Trouble in Gangtok ( Retelling)

1. The Mysterious Murder

Even a little while ago it had been
possible to stare out of the window and look at the earth, criss-crossed
with rivers that looked like silk ribbons and sweet little villages with tiny little houses in them. But now grey puffs of cloud had blocked out that scene totally. So I turned away from the window and began looking at my co-passengers in the plane.
Next to me sat Feluda, immersed in a
book on space travel. He always read a lot, but I had never seen him read two books-one straight after the other-that were written on the same subject. Only yesterday, back at home, he had been reading something about the Takla Makan desert. Before that, he had finished a book on international cuisine, andanother of short stories. It was imperative, he'd always maintained, for a detective to gain as much general knowledge as possible. Who knew what might come in handy one day?

There were two men sitting diagonally opposite me. One of them was barely visible. All I could see was his right hand and a portion of his blue trousers. He was beating one of his fingers on his knee. Perhaps he was singing quietly. The other gentleman sitting closer to us had a bright and polished look about him. His greying hair suggested he might be in his mid-forties, but apart from that he seemed pretty well-preserved.

He was reading the Statesman with great concentration.
Feluda might have been able to guess a lot of things about the man, but I couldn't think of anything at all although I tried very hard.

'What are you gaping at?' Feluda
asked under his breath, thereby startling me considerably.
Then he cast a sidelong glance at the man and said, 'He's not as flabby as he might have been. After all, he does eat a lot, doesn't he?'
Yes, indeed. Now I remembered
having seen him ask the air hostess for two cups of tea in the past hour, with which he had eaten half-a-dozen biscuits.
'What else can you tell me about
him?' I asked curiously.
'He's used to travelling by air.'
'How do you know that?' I asked him.
'Our plane had slipped into an air
pocket a few minutes ago, remember?'
'Oh yes. I felt so strange! My stomach
began to churn.'
'Yes, and it wasn't just you. Many
other people around us had grown
restless, but that gentleman didn't even lift his eyes from his paper.'
'Anything else?'
'His hair at the back is tousled.'
'So?'
'He has not once leant back in his seat in the plane. He's sat up straight
throughout, either reading or having tea.
So obviously at Dum Dum-'
'Oh, I get it! He must have had some
time to spare at Dum Dum airport, at
least time enough to sit back against a sofa and relax for a while. That's how his hair got tousled.'
'Very good. Now you tell me which
part of India he comes from.'
'That's very difficult, Feluda. He's
wearing a suit and he's reading an
English newspaper. He could be a
Bengali, a Punjabi, a Gujarati or a
Maharashtrian, anything!'
Feluda clicked his tongue
disapprovingly. 'You'll never learn to
observe properly, will you? What's he got on his right hand?'
'A news-no, no, I see what you
mean. He's wearing a ring.'
'And what does the ring say?'
I had to screw up my eyes to peer
closely. Then I saw that in the middle of the golden ring was inscribed a single word: 'Ma'. The man had to be a Bengali.
I wanted to ask Feluda about other
passengers, but at this moment there was an announcement to say that we were about to reach Bagdogra. 'Please fasten your seat-belts and observe the no-smoking sign.'
We were on our way to Gangtok, the
capital of Sikkim. We might have gone to Darjeeling again, where we had been twice already to spend our summer holidays. But at the last minute Feluda suggested a visit to Gangtok, which sounded quite interesting. Baba had to go away to Bangalore on tour, so he couldn't come with us.
'You and Felu could go on your own,' Baba told me.
'I'm sure Felu could take a couple of
weeks off. Don't waste your holiday in the sweltering heat of Calcutta.'

Feluda had suggested Gangtok
possibly because he had recently read a lot about Tibet (I, too, had read a
travelogue by Sven Hedin). Sikkim had a strong Tibetan influence. The King of Sikkim was a Tibetan, Tibetan monks were often seen in the gumphas in Sikkim, many Tibetan refugees lived in Sikkimese villages. Besides, many aspects of Tibetan culture-their music, dances, costumes and food-were all in
evidence in Sikkim. I jumped at the
chance to go to Gangtok. But then, I
would have gone anywhere on earth,
quite happily, if I could be with Feluda.
Our plane landed at Bagdogra at 7.30
a.m. Baba had arranged a jeep to meet us here. But before climbing into it, we went to the restaurant at the airport to have breakfast. It would take us at least six hours to reach Gangtok. If the roads were bad, it might take even longer.
However, since it was only mid-April, hopefully heavy rains hadn't yet started. So the roads ought to be in good shape.
I had finished an omelette and just
started on a fish-fry, when I saw the
same gentleman from the plane rise from the next table and walk over to ours, grinning broadly. 'Are you Kang, or Dang, or Gang?' he asked, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief.
I stared, holding a piece of fish-fry a
few inches from my mouth. What on
earth did this man mean? What language was he speaking in? Or was it some sort of a code?
But Feluda smiled in return and
replied immediately, 'We're Gang.'
'Oh good. Do you have a jeep? I
mean, if you do, can I come with you?
I'll pay my share, naturally.'
'You're welcome,' said Feluda, and it
finally dawned on me that Kang meant Kalimpong, Dang was Darjeeling, and Gang was Gangtok. I found myself laughing, too.
'Thank you,' said the man. 'My name
is Sasadhar Bose.'
'Pleased to meet you, Mr Bose. I am
Pradosh Mitter and this is my cousin,
Tapesh.'
'Hello, Tapesh. Are you both here on
holiday?' Mr.Bose asked.
'Yes.'
'I love Gangtok. Have you been there
before?'
'No.'
'Where will you be staying?'
'We're booked somewhere, I think the hotel is called Snow View,' Feluda replied, signalling at the waiter for our bill, and offering a Charminar to Mr Bose. Then he lit one himself.
'I know Gangtok very well,' Mr Bose
told us. 'In fact, I've travelled all over
Sikkim-Lachen, Lachung, Namche,
Nathula, just name it! It's really beautiful. The scenery is just out of this world, and it's all so peaceful. There are mountains and rivers and flowers-you get orchids here, you know-and bright sunshine and rain and mist . . . nature in all her glory. The only thing that stops this place from being a complete paradise is its roads. You see, some of the mountains here are still growing. I
mean, they are still relatively young, and therefore restless. You know what youngsters are like, don't you . . . ha ha ha!' He laughed a little.
'You mean these mountains cause
landslides?'
'Yes, and it can really be a nuisance.
Halfway through your journey you may suddenly find the road completely blocked. That then means blasting your way through rocks, rebuilding the road, clearing up the mess . . . endless problems. But the army here is always on the alert and it's very efficient. Besides, it hasn't yet started to rain, so I don't think we'll have any problem today. Anyway, I'll be very glad of your company. I hate travelling alone.'
'Are you here on holiday as well?'
'Oh no,' Mr Bose laughed, 'I am here
on business. But my job is rather a peculiar one. I have to look for aromatic plants.'
'Do you run a perfumery?'
'Yes, that's right. Mine's a chemical
firm. Among other things, we extract
essences from plants. Some of the plants we need grow in Sikkim. I've come to collect them. My business partner is already here. He arrived a week ago. He's got a degree in Botany and knows about plants. I was supposed to travel with him, but a nephew's wedding came up. So I had to go to Ghatshila to attend it. I returned to Calcutta only last night.'
Feluda paid the bill. We picked up our luggage and began walking towards our jeep with Mr Bose.
'Where are you based?' Feluda asked.
'Bombay. This company is now
twenty years old. I joined it seven years ago. S. S. Chemicals. Shivkumar Shelvankar. The company is in his name.'
We set off in a few minutes. From
Bagdogra we had to go to Siliguri, to
find Sewak Road. This road wound its way through the hills, going up and down. It would finally take us to a place called Rongpo, where West Bengal ended, and the border of Sikkim began.
On our way to Rongpo, we had to
cross a huge bridge over the river Tista. On the other side was a market called Tista Bazaar. We stopped here for a rest.
By this time the sun had come up, and
we were all feeling a little hot.
'Would you like a Coca-Cola?' asked
Mr Bose. Feluda and I both said yes, andgot out of the jeep. Two years ago, saidMr Bose, this whole area had been wiped out in a devastating flood. All the buildings and other structures, including the bridge, were new.
By the time I finished my own bottle
of Coca-Cola, Mr Bose had emptied
two. When we went to return the bottles,we noticed a jeep parked near the stall selling cold drinks. A few men were standing near it, talking excitedly. The

jeep had come from the other side, and

was

probably

going

to

Siliguri.

Suddenly, all of us caught the word

'accident', and went across to ask them

what had happened. What they told us

was this: it had rained heavily in

Gangtok a week ago. Although there had

been 'no major landslide, somehow a

heavy-boulder had rolled off a mountain

and fallen on a passing jeep, killing its

passenger. The jeep had fallen into a

ravine, five hundred feet below. It was

totally destroyed. None of these men

knew who the dead man was.

'Fate,' said Feluda. 'What else can

you call this? The man was destined to

die, or else why should just single

boulder slip off a mountain and land on

his jeep? Such accidents are extremely

rare.'

'One chance in a million,' said Mr

Bose.
As we got back into the jeep, he

added, 'Keep an eye on the mountains,

sir. One can't be too careful.' However,

the scenery became so incredibly

beautiful soon after we crossed Tista

that I forgot all about the accident. There

was a brief shower as we were passing

through Rongpo. As we climbed up to

three thousand feet, a mist rose from the
valley just below, making us shiver in

the cold. We stopped shortly to pull out

our woollens from our suitcase. I saw

Mr Bose dig out a blue pullover from an

Air India bag and slip it on.

Slowly, through the mist, I began to

notice vague outlines of houses among

the hills. Most houses appeared to be

Chinese in style.

'Here we are,' said Mr

Bose. 'It took us less than five hours.

We're very lucky.'

The city of Gangtok lay before us. Our

jeep made its way carefully through its

streets, past a military camp, sweet little

houses with wooden balconies and

flower-pots, groups of men and women in colourful clothes, and finally drew up

before Snow View Hotel.

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