-da, ‘If you have an enquiry to be conducted, why don’t you give it to Byron?’

  Chhoka-da said, ‘You don’t seem to be up to any good, young lad. Why are you rooting for that Anglo? Be very careful. Many a young man has gone to ruin under the influence of these Eliot Road types.’

  I did not heed his advice. To Byron I’d said, ‘I feel bad. You take the trouble to visit me but I can’t find an assignment for you.’

  He was an optimist, though, and had said, laughing, ‘You never can tell who can help whom—at least, not in our line of work.’

  It was on the strength of this brief acquaintance that Byron stared at my tired form in Curzon Park. ‘Babu, what’s the matter?’

  I kept looking at Sir Hariram’s statue without replying, but he didn’t give up. He took my hands instead, probably guessing what the problem was, and muttered, ‘This is very bad, very bad,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Be a soldier. Everyone has to fight to survive in this unfriendly world. Fight to the finish.’

  Finally, I looked at him closely. His fortunes seemed to have changed for the better. He was wearing a clean shirt and a pair of brightly polished shoes. He went on with a homily on the value of life. Maybe he thought I was contemplating suicide.

  Now, unsolicited advice is something I have never been able to stomach. I retorted somewhat bitterly, ‘I am aware, Mr Byron, that on the branches of that tree overhanging the stone-hearted Hariram Goenka, KT, CIE, many a troubled soul has attained eternal peace. You must have seen it in the papers. But don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything like that.’

  Paying no attention to my philosophical reply, he carried on, ‘Cheer up, it could have been much worse. We could have been much worse off.’

  A hawker came by selling tea. Cutting short my protests, Byron asked for two cups, then pulling out his diary, he said, ‘That’s one cup repaid. Forty-two to go.’

  Sipping his tea, he asked, ‘Do you have a clean suit?’

  ‘At home,’ I said.

  He jumped with joy. ‘Then there’s nothing to worry about. It’s all God’s will—why else would I have run into you today?’

  I had no idea what he was talking about. ‘You will,’ he said. ‘All in good time. Do you suppose that I had that woman from Shahjahan Hotel figured out right away?’ He stopped talking and looked at his watch. ‘How long will it take—for you to go home, put on your suit and come back here?’

  ‘Where do I have to go?’

  ‘All in good time. For now, just come back here, below Sir Hariram Goenka’s statue, in an hour. Ask questions later, hurry up now. Quick!’

  Even now I marvel at how I got back from Chowringhee to Chowdhury Bagan that day. In my hurry I stepped on several toes in the bus. The passengers protested, but I was oblivious—I was even prepared to put up with a few blows and kicks.

  By the time I had shaved, donned my one and only suit and returned to Curzon Park, it was 7.30. Night in Chowringhee had taken on the form of a temptress. In the blinding glare of neon lights, Curzon Park looked an altogether different place—unrecognizable from the Curzon Park of mid-afternoon. It was as though a perennially unemployed young man had suddenly got a thousand-rupee job and had taken his girlfriend out on a date.

  I am not particularly fond of poetry, but some lines I’d read long ago came rushing back. It was the same Curzon Park that had inspired Samar Sen to write:

  After ages of snowbound silence

  The mountain desires to be May’s missing clouds.

  So at spring in Curzon Park,

  Silent like rain-drenched animals sit

  Groups of arch-bodied heroes

  Razor-sharp dreams in melting melancholy are dreamed

  By groups
of men in the Maidan from wasted homes

  At the invitation of French cinema, at the hint of a phaeton

  Clouds bloodied in a mining fire, sunset comes

  I could feel that in my fresh suit I no longer looked like an unemployed wretch. As if to prove me right, a masseur came up to me and asked, ‘Massage, sir?’

  When I said no and moved on, he sidled up even closer and muttered, ‘Girlfriend, sir? College girl, Punjabi, Bengali, Anglo-Indian...’ The list might have become longer, but by now I was running hastily to meet Byron. Maybe he had got tired of waiting and left, maybe I had lost a golden opportunity forever.

  But no, he hadn’t gone away. He was sitting quietly at Sir Hariram’s feet, his dark frame merging into the night so that his white trousers and shirt seemed to be draped over a phantom.

  Spotting me, he rose and said, ‘I must have smoked at least ten cigarettes since you left. And with each puff I couldn’t help thinking that all of this has turned out for the best—for you as well as for me.’

  Leaving Curzon Park, we passed the statue of Sir Ashutosh to our left and walked along Central Avenue towards Shahjahan Hotel.

  I was filled with gratitude for Byron. I hadn’t been able to help him at all during my days at Old Post Office Street; it suddenly struck me that I hadn’t even tried hard enough. I knew so many attorneys, after all—they would have found it difficult to turn down a request from the English barrister’s babu. But to keep my self-respect intact, I hadn’t asked anyone for a favour. And today Byron had become my benefactor.

  ‘That’s Shahjahan Hotel,’ he pointed out from a distance. ‘Your job’s guaranteed. Their manager can’t refuse me.’

  I looked at the most famous of Calcutta’s hotels. Around twenty-five cars were parked in front of the gate, and there were more coming. Flaunting nine or ten decorations on his chest, the doorman stood proudly, occasionally advancing to the portico to open a car door. A lady in an evening dress stepped out daintily, a gentleman in a bow tie behind her. Contorting her painted lips like she was about to burp, she said, ‘Thank you.’ Her companion had materialized in front of her by now. He held out his hand and, taking it, she walked in. The doorman took the opportunity to click his boots and salute in military fashion. The couple’s heads also moved a little, like clockwork dolls, in response. Then the doorman spotted Byron and, with utmost humility, offered a double-sized salute.

  Even to this day, I never cease to be amazed at the thoughts that went through my mind as I crossed the hallowed portals of that awe-inspiring hotel. Thanks to my previous employer, I had had the opportunity of seeing many a pleasure garden, a few hotels too. But Shahjahan Hotel—it was a class apart. It was incomparable. It wasn’t so much a building as a mini township. The width of the corridors would put many roads, streets and even avenues to shame.

  I followed Byron into the lift, and then out of it, with not a little trepidation. The May evening seemed to have a touch of December about it. I no longer remember how many corners we turned, but I am certain I would never have found my way out of the labyrinth alone. Eventually, he stopped before a door.

  The liveried bearer standing outside said, ‘Sir got back a short while ago from kitchen inspection, he’s had his bath and is resting now.’

  Byron wasn’t put off. Running his fingers through his curly hair he smiled at me and told the bearer, ‘Tell him it’s Mr Byron.’

  It worked like a charm. The bearer came out in no time and said, bowing low, ‘Come in, please.’

  I wasn’t at all prepared to see the all-in-all of Shahjahan Hotel, Marco Polo, in the state he was in: a sleeveless vest and tiny red briefs tried in vain to cover the essentials of his manly body. Not that he was bothered by the lack of clothing—he looked as though he was lounging by the poolside.

  Spotting me, though, he jumped out of the bed in alarm and, muttering ‘Excuse me, excuse me’, ran towards the wardrobe. He quickly took out a pair of shorts, put them on, slipped on a pair of sandals and turned towards me. There was a thick gold chain round his neck. It had a black locket with something inscribed on it. His left arm sported a huge tattoo and so did his hairy chest, part of it peering out from behind the vest.

  I’d expected Byron to open the conversation, but it was the manager who spoke first. Pushing a tin of cigarettes towards us, he asked, ‘Any luck?’

  Byron shook his head. ‘Not yet.’ He paused and added, ‘Calcutta’s a mysterious city, Mr Macro Polo. Much bigger than we think.’

  The light in Marco Polo’s eyes died out. He said, ‘Not yet? Then when? When?’

  Some other time, I’d have smelt something fishy in this exchange and become curious. But now I wasn’t interested. Even if all of Calcutta went to hell, I wouldn’t care—as long as it meant a job for me.

  Byron read my mind and broached the subject. Introducing me, he said to Marco Polo, ‘You have to give him a job in your hotel, he’ll be very useful.’

  Marco Polo gestured helplessly. ‘Impossible. I have rooms to let in my hotel but not one job—we’re overstaffed.’

  I was prepared for this answer—I’d heard it many times before, and would have been surprised not to hear it once more.

  But Byron didn’t give up. Twirling his keys around his finger, he said, ‘But I know you have a vacancy.’

  ‘Impossible,’ shouted the manager.

  ‘Nothing is impossible—there is an opening, you’ll hear about it tomorrow.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean advance news—we get a lot of information beforehand. Your secretary Rosie...’

  The manager was startled. ‘Rosie? But she’s upstairs.’

  With the solemnity of all the detectives I had read about, Byron said, ‘Why don’t you find out? Check with your bearer whether the lady was in her room last night or not.’

  Marco Polo still refused to believe Byron. ‘Impossible,’ he said, and shouted for bearer number 73.

  Number 73 had been on duty the previous night, and was on again that evening. He had barely perched himself on his stool when the manager’s summons came. Certain that he had committed some blunder he came in, quaking in terror.

  The manager asked in Hindi whether he had stayed up all of the previous night.

  Number 73 said, ‘God is my witness, sahib, I was awake all night, didn’t shut my eyes even once.’

  In reply to Marco Polo’s query, he admitted that room number 362 had been locked from the outside all night—he had seen the key on the board.

  With a faint smile Byron said, ‘At precisely the same time last night, room number seventy-two of another hotel in Chowringhee was locked on the inside.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Marco Polo apprehensively.

  ‘I mean that it wasn’t just Rosie who was in the room but someone else as well. And I know him rather well—a client’s husband. Of course, I am not supposed to know all this, but Mrs Banerjee hired me for a fee. I submitted my report today on how far he has gone. No hope, I told her. This evening your assistant and Banerjee have made off by train. The bird has flown. So you might just as well instal this young man into that empty cage.’

  The manager and I were both thunderstruck. Byron laughed loudly. ‘I was on my way to you with the news,’ he said, addressing Marco Polo, ‘when I met my friend here.’

  After this Marco Polo couldn’t say no. But all the same he warned, ‘Rosie hasn’t quit; if she returns in a couple of days...’

  ‘Get rid of him then if you like,’ said Byron on my behalf.

  The manager of Shahjahan Hotel agreed. And I got the job. It must have been written thus by the gods in the ledger of my fate.

  2

  I was reborn. The last clerk of the last English barrister of the Calcutta High Court was lost forever. He would no longer spend time chatting with other babus on Old Post Office Street, no longer listen to the tales of his clients’ joys and sorrows in his chamber. His relationship with the law had ended for good. And yet it gave him a sens
e of great relief. The cyclone-battered ship was returning from the violent seas to the safety of the harbour.

  Early next morning, I bathed, put on my last pair of clean trousers and shirt, and left home. I could see the majestic yellow building of Shahjahan Hotel from afar. ‘Building’ isn’t the right word, ‘palace’ is more like it. And that too not one for small-time rulers. The Nizam or the Maharaja of Baroda could unhesitatingly take up residence here—their glory and grandeur would not be compromised in any way.

  Even at that early hour, several cars were parked outside the hotel. Their number plates made it clear that their owners weren’t permanent residents of Calcutta. Many a car of many a make, built in various factories in England, Germany, Italy and America, represented cities as distant as Madras, Bombay and Delhi and also the states of Mayurbhanj and Dhenkanal. One could spend hours watching these cars. A close observation would reveal that the caste system operated even in the automobile society, with the doorman tailoring his salute to the lineage of the car. Resplendent in his well-starched military uniform with its array of medals glittering on his chest; his impressive moustache and the way he occasionally bowed to usher in a guest, the gatekeeper uncannily resembled the world-famous Maharaja of Air India. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone told me that this man was the inspiration for the artist who designed the logo.

  From the gatekeeper’s salute as I approached the entrance I realized that he had mistaken me for a patron. My first sensation on setting foot inside the hotel was of walking on butter. It felt like I was sinking under my weight on a soft satin bed and was then being gently raised aloft by a loving, kind-hearted fairy. With the next step I sank again, and the fairy, without the slightest show of irritation, lifted me up again. It was as though two invisible but beautiful fairies were playing ping-pong with my body on a carpeted table. Unaware that the best carpets in the world had this quality, I was disconcerted for a moment or two.