The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II (34 page)

We came out of the rest house and found our taxi at five-thirty the following morning. Joginder was ready and waiting for us. Pavandeo’s American car was standing near ours, being loaded with film equipment. He could not possibly leave for another half an hour. But the chances were he would catch up with us without any problem, and then overtake us.

As we were about to get into our car, the man himself came striding towards us, as though he had something important to say.

‘Last night,’ he said to Feluda, ‘Mr Giridhari had a glass too many, and revealed your identity. I’d like to ask you a straight question.’

‘Yes?’

‘Did Umashankar send you here to keep an eye on me?’

‘Even if he did, Mr Singh, I would certainly not tell you about it, for that would be a breach of confidentiality. It would also be rather foolish. However, I have to admit Mr Puri has nothing to do with my presence here. We are going to Kedarnath purely as tourists. If something untoward does happen, I will naturally not stand by and be a passive spectator. I would like to meet Bhavani Upadhyaya myself, for something special has made me immensely curious about him, although I am not at liberty to tell you what it is.’

‘I see.’

‘May I now ask you a question?’

‘Sure.’

‘Are you going to show that famous pendant in your film?’

‘Of course, assuming that Upadhyaya has still got it with him.’

‘But don’t you realize that will put his life at risk? At the moment, nobody knows he has got something so valuable; but your film will be seen by thousands. Do you think it’s fair to expose his secret like that?’

‘Mr Mitter, if he has truly become a sanyasi, that locket should have no meaning for him. I will ask him to give it to a museum. It originally belonged to the Maharaja of Travancore. Its workmanship is absolutely exquisite. If he donates it to a museum, Upadhyaya’s name will always be remembered. You bet I am going to show it in my film, and I hope you will not try to stop me.’

Pavandeo stormed off, having spoken the last few words with a great deal of emphasis. Mr Bhargav joined us as soon as he left. ‘I
wish I had known you were also going to Kedar,’ he said. ‘I could have gone with you, and shared the information I’ve got regarding Upadhyaya.’

‘Really? Who—or what—is the source of your information?’

‘Well, I spoke to Mr Singh’s brother, Surajdeo, in Rupnarayangarh. But the interesting details came from their eighty-year-old bearer. He said Upadhyaya had treated the former Raja Chandradeo Singh, and cured him of asthma.’

‘I see.’

‘In order to show his appreciation, the Raja gave him one of his most precious pieces of jewellery. Nobody outside the family knew of this until now. Can you imagine what this will mean to the press? Oh, what a story! What a scoop!”

‘Good for you, Mr Bhargav. You’ll be able to make a lot of money out of this, won’t you?’

‘Maybe. But I can tell you one thing, Mr Mitter. That locket is not going to remain with Upadhyaya for long. Do you really think Pavandeo is here just to make a telefilm? Don’t be surprised if your professional skills are soon called for.’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me, Mr Bhargav. I always keep myself ready for any eventuality.’

Mr Bhargav said goodbye and left.

‘A clever man!’ Lalmohan Babu observed.

‘All good reporters and journalists are clever. They have to be, for in their job they often have to do a bit of detective work. He has shown a lot of initiative by interviewing an old retainer. Sometimes servants come to know of things that their masters are blissfully unaware of. But even so . . .’ Feluda broke off.

‘Even so, what?’ I prompted. I could see something was bothering him.

‘I don’t know. Something in that man makes me uneasy. I just can’t put my finger on it.’

We finally got into our car and started our journey. The road ran by the side of Alakananda. Only a few minutes later, we entered a tunnel. When we emerged from it, the river had changed. It was now Mandakini that flowed by our side, and it would stay with us right up to Kedarnath, which was where its source was supposed to be.

Feluda was still frowning. His next words explained why he was so annoyed.

‘I am very cross with that man Giridhari. I had no idea he was so
utterly irresponsible. What Pavandeo just told me was, I suppose, natural enough, coming from him. But it shows he and Umashankar Puri did not talk about Upadhyaya’s pendant after Mr Puri returned from Calcutta. Now, if that is the case, why did he send me that telegram and the letter? The whole thing seems even more mystifying now. God knows who is telling the truth, and who can be trusted. I am only glad we didn’t drop our decision to come here, even if we did agree to drop Mr Puri’s case.’

Gaurikund was only 80 km from Rudraprayag; but the road went up and down the hills so frequently that it took much longer to get there than one might expect. Thirty kilometres from Rudraprayag stood Agastyamuni, at 900 metres. Guptakashi was 9 km from there, standing at 1800 metres. From there one had to go to Son Prayag, where Son Ganga joined Mandakini. Gaurikund was 8 km from Son Prayag. Its elevation was 2250 metres.

Our woollen clothes were packed into a small bag which we had taken with us. Our heavy luggage was in the rest house, waiting to be collected on the way back. Lalmohan Babu had not forgotten to bring his Rajasthani cap to protect his bald dome. We stopped briefly in Agastyamuni to slip our warm clothes on. As we were doing so, an American tourer went past us. Pavandeo put a hand out to wave, so we were obliged to wave back at him. We were on our way once more, ready to fight the cold. Mandakini could be seen occasionally on our left; but, in the next instant, it would go way down below a gorge. The sound of its waves was drowned at times by Lalmohan Babu’s voice. He kept reciting a line from a poem; ‘Do you know why/The waves do rise so high?’ From the way he said it, over and over, it was obvious that was the only line he knew. Finally, a stern look from Feluda made him stop.

It was ten o’clock by the time we reached Guptakashi. We were all rather hungry by this time, so we decided to stop at a tea stall. Its owner provided hot jalebis, kachauris and steaming tea, to which we did full justice. Joginder said one of his brothers lived close by, so he’d take just five minutes to go and meet him.

‘Ah, that gives me the chance to see those temples,’ said Lalmohan Babu, trotting off in the direction of the temples of Chandrasekhar Mahadev and Ardhanarishwar.

From Guptakashi, it was possible to see Ukhimath high in the hills. It was in Ukhimath that the daily puja of Kedareshwar was held between November and April every year, when heavy snow
blocked the road to Kedar.

Lalmohan Babu returned in a few minutes, but there was no sign of Joginder. Feluda and I began looking for him, when suddenly Pavandeo’s car reappeared. What was he doing here? He should have been miles ahead of us, surely?

He stopped and came out when he saw us. ‘We stopped here to take photos of the peaks of both Badri and Kedar,’ he informed us. ‘Guptakashi is the only place from where one can do that. But now we must press on, for we must get there before daylight starts to fade.’ He waved again and went away.

Where on earth was Joginder? We were still looking around, when Mr Bhargav appeared. I had already spotted his car and had been wondering what was taking him so long. He said he had been interviewing a priest from the temple in Kedarnath, who happened to be visiting Guptakashi. Now he must be off on his way to Son Prayag and Gaurikund.

Mr Bhargav left, and was almost immediately replaced by a young boy of about fifteen.

‘Taxi number 434?’ he shouted. ‘Are you a passenger in 434?’

‘Yes, yes. Why, what’s the matter?’ Feluda asked him anxiously. Joginder was hurt, the boy told us. He had come to inform us because he knew Joginder, and had just found him. We told Lalmohan Babu to wait in the car, and followed the boy.

Joginder was lying on the ground. Blood oozed from the back of his head. It seemed a very quiet area; there were no more than six houses in the vicinity. Joginder was still breathing, but Feluda ran and took his pulse. There was no time to worry about who had attacked him. The most important thing was to get him seen by a doctor.

‘There is a hospital and a dispensary here,’ the boy told us. ‘I can drive.’ Eventually, it seemed the only sensible thing we could do was to place Joginder in the car and let the boy drive us to the hospital.

The doctor who examined him said his injury might have been a lot worse. He dressed the wound, and said there was really nothing else he could do. Joginder would remain in pain for some time, but was sure to get better. All this took an hour and a half. We told Joginder we’d take another taxi to get to Kedar, but he insisted on driving us himself.

‘Do you have any idea who hit you?’ Feluda asked him. ‘No, babu. He struck me from behind.’

‘Do you have any enemies here?’

‘No, no, I have no enemies at all.’

I knew what Feluda was thinking. If anyone had an enemy, it was us. Someone unknown did not want us to go to Kedarnath. The best way to stop us from going, or at least delay our arrival there, was to hurt our driver, obviously.

‘Look, Feluda,’ I said, once we were on our way again, ‘I have been thinking. Could it be that Pavandeo came to know that Mr Puri had been to see you? And then maybe he made him send that telegram and write that letter, simply to make sure you didn’t pose a threat to him?’

‘Good thinking, Topshe. I’ve thought of it, too. If that is the case, it shows Pavandeo has full control over Umashankar Puri.’

‘Why wouldn’t he?’ Lalmohan Babu pointed out. ‘Pavandeo is, after all, one of the owners of the estate. A prince! What is Umashankar? Only one of his employees, right?’

‘Right. If the young “prince” decided to throw his weight around, I don’t think he’d consider the difference in age between Umashankar and himself. But I bet he didn’t imagine I’d turn up anyway, in spite of the telegram and the letter!’

‘Does that mean Pavandeo is responsible for the attack on poor Joginder?’

‘Who else could it be, especially since Joginder claims there’s no one who might wish to cause him harm?’

‘Excuse me, sir,’ Lalmohan Babu said, ‘but I don’t like that journalist chap.’

‘Why not? I must admit I have my own reservations about him, but why don’t you like him?’

‘If he is a journalist, why doesn’t he keep a pen? I noticed he didn’t have a pen in the front pocket of his jacket. Yesterday, I saw him put it on. There wasn’t a pen even in the inside pocket, or in the pocket of his shirt.’

‘What if he has a cassette recorder, like me?’

This was a possibility that had clearly not occurred to Lalmohan Babu. He was silent for a few seconds. Then he said, ‘Well then, that’s a different matter. The truth is that I don’t like men with heavy beards.’

‘I see. May we now discuss a few practical arrangements?’

‘Such as?’

‘Which would you prefer—a horse, or a dandi?’

‘Whatever you decide, Felu Babu, is fine by me.’

‘I hope you have some idea of the road to Kedar?’

‘Ha ha ha ha ha!’

‘Why, what’s so funny?’

‘My idea, Felu Babu, is far more vivid than yours. You see, my favourite poet, Baikuntha Mallik, visited Kedar years ago and wrote a poem about his journey. I have read it many times, and am fully aware of what to expect.’

‘Good. Well then, I think you would find a dandi easier to manage than a horse. Horses usually have a tendency to walk near the edge of the cliff. You’ll find it very difficult to cope with all that tension. Tapesh and I will walk.’

Lalmohan Babu gave Feluda a steely glance. Then he said, ‘Why do you keep underestimating me? You really think I’ll take a dandi, while you two go walking? I am telling you, Felu Babu, either I walk together with you, or I don’t go at all.’

‘Very well, that’s settled, then. We’re all walking.’

‘Now may I ask you something?’

‘Certainly.’

‘If we have been recognized by everyone, what is the purpose of our visit?’

‘That would depend on who finds Upadhyaya first.’

‘Suppose we do?’

‘Then we must tell him everything. If he has indeed become a sanyasi, he may well wish to give the locket away. We should find out who he’d like to give it to. Pavandeo may get there before us. Because of his regard for his father, Upadhyaya may agree to be interviewed, and allow the young prince to take photos of the pendant. But no one—not even Pavandeo—must take it from him without his approval. But then, we have no evidence to prove Pavandeo does want to grab it for himself. We are merely assuming that it was he who had forced Mr Puri to put me off the case. Maybe his sole intention is to make a film, and nothing else. We don’t know. In fact, we don’t know anything for sure, do we?’

I said, ‘But what about Mr Bhargav? He’s looking for Upadhyaya as well, isn’t he?’

‘Well, I think Bhargav would be happy if he got a couple of photographs, one of Upadhyaya himself, and the other of the pendant. If he can get those, at least for a few days he’ll find himself quite comfortably off.’

As we were talking, our car had climbed up to 3,000 metres. At least, that was what Joginder said. Judging by the sudden drop in the temperature, he was probably right. A number of tall peaks were visible from here, but I didn’t know what they were called. We should reach Gaurikund in fifteen minutes. It was a quarter past five by my watch. Although the mountain peaks were still shining bright, the shadows were getting longer among the pines and rhododendrons.

Soon, our car climbed down again and turned a corner. A number of houses and traffic on the road told me we had reached Gaurikund. It was clear that we would have to spend the night here, and start for Kedar the next morning. Even if we left fairly early, it would take us all day to get there. A meeting with Upadhyaya could take place only after tomorrow.

Gaurikund was a small, but busy town, chiefly because there was a bus terminus here. A large number of passengers were arguing over prices of horses, dandis and kandis. A kandi was like a basket, in which one could be carried. Presumably, some people found it convenient; but its appearance did nothing to inspire confidence.