The Rhythm of Riddles: 3 Byomkesh Bakshi Mysteries Read online

  SARADINDU BANDYOPADHYAY

  The Rhythm of Riddles

  Three Byomkesh Bakshi Mysteries

  Translated from the Bengali by Arunava Sinha

  Introduction by Dibakar Banerjee

  PUFFIN

  Contents

  Introduction

  The Rhythm of Riddles

  Byomkesh and Barada

  The Death of Amrito

  Translator’s Note

  Classic Plus

  Copyright Page

  Introduction

  Have you ever had a relative in a small town? A town smaller than the one you live in, with lesser things to do and fewer places to go to than you would expect on a holiday? A town that, having quickly exhausted its meagre gifts of entertainment and diversions, lays open its quiet ennui for you to sample?

  At that point, do you manage to find a quiet window in a quiet corner in your relative’s house? And before that, while exploring when no one was looking, did you stumble upon a trunk under a bed stacked with dusty, cockroach-infested books an uncle left behind, having gone away?

  And in that trunk do you find books with strange, faded covers with gore—dripping letters, beautiful women screaming and dark, evil looking men grinning cruelly?

  Or maybe the book is so old it doesn’t have a cover picture at all. Instead, it is one of those old, tattered fabric-covered hardbacks with titles like A_ventur_s of Dete_tive_ B___o_______ B_____i embossed in faded gold letters that now look like dried blood smeared over a secret message …

  You open the crackling page peppered with small bullet holes the bugs made. And there it is—written in purple fountain-pen ink now faded to pink—To Booboon. On his thirteenth birthday. Ma. 1963.

  1963! 1963?

  The window has a ledge, right? Your aunt’s cook made you a nice parantha, right? And a glass of chhaas maybe? And the folks have gone away to visit a cousin’s cousin, isn’t it? The alley outside the window is deathly quiet, shining in the hard, blinding summer-break sun. The whole neighbourhood cowers into an uneasy siesta. A lone red kite flies furtively in the sky. Even the birds chirp mutedly—as if a predator is at hand, creeping upon us. You turn to the first story. Byomkesh Arrives. It’s about a spate of murders in the neighbourhood.

  Congratulations. You’ve just discovered the perfect way to get introduced to Byomkesh Bakshi. I should know—because that’s how I did it. And I imagine many before me did the same, because the first Byomkesh stories came out in the 1930s.

  This gives us two whys.

  Why do people still read Byomkesh?

  Why do we need a hot afternoon in a quiet house in a small town to discover Byomkesh?

  Let’s see.

  A detective story is all about the detective, the hero—and his atmosphere. One cannot exist without the other.

  Raymond Chandler once described a detective roughly as a good man in a bad, bad world, hiding his goodness. An idealist up to his ears in selfishness, corruption and crime; but essentially uncorrupted and incorruptible himself.

  He is cynical and hard-bitten, who knows how bad this world can be. He pities innocence and yet is ready to risk his life trying to save it. (And the world, by the way.)

  Of course, he pretends he needs the money.

  Or sometimes, like Byomkesh (who never had too much of money or the use for it) he pretends he needs the mental exercise because he’s too smart and bored and needs to solve a problem of life and death.

  But the truth is, under all that hard-bitten cynicism and that worldly smirk there lies a hero you may count on story after story, year after year, and in my case decade after decade to do the right thing.

  Byomkesh always, always catches the criminal. He always protects the innocent. He is never greedy for money or a BMW. He is smart. Good smart. Not bad smart—(the kind of smartness some people use to jump a queue or get an extra pizza free.) But the tough, no-nonsense smartness of figuring out things for oneself and not taking any nonsense from anyone. He is honest. He stands for truth. He even hates being called a detective. He likes ‘Truth Seeker’ better.

  We also like to read Byomkesh because he shows us that being honest and good smart is way cooler than being a jumped-up idiot with a fancy car and a fancy house talking loudly in a fancy restaurant about his fancy holiday in Pattaya. (That’s a place in Thailand where people sometimes go to show off, and needless to say a place Byomkesh never visited but look! We are still reading about him!)

  And in a world where criminals sit inside parliaments, or hog prime time on television with fawning fans, or cheat other people and live on the 40th floor in eleven bedrooms—doing the right thing the Byomkesh way is kind of rare, isn’t it?

  Ace detective writers, like the creator of Byomkesh, know this secret. They know deep down we need a Byomkesh to set this wrong world right again and again.

  That still leaves the window ledge unexplained. Why do we need a hot, silent afternoon dripping with menace to enjoy Byomkesh?

  Remember atmosphere? That’s the world the fictional detective operates in. The bad, evil, dangerous world he fights through. Why do we need that so badly in a good detective story?

  Because you cannot tell a story about the good without describing the bad. And because you cannot make the hero win big without making his battle big.

  So they do atmosphere. Bad, dangerous atmosphere. A shadowy, dark, menacing world of intrigue and devilish conspiracy. The tougher the puzzle, the harder we root for our hero when he solves the crime.

  Often, that atmosphere becomes dark and shadowy quite literally. Remember all those stories and movies with dark back alleys in the night, a lone lamppost blinking in the fog and a black car with hooded headlights? Mere setting for our detective hero. Makes him look good.

  But there is a subtler, smarter variety of the dangerous world that smarter detectives and their creators, like Byomkesh and Saradindu Banerjee, inhabit as atmosphere.

  The everyday world right outside your window. The street in front of your house. Your friend’s uncle’s bungalow in Ooty, or Darjeeling, or Ranchi. A book shop. A sanatorium. A lone cyclist cycling down an empty street. A letter. A boarding house. Evil and criminal masterminds lurk right out there in the world you thought was so familiar. And when Byomkesh unmasks some devilish criminal right in the midst of his benign neighbours, you shudder harder. Who knew? Who could have thought?

  It’s real. Like your relative’s window ledge. Like the hot, lazy afternoon. That intermittent bird calling could be the arch criminal calling his henchmen to move in. Or that red kite up in the sky could be the signal that murder has been committed. Anything is possible. And all this while tea is being served!

  Byomkesh’s world is very ordinary. Very middle class. What’s more, very, very Indian. He doesn’t wear a fedora hat or a tacky overcoat on rent from Maganlal Dresswala (like most filmy detectives who copy the American gumshoe). He wears the ordinary dhoti kurta of the Bengali bhadralok. He may walk out to the street corner shop for an after dinner meetha paan while solving a grisly murder. What’s more, his nemesis, the arch criminal, might be quite content to have a nice meal of fish curry and rice before planning world domination or the cocaine monopoly of the eastern hemisphere with chilling, cold-blooded efficiency.

  Real people are villains here. People you and I could know easily in our ordinary lives. Yet these very ordinary, real people, unknown to us, are planning something horribly twisted.

  And in story after story, like the ones in this book, Byomkesh’s mind runs faster than light and cuts sharper than a Teflon razor to bring these diabolical criminal to justice. No s
hoot-outs. No car chases. No explosions. Just a brain. Lot of logic and courage. And the will to expose the truth. And that makes Byomkesh not only look good, and good smart—but real.

  As real as that window ledge in a sleepy little town. Because at the time they were written, they were commonplace. Booboon, sitting on that ledge in 1963, would have felt the real, immediate thrill of Byomkesh’s adventures.

  I’m convinced that if Saradindu had written Byomkesh today, he would have been taking the metro or checking out the nearest multiplex for clues to catch the murderer. The villain would have worn cargo shorts. And you would have felt the thrill in your bones just as if it was happening to you.

  And if you’ve bought this book off the Net or at the nearest mall and don’t have that window ledge in your flat, do not despair. All you need to do is to imagine that there is real nasty business happening out there and there’s someone real smart to stop it. That’s what Booboon felt in 1963 as he curled up with his Byomkesh.

  The truth is, a real, convincing detective doing extraordinary things in an ordinary world works in every age.

  Because without people like Byomkesh, it’ll be a bad, bad world to live in. It was true in 1963. And it’s true now.

  Hopefully, it will be for a long time to come.

  May 2012

  Dibakar Banerjee

  The Rhythm of Riddles

  1

  Byomkesh had been to Cuttack on official work, I had accompanied him too. After a few days, it became evident that the task would not be accomplished quickly, that it would take time to rummage through a mountain of deeds and documents in the government office to unearth the truth. Accordingly, Byomkesh stayed on in Cuttack, while I returned to Calcutta. How could a Bengali household be expected to run without the presence of a man at home?

  On my return to Calcutta, however, I had no work. I was feeling a little helpless in Byomkesh’s absence. Winter was setting in, the days were getting shorter; and yet the hours refused to pass. Occasionally I would visit the shop, supervise Prabhat, who ran the shop, read new manuscripts if any. But still there was nothing to do for most part of the day.

  Then an opportunity to pass the evenings presented itself unexpectedly.

  We lived in a three-storied building, occupying five rooms on the top floor, while a dozen or so office goers messed together on the first floor. On the ground floor were the manager’s room, the pantry, the kitchen and the dining room, with just one corner room being occupied by a solitary boarder. We were familiar with all of them, but not particularly intimate with any.

  That evening, I had just switched on the light after darkness had fallen and opened a magazine when there was a knock on the door. Opening the door, I discovered a middle-aged gentleman standing outside, smiling deferentially. I had seen him once or twice on the first floor of our building, where he had taken up residence recently. He occupied the best corner room on the floor all by himself. He appeared to be a man of refined tastes, being dressed in a warm Nehru jacket and a silk churidar, his hair more black than white. He was well turned out.

  Greeting me, he said, ‘Excuse me, my name is Bhupesh Chatterjee. I live on the first floor.’

  ‘I’ve seen you now and then,’ I replied, ‘though I was not familiar with your name. Do come in.’

  I gave him a seat in my room. ‘I came to Calcutta a month-and-a-half ago. I work for an insurance company; there’s no telling where I’ll be next. Tomorrow they might transfer me somewhere else altogether, for all you know.’

  ‘You work for an insurance company,’ I said with some unease. ‘But I have never taken out a policy, nor am I planning to.’

  ‘That’s not what I came for,’ he smiled. ‘It’s true that I work at the insurance office, but I’m not an agent. I came because …’ After an awkward pause, he said, ‘I’m addicted to bridge. I haven’t had a game ever since I came here, I’m dying for one. After much effort I’ve managed to find two more players. They live in Room No. 3 on the first floor. But we haven’t been able to find a fourth. We tried cutthroat bridge for a few days, but it isn’t the real thing. I thought I’d find out today whether Ajit-babu is interested.’

  I was indeed interested in bridge once upon a time. Not merely interested, obsessed. Since I had not played for a long time, the obsession had died. Still, I felt that playing bridge was preferable to passing my companionless evenings reading a dull magazine.

  ‘Very well, very well,’ I said. ‘I am long out of practice, of course, but still—why not?’

  ‘Then come with me,’ said Bhupesh-babu, springing to his feet. ‘I have made all the arrangements in my room. Why waste time?’

  ‘Please lead the way, I’ll follow as soon as I’ve had my cup of tea,’ I said.

  ‘Oh no, you can just as well have your tea in my room. Come along,’ he replied.

  I was amused by his eagerness. I used to be just as enthusiastic once upon a time; the evenings seemed wasted without a game of bridge.

  I got off my chair. Informing Byomkesh’s wife Satyabati, I accompanied Bhupesh-babu downstairs.

  The first room when you went down the stairs to the first floor was Bhupesh-babu’s. Pausing near his door, he called out loudly, ‘Come along, Ram-babu, Banamali-babu. I’ve got hold of Ajit-babu.’

  Two heads popped out of Room No. 3, which was situated halfway down the corridor, then disappeared with the word, ‘Coming.’ Bhupesh-babu took me into his room and switched on the light.

  It was a commodious room. There were two barred windows on the wall looking out on the road. On one side of the room was the bed, covered with a bedspread, on the other was a cupboard, on top of which reposed a shining portable stove and everything you needed to make a cup of tea. Four chairs were arranged around a low table in the middle of the room; it was clearly a card table. Besides these, the other small items of furniture, including a dressing table and a chest of drawers, all indicated good taste. Bhupesh-babu was slightly Western in his tastes.

  Settling me in a chair, he said, ‘Let me put the kettle on, the tea will be ready in a few minutes.’

  Lighting the stove, he put the kettle on. Meanwhile, Ram-babu and Banamali-babu had arrived.

  Despite our prior acquaintance, Bhupesh-babu introduced all of us once more. ‘This is Ramchandra Roy, and this is Banamali Chanda. They live in the same room and work at the same bank.’

  I observed other similarities too; I had not noticed them earlier, possibly because I had not seen them together. Both were aged between forty-five and fifty, both were plump and of medium height, their features cut in the same mould—a thick nose, invisible eyebrows, a square chin. The resemblance was obviously genetic. I was tempted to surprise them. After all, I was a friend of Byomkesh’s.

  ‘Are you related?’ I asked.

  They looked at me in surprise. ‘No,’ answered Ram-babu a little brusquely. ‘I’m a vaidya, Banamali is a kayastha.’

  I was taken aback. Just as I was trying to stammer out an explanation, Bhupesh-babu arrived with a plate of snacks to rescue me. Then the tea arrived. Finishing our tea quickly, we got down to the game. The subject of their being cousins was forgotten.

  As we played I discovered I had not forgotten the art of bridge even after all these years; my playing and bidding expertise were both intact. The stakes were low; the most one could win or lose at the end of the rubber was four annas. But playing was no fun without stakes.

  Ram-babu and I were partners in the first round—or rubber. Ram-babu lit a thick cigar, Bhupesh-babu and I lit our cigarettes; Banamali-babu was content with slices of clove and betelnut.

  Then we began to play. After every rubber, the cards were shuffled and the pairs, changed. All three of them were good players; there wasn’t much conversation as everyone was immersed in the game. Only the ends of the cigar and the cigarettes glowed constantly. Bhupesh-babu rose at one point to open the window and resumed his seat in silence.

  When we finished our game, it was past nine; the ser
vant had already reminded everyone twice of dinner. When we totted up, I turned out to have won two annas. Pocketing my winnings, I rose to my feet joyfully. ‘We’ll play again tomorrow, won’t we?’ asked Bhupesh-babu with a smile.

  ‘We will,’ I said.

  When I went back upstairs, Satyabati remonstrated with me. Nine-fifteen on a winter night was quite late. But, happy after a game of bridge after such a long time, I laughed away her scolding.

  After this our games became a daily affair, the session beginning as soon as the evening lamp was lit and continuing until nine at night. After five or six days, I had formed an impression about each of them. Bhupesh-babu was kind-hearted, soft-spoken and hospitable, extremely fond of bridge. Ram-babu was grave, taciturn, not given to protesting against others’ mistakes while playing. Banamali-babu held Ram-babu in the greatest of regard, trying without success to emulate his gravity. Both were reticent, deeply addicted to bridge. Both had faint Eastern Bengali accents.

  We had been happily playing bridge for six days, our sessions on the verge of becoming a permanent institution, when a ghastly incident on the floor below upset our regular gathering. Natabar Nashkar, the only inhabitant of the ground floor, was suddenly murdered. While it is true that we had no direct relationship with him, even when a ship sails along the middle of the river the waves do reach the banks.

  At six-thirty that evening, I was on my way to our evening game, wrapped in a shawl. Because I was a little late, I ran down the stairs, my sandals flapping loudly. Just as I had reached the last step, a bang made me stop in my tracks. I could not identify the source of the sound. It could have been a car backfiring out on the street, but the sound was rather loud. No sound from the street could be as deafening.

  After a brief halt I continued on to Bhupesh-babu’s room. The lights were on. Bhupesh-babu was looking out through the window, holding the bars, while behind him Ram-babu and Banamali-babu were trying to peep through the same window. When I entered, Bhupesh-babu was saying excitedly, ‘There … there … he ran out of the lane just this minute, did you see him? He had a brown shawl on …’