Trouble in Gangtok ( Retelling)

2. Exploring Gangtok

The people in the streets, I knew, were not from Sikkim alone. Many of them were from Nepal, Bhutan or Tibet.

Mr Bose said he was staying at the
dak bungalow. ‘I’ll make my own way
there, don’t worry,’ he said.
‘Thank you so much. No doubt we shall meet again. In a small place like this, it is virtually impossible to avoid bumping into one another every day.’ he added.
‘Well, since we don’t know anyone in
Gangtok except you, I don’t think we’d
find that a problem. If you don’t mind,
I’ll visit your dak bungalow this
evening,’said Feluda.
‘Very well. I’ll look forward to it.
Goodbye.’
With a wave of his hand, Mr Bose
disappeared into the mist.

Although our hotel was called Snow
View and the rooms at the rear were
supposed to afford a view of
Kanchenjunga, we didn’t manage to see any snow the day we arrived, for the mist didn’t clear at all. There appeared to be only one other Bengali gentleman among the other guests in the hotel. I saw him in the dining hall at lunch time, but didn’t get to meet him until later.

We went out after lunch and found a
paan shop. Feluda always had a paan
after lunch, though he admitted he hadn’t expected to find a shop here in Gangtok. The main street outside our hotel was quite large. A number of buses, lorries and station wagons stood in the middle of the road. On both sides were shops of various kinds. It was obvious that business people from almost every corner of India had come to Sikkim. In many ways it was like Darjeeling, except that the number of people out on the streets was less, which helped keep the place both quiet and clean.

Stepping out of the paan shop, we
were wondering where to go next, when the figure of Mr Bose suddenly emerged from the mist. He appeared to be walking hurriedly in the direction of our hotel. Feluda waved at him as he came closer. He quickened his pace and joined us in a few seconds.
‘Disaster!’ he exclaimed, panting.
‘What happened?’
‘That accident . . . do you know who
it was?’
I felt myself go rigid with apprehension.
The next words Mr Bose spoke confirmed my fears. ‘It was SS,’ he said, ‘my partner'.
‘What! Where was he going?’
‘Who knows? What a terrible disaster, Mr Mitter!’
‘Did he die instantly?’
‘No. He was alive for a few hours
after being taken to a hospital. There
were multiple fractures. Apparently, he asked for me. He said, “Bose, Bose” a couple of times. But that was all.’
‘How did you find out?’ Feluda asked,
walking back to the hotel. We went into the dining hall. Mr Bose sat down quickly, wiping his face with a
handkerchief. ‘It’s a long story, actually,’ he replied. ‘You see, the driver survived. What happened was that when the boulder hit the jeep, the driver lost control. I believe the boulder itself wasn’t such a large one, but because the driver didn’t know where he was going, the jeep tilted to one side, went over the edge and fell into a gorge. The driver, however, managed to jump out in the nick of time. All he got was a minor cut
over one eye. But by the time he could scramble to his feet, the jeep had disappeared with Shelvankar in it. This happened on the North Sikkim Highway.
The driver began walking back to
Gangtok. On his way he found a group of Nepali labourers who helped him to go back to the spot and rescue Shelvankar. Luckily, an army truck happened to be passing by, so they could take him to a hospital almost immediately. But . . . well . . .’
There was no sign of the jovial and
talkative man who had accompanied us from Bagdogra. Mr Bose seemed shaken and deeply upset.
‘What happened to his body?’ Feluda
asked gently.
‘It was sent to Bombay. The
authorities here got through to his
brother there. SS had married twice, but both his wives are dead. There was a son from his first marriage, who fought with him and left home fourteen years ago. Oh, that’s another story. SS loved his son; he tried very hard to contact him, but he had vanished without a trace. So his brother was his next of kin. He
didn’t allow a post mortem. The body
was sent to Bombay the next day.
‘When did this happen?’
‘On the morning of the eleventh. He
had arrived in Gangtok on the seventh. Honestly, Mr Mitter, I can hardly believe any of this. If only I was with him . . . we might have avoided such a tragedy.’
‘What are your plans now?’
‘Well, there’s no point in staying here
any longer. I’ve spoken to a travel agent.
I should be able to fly back to Bombay
tomorrow.’ He rose. ‘Don’t worry about this, please,’ he added. ‘You are here to have a good time, so I hope you do. I’ll see you before I go.’

Mr Bose left. Feluda sat quietly,
staring into space and frowning. Then he repeated softly the words Mr Bose had uttered this morning: ‘One chance in a million . . . but then, a man can get struck by lightning. That’s no less amazing.’
The Bengali gentleman I had noticed
earlier had been sitting at an adjacent table, reading a newspaper. He folded it neatly the minute Mr Bose left, and came over to join us.
‘Namaskar,’ he said to Feluda, taking the chair next to him.