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After a hearty meal of pork momos and Darjeeling First Flush tea, I walked out of Gompu’s Bar and Restaurant near the clock tower in Kalimpong’s main market area. The weather was slightly rainy, so my parents decided to return to the hotel while I walked down the busy road on the other side through the market. Tourists like me were flocking around the souvenir shops and departmental stores selling shawls and caps. I lazily checked out a few Jap Jantra and magnets, deciding to come back later. One could easily distinguish between tourists and locals simply by how they dress anywhere in the world. The locals treated this as summer weather in Kalimpong and walked around in half-sleeved shirts and loose pants, while the tourists found it hard not to shiver even in hoodies and jackets in the rain. I was used to the weather in the UK, so I did not shudder as much, but the breeze was cold when it hit my face. I walked into one of the tea stalls, hoping to buy a good quality Darjeeling tea, when an old man beside me said in a gruff voice, “Aren’t you a detective?” I abandoned my fist full of dried tea leaves and turned to see him. He was taller than me, about sixty-five years old, with a very thick white moustache, a cane in hand, and wearing pants with suspenders and a cap. He did not have any winter wear on and looked like a local.
“Do I know you?” I asked unsurely. The man smiled. “No. But I know you, I read about your case with the diamonds in London.”
“Oh, does that news reach India?” I was surprised.
“Anything can reach anywhere with the internet now, isn’t it?” He appeared to be a little lost. “Say, are you on a holiday?” I nodded, and with my parents, I added.
“Can you come by my house sometime?” He sounded unsure.
“Do you need help?” I could detect that he wanted to say something. He nodded. “Sort of.”
“What is your name?” He chuckled at my question and apologised for not introducing himself. He was Col. Satadru Bagchi.
“Okay, I can come by after breakfast tomorrow. Tell me where you stay.” I agreed.
“Take the uphill road, and you will cross by the theatres, ask for the petrol pump, from there go further uphill, and you will cross by a few hotels, and the road narrows as it turns left towards the cactus gardens. My bungalow is in the corner plot. It has my name on the pillar and is easy to spot.”
“Very well.” I shook his hand. “I will see you tomorrow.”
“Pardon, where are you staying?” he asked.
“At The Elgin Silver Oaks.” I smiled politely. Honestly, I was waiting to trouble my mind back home for quite some time now. Have the police become more efficient, or have the people lost faith in private detectives? I could not tell. Finally, there is some sort of mystery to look forward to.
The next day, after breakfast, I decided to take a walk to the man’s house. It took around thirty minutes, and I realised I was not as fit as I imagined myself to be. I was puffing and panting when I reached the iron gates that led to a cobbled path between flower beds that led to the bungalow. Seeing me puff red as if the eggs I ate for breakfast would pop out of me, the servant came running by.
“Mr Sen?” He enquired as I nodded. “Sa’ab is waiting for you.” He took me inside the bungalow across a large living room with two sofa sets. The room opened into another, which could be called the study room. There were shelves of books and a couch with two armchairs in one corner and a desk with a chair behind it, and two in front of it on the other. Behind the desk was a set of locked drawers, a locker visible in plain sight and a few cupboards along the sides of the room. There was another door on the left of the desk leading into the house. The walls are paintings from Kangra, Rajasthan and Tribal arts. Tibetan Rugs hung from behind the drawer, covered in glass, and the way they shone, it looked like the threads were made of gold. The showcases above the drawers had a collection of Indian tribal art on display, Madhubani, Saora and Pithoro among the few I could recognise. I sat down to compose myself with water offered by the kind servant till the man came in.
Colonel Bagchi had an aura of authority around him with the way he walked. He came in as I stood up to greet him and immediately summoned his servant to bring me tea and cookies. I could see now that his walk was not very steady; he limped a little using the cane. He perhaps noticed it and said,
“I have been posted at Jaisalmer for nearly a decade and retired from there.” He sat with the help of his cane. “I fought the Kargil war, and got injured when a bullet hit this knee.” He tapped at it, “Then I have been posted in Rajasthan, Jaisalmer, Pokran.” I thanked him for his service to the nation.
“All this artwork…” I was amazed, perhaps because he wore a smile at my boyish curiosity. “My grandfather was an art dealer, and my father collected a few. The rest are mine.” He said with a nod, “Go ahead, look around.”
I got up from the couch and circled the room. The rug that hung nearest to me had a painting of Tara, in bright blue, green and golden, celestial beings over her head. Then there was a Kangra Valley painting of little Krishna stealing butter and consequently getting beaten by Jasoda and later being tied to a tree. The Madhubani was hand-stitched into the frame and represented bright red flowers over green bushes. The Rajasthani paintings were mainly from the Marwar school, with portraits of the daily life of royals in some, kings watching a dance or an elephant fight, queens taking a hookah, or at the riverside, their faces looking away from you, jewellery shining as though they were real. He pointed at the showcases now.
“Don’t forget to look at the ones there.”
Tiny rectangular pieces, the size of a thumb and smaller, drawn with images of kings riding elephants, durbars and Diwalis. So small yet so accurate, the colour palettes come alive as though they were painted with divine brushes.
“Notice the sky in these paintings,” He pointed out, “They represent the emotion or feelings of the protagonist, Nayak or Nayika.” I noticed how a lonely woman stood under a tree, a snake wrapped around the tree trunk, the sky was heavy with dark grey clouds, and she was looking up as if she was waiting for someone or perhaps the rain. Then there was a happy picture of women playing board games, swinging under trees, and the sky was bright blue with fluffy white clouds.
“That is interesting,” I spoke like a novice. I honestly could never decode paintings.
“The reason I called you.” Mr Bagchi said as we sat down again, and his servant served me tea. “I have a collection of miniature Ragamala paintings.”
“Ragamala?”
“Yes, it depicts the themes of the Ragas of music in a painting. Wait, I will show you one.” He put on his gloves that were kept on the desk and opened the drawer with a key tucked under his belt. He held out a small miniature painting.
“This one is from Mewar, Ragini Bhairavi.”
A woman sat kneeling in prayer before the Phallus of Lord Shiva in a temple in the forest. It seemed to be late in the night, with a starry sky and her hands folded, and a lamp shone at the temple, in whose light we see the face of the woman smiling serenely at the god she prayed to in Divine faith.
“Bhairava primarily is a Raga related to Lord Shiva. Hence the depiction. Look at the sky, it's starry and clear. As should be the heart of someone praying.”
“It's… beautiful.” I was unsure of how to answer him. “Do you know how these colours were made? They are all-natural, made of pulses and flowers, fruits and seeds. Oh, where was I? Once I start talking about them…”
“Why do you need my help?” I quipped.
“Oh yes, I have three of these, all Ragini Bhairavi paintings. Now, a few days ago, a man came to see me. He looked like a tourist and said he was interested in seeing the paintings. I let him in, and he offered me a price. I don’t sell the art I collect, so I naturally rejected his proposal.” Colonel Bagchi narrowed his brows in recollection, and his moustache seemed to go up with it in tandem.
“You asked his name?” I inquired as I took out my notebook. I know most detectives now like to record videos of conversations, but I still like it old school.
“Oh yes, he gave me a card.” He took it out of his shirt pocket.
“Mr Kanishq Kapoor.” The card read. “Art Dealer” There was an address in Asansol. Behind it, he had scribbled the information on where he was staying. “Morgan House.”
“That’s near the golf course, right?” I asked as he nodded.
“I told him I would not change my mind, but he said he would wait for my call.”
I was unsure of what he wanted from me.
“Now, the day before yesterday, I fear there was a thief at my house.”
“A thief? What did they take?” I naturally inquired.
“Nothing. That is the surprising part. I heard a noise and shouted. The servant who stays at my door came with a bamboo stick towards this room, and we found the locks of the drawer open.”
“And nothing was taken?” I raised my brows a little suspiciously.
“Nothing was taken. Nothing was broken into.” He shrugged.
“How is that possible if the key was with you?” I asked. “Do you have a duplicate?”
“Exactly the thing I want you to find out, young man. Because I do not have a duplicate.”
I nodded. “You have the key on your belt at all times?”
“Yes, and I have no spares. Nobody I can trust,” he shook his head.
“Where do you keep it when you sleep?”
“Under my pillow.”
“Are you a deep sleeper?” The man shook his head. “I am a soldier, Mr Sen, I think I would know if someone took a key from under my pillow.”
“And who else stays here with you?”
“My wife died a few years ago. My son comes by occasionally. He runs a hotel in Darjeeling. Apart from that, there is Ramdas, who cooks, cleans and takes care of me and the gardener, Charan. The guard comes at night and sleeps on the chair at the gate; he doesn’t have access to the house.”
“Did your son visit before the incident?”
“He was at home when it happened. But he sleeps with the help of pills, so he woke up much after I did, and we called the police.”
“Who was in charge of the case?” I noted.
“Mr Sangpo.” The man looked gruff. “He thought I was a fool or something. He said it was some petty thief who came looking for money.”
“How did he explain the key then?”
“He did not.” Mr Bagchi sighed hopelessly.
“Can I see the locked drawers?” He obliged.
There were miniature paintings and Pahari scripture paintings wrapped in vacuum pouches there. Gloves, tweezers and a few sprays and solutions to clean and maintain the paintings were kept at his desk with a picture of his wife, nothing more.
I took his leave, promising to look into the matter.
It was almost lunch time, so I joined my parents for a trip to the Cactus Garden and decided we would have our lunch with the beautiful view of the ranges there.
“ Where were you all morning?” My father enquired between morsels.
“I met with an art collector.” My parents exchanged a glance.
“Since when do you like art?” My mother said sarcastically.
“Well, I can always start.” I had no wish to tell them I was thinking of working on our holiday. They decided to retire for the evening while I walked up to the clock tower and booked a cab.
“Morgan House.” The Driver frowned. “No Visitors allowed there, Sir. It's evening.”
“No, no. I am going to meet someone.” He nodded and drove me there. At the gates, the guard stopped me.
“I am here to see Mr Kapoor. Mr Kanishq Kapoor.” I told him. He asked me to wait and called the front desk. I was told to go in.
The dusk was setting in, and a cool breeze blew; the wooden house that once stood in glory in the era of Mr Morgan now looked ghostly yet magnificent. I was greeted by a staff member and led to the lawn where the footlights lit up the path between the bushes. A man sat there in a brown coat and hat, with a cigar between his lips. Even in the darkness, the rings on his five fingers shone, reminding me of Thanos. He smiled and stood up, as I noticed the chain on his neck looked like the one Hardik Pandya would wear. He shook my hand with a smile. It appears, though, there has been some misunderstanding. He took me as a client. So I played along.
“I am looking for miniature paintings,” I told him briefly. “Ragamalas.”
His brows arched into a frown. “Which school?”
“Umm… Mewari…”
“Which Ragas are you looking for?”
“Bhairav…” I tried to sound confident.
“Do you collect, sir?” The man asked politely, rubbing his hands together. I nodded.
“Which other Ragamala do you have in your collection?” Shit, I did not think this through. Should I discreetly try to Google? Perhaps my face was a giveaway. The man stood up.
“Who are you? What do you want?” He asked, a little displeased.
“I collect…”
“Nonsense. I can smell novices from a mile away.” I inhaled.
“Fine, I am coming from Colonel Bagchi’s house.” His eyes shone,
“Will he finally sell me the paintings?” He asked. It looked like he did not know about the theft, and I was not going to give it away.
“No, he told me to investigate you.” Mr Kapoor laughed. Its sound seemed to echo through the valley.
“Investigate me? What am I? A criminal?”
“Well, you seemed passionate about the paintings.” I inserted.
“Well, sue me.” He shrugged. “Now that you have successfully wasted my time, please leave. It's dinner time.” I stood up.
On the ride back to the hotel, I wondered if he had something to do with it. I wanted to go back the next day and question the people who lived in the Bagchi Bungalow. That would be a start. What bothered me was the mystery of how the thief got the key.
I made the mistake of not informing Colonel Bagchi that I was visiting the next morning after breakfast. The gardener informed me that he was out and about in the marketplace ordering clothes for winter. I told them I could speak with them instead.
The Gardener, Charan, was a man in his twenties, but his hardened hands and face made him look older. He was about my height and of average build said that gardening was their family business for a long time. His father used to work for the British bungalows around there. He stayed in the garden, once a week from 7 AM to 4 PM and the supplies of fertilisers, tools and pesticides were kept in the storeroom at the back of the house, for which he used the back door. He came from Lingsay to tend to the gardens and knew nothing about the theft, even when the police questioned him. He was shocked that somebody could try to rob Babu, who had guns in the house.
The guard, Kangru, was in his forties and looked fit for his age. He said he was alert at the gate and saw nobody come in or go out. He took me around the house and explained how the walls did not provide much of a boundary on the sloppy side in the back. One could easily climb down the steep hill into the premises. I asked him if the police found any handprints or footprints, and he said they did. Mr Sangpo took the photographs. I made a mental note to visit Mr Sangpo.
The old servant, Ramdas, had a wrinkled face and hands and had lost a few teeth. He had been in Mr Bagchi’s service since he worked at Jaisalmer when Mrs Bagchi was sick. He followed them here after his retirement because Mrs Bagchi wanted a home in the hills she grew up in. He said he did sleep outside Babu’s door and was startled awake by the noise at the same time as Babu. He took the bamboo cane and went downstairs, but he saw nobody there, just the open window and open drawers. Choto Babu woke up when they were alerting the guard to look around and called the police. He provided a number for Colonel Bagchi’s son, Ravi.
It was almost afternoon when I reached the Police Station. It was at the intersection of two roads parallel to the clock tower and painted blue with seasonal flower beds looking over the mountain range. A few steps up from the main road and across two statues of their local heroes, you reached the tin-roofed blue house with the board “Kalimpong Police Station.”
“Mr Sangpo?” I gave the card to the constable and was summoned inside. Mr Sangpo was a soft-spoken, short man of Tibetan descent. He smiled and shook my hand.
“I never saw a private investigator in real life; it's a pleasure.” I nodded. I told him I was looking into Colonel Bagchi’s case, and he was surprised.
“Petty theft. Lots of homeless addicts around here.” He said suggestively.
“But someone stole his only key.” I frowned. Mr Sangpo leaned forward across the desk and whispered.
“Don’t mind me asking, have you background-checked the Colonel?” I frowned as he smiled sheepishly and continued. “The man is paranoid. I can’t blame him, given what he went through post-war. The trauma is there. He keeps thinking he will be robbed and murdered. Last winter, on a foggy morning, he tripped and fell on his garden path inside his premises. He called me and insisted someone had pushed him. They wanted him dead. Why would someone push you down a garden path?” Sangpo laughed a little, “ You would barely get a few stitches, not die.” I was quiet. Was it all the Colonel’s paranoia? If so, how did the servant see and hear the same things, too?
“Or did he? I mean, he will say what the Colonel insists.” Sangpo shrugged. “We found this footprint.” He showed me a muddy print of a shoe in a picture. “And guess what? It is the print of the kind of shoes the Police and Military provide. In his size.” Sangpo said suggestively. “Look, I have all the sympathy and respect for the man, but…”
“So you are trying to say he robbed himself in his paranoia?” I was shocked.
“Where is the robbery? When was anything stolen?” Sangpo asked. “You can investigate if you want, but I am sure there’s nothing.” I came out of the Police station, my head shrouded with more questions and mist, with a copy of the closed case file in my hand. I went to my hotel room and looked it over. It was then that my phone rang. It was the Colonel. He apologised for not seeing me today and asked if I had found anything.
“I will be available tomorrow. If you want to come over.” Suddenly, I remembered what Mr Sangpo said and was in two minds. “Okay,” I said reluctantly. “I also need to talk to your son.”
“Very well, I will call him and tell him to call you.” Colonel suggested.
“No, I will be going to Delo tomorrow with my parents. I will come back and call him myself.” I informed.
Delo was a beautiful and misty garden in the morning. The sun shone through the floating cloud, and the cool breeze made the numerous bushes of flowers sway. My parents were busy clicking pictures and bargaining with the horse riders while I walked towards the winding path leading to a gazebo from which one could see the city at a distance and traces of the river. A cloud had come around and covered the area in thick fog. I could hear my parents, but no longer see them. I sat down alone in the Gazebo, trying to clear my head. Should I not waste my time on Col Bagchi’s paranoia, or should I believe him? I heard faint footsteps around me, tourists chattering from within the crowd. I got up to make my way back to my parents, who seemed to have got into a disagreement over a picture. It was then that I heard someone running. It was coming towards me, and in a reflex, I had turned. Before I could make sense of anything, I was pushed down the slopes, and I rolled down the grass into the bushes. I screamed in agony. The fear of death gripped me, although I knew that rolling down these cliffs would perhaps make me paralysed but not dead. It would hinder my life. Luckily, my parents heard the sound and called out for me. They reached me soon after, and the doctor at Kalimpong said it was the bushes that saved me, and I had just a few scratches. “Did you trip down the path?” My mother enquired, and I nodded. If I had any doubt about Colonel Bagchi’s Paranoia, it was gone by now.
Despite my parents trying to stop me, I visited the Colonel in the evening. He enquired about my scratches.
“ I fell,” I said as he looked doubtful.
“Are you sure you were not pushed?” He asked.
“Why would you say that?” I feigned surprise.
“I was once pushed down the garden path. That idiot Sangpo did not believe me.”
“Did you know who did it?” I asked. He nodded.
“I have no proof, but I think it's my son.”
“Your son? What does he want?” Till this point, he had not talked about his son much.
“He wants to turn this Bungalow into a hotel. Not till I am alive. If I am not, he is the sole heir and can do whatever he wants.”
“He could kill for that?” I was shocked. “I mean, it's not easy to kill…”
“He can do anything. He abandoned his cadet program and ran away when he was nineteen. It was such a shame. He came back after a year, saying he was in a partnership business with someone in Kolkata.” he shook his head “He neither studied for his degree nor in the academy. Always ran after money.”
“You forgave him?”
“I had to for my wife.” He shook his head. “She always took his side, told me I should value his vision, to follow his dreams.”
“When did he start the hotel in Darjeeling?” I asked with a frown, mentally making a chronology of the events.
“After I moved here, he said You are getting old, I should stay closer. But in a few weeks, I knew his real intention. He wanted the bungalow for his hotel chain.” Mr Bagchi sneered.
“Could he have tried to steal…” I stopped at his glance.
“It did cross my mind, but … he was genuinely asleep.” He shook his head. “I counted his medicines too; he did take one.”
I understood that although the Colonel spoke otherwise, a part of him hoped it was not his son. I needed to speak to Ravi.
“I am sorry you came and could not see me yesterday,” he changed the topic as the tea arrived, this time with Mutton Singara.
“Oh, that is no issue.” I shook my head as I took a bite.
“I always go to my tailor around this time to choose the fabrics and order my winter clothes.” I enquired about the name. Hill Style Tailor, he said and recommended me. I saw the signboard somewhere during my travels. I nodded. “You should get some winter clothes made here. It's better than in your city.” He suggested. I thanked him for the snacks and got up. I was walking downhill when a thought suddenly struck me. I took a turn and reached the market area, looking for the tailoring shop. It took ten minutes and two people to help me find the shop. It had a large glass door, and inside you could see the fabrics and coats hanging in display. I walked in.
“Welcome, sir, coat for you?” The salesman quipped. The man behind the counter was going through the bills. He was bald and in his sixties with a rimless pair of glasses on his nose.
“Excuse me, I wanted to ask if Colonel Bagchi is your customer.” He looked up from behind the glasses with a frown and nodded.
“Did he come here yesterday?” The man looked puzzled as he stared at the salesman. The man shook his head.
“I don’t think he did. But we stepped out to buy our lunch after opening the shop for a while. Wait, I will ask…Bilaal? Bilaal.” He called someone who appeared from behind the curtain in between the shelves. He had a measuring tape around his neck and a pencil behind his ear, and looked in his thirties with a thin moustache under his nose.
“Did Colonel come around yesterday when I was out with him?” The shopowner enquired. Bilaal shook his head. “No, he did not.” I frowned a little.
“Is something wrong?” He asked.
“No, I was just… told to make some alteration to his orders,” I spoke unmindfully and walked out. It had started to drizzle, and I wondered what was happening. If the Colonel was sick or paranoid, there was one person who would know: Ravi. I dialled his number. It was unreachable. I left a voice message introducing myself and requesting a callback.
I was lying down in the soft hotel room bed with a view of the Himalayas, quenching the thirst of wanderlust in me, when my phone rang. It was Ravi. I sprang up and said hello in a gruff voice.
“What is this about?” He sounded clueless.
“Well, Mr Bagchi, I am a private investigator and your father summoned me to investigate a theft at your place.”
“A theft?” He sounded astonished. “What got stolen again?”
“No, it's about the home invasion when you were present.” I corrected myself.
“Oh, well, nothing was stolen, right?” He enquired.
“Yes, as of now.” I cleared my throat “But your father thinks the thief is still at large.”
“Mr Sangpo said it was an odd incident and not targeted…” Ravi spoke again. He had no idea why I was hired.
“I would have agreed to that had the drawers been broken into and not opened with a key. Your father has the only key, right?”
“That’s not true, there is a spare in the locker at the Bank. Though only he and I have access to it.” Ravi made me frown. “You can call the Bank of India to check if he or anyone came around to get the keys.” He suggested.
“I would do that, but I wanted to ask you something else.” He waited, “Do you think your father is paranoid?”
“Paranoid?” He seemed to be shocked. “From what?”
“He told Mr Sangpo that someone attacked him.”
“He did?” Ravi asked, unable to process this new information. “When?”
“Did he not tell you about a fall in the garden?”
“Oh, he did, he said he tripped.” Ravi’s statement made me introspect. “But he said nothing about an attack. I went home the very next day and even spoke to his doctor, who insisted his injury was minor.”
“That is… umm… okay…” So Mr Bagchi did lie. But why?
“Does he have a regular doctor? Perhaps a therapist?” Ravi chuckled softly at my words. “We live in the hills, sir, not big cities like you; our mountains are our therapy. He does have Dr Bose, who looks after him. Her chamber is on the Main road up towards the clock tower. But do you think my father is paranoid?” He sounded concerned.
“Well, Mr Sangpo does think so,” I replied. “I am no expert, and neither is he. You should perhaps get him checked by someone reliable.”
“Thank you so much.” I disconnected the call. Then I dialled the hotel reception from the room.
“Can you connect me to any counsellor, therapist or psychologist in the area?” The receptionist was a little stumped at my request. Had I been in front of me, he was sure to judge my mental condition. “Sure, sir.” He disconnected only to call back after a few minutes with two names and numbers. “Dr Dangsu is good, sir,” he suggested. I thanked him and called the number, telling them who I was. An appointment was set at 5 PM.
All day, I was preoccupied with the thought that someone perhaps did attack Mr Bagchi. I felt a push myself when I stumbled. It wasn’t a lie, so perhaps Mr Bagchi wasn’t lying. Besides, how could he make up for the home invasion? His servant saw it. The guard was alerted. There was a footprint outside the window. He couldn't do all that or even step out of his room without alarming Ramdas. But what made me wonder was why would a targeted invasion by anyone happen when his young son was in town? It's always easier with older men. At 4.30, I hailed a cab and wore my long coat and boots. It was chilling outside in the fog and rain.
Dr Dangsu was a polite young man. He invited me in, and I told him I was asking for something for an investigation. He gushed as though he were in a movie.
“Tell me how I can be of any help.”
“Do people with stress suffer from paranoia?” I asked.
“What kind of stress?” He leaned in “What type of paranoia?” I was reluctant. He smiled. “Look, I can’t help you unless you trust me with information.” I nodded.
“Soldiers. Who has seen the worst? Paranoia of being stalked, attacked or killed?” His eyebrows were raised.
“Have you been hired by Colonel Bagchi?” He asked. “Heard of some theft at his home recently.” I smiled silently. He nodded.
“Well, soldiers often suffer PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It is a type of trauma-induced symptom that may happen when something traumatic or big happens, which in his case is killing others and surviving near-death situations.”
“He did have a bullet lodged in his knee that forced him to retire,” I murmured.
“The impact of being unable to serve as long as he should have or being pushed to a less dangerous job because of his health can also be an issue.” He nodded. “In that case, there can be two factors. One, he needed attention and made things up, knowing that he was lying, or he felt genuinely in danger from even the simple things and is paranoid. In the latter case, he would not know that he is making things up.”
“But how can you feel paranoid if nothing happens?” Mr Dungsu smiled at my question.
“See this pen.” He picked one up from the stand. “Suppose I keep it down and it rolls towards you.” He demonstrated as I picked up the pen before it fell off the edge of his desk.
“A paranoid person will think I pushed it at them on purpose or I was trying to intimidate them.” My brows narrowed as I nodded. “It is simple, everyday things like the wind whispering in your ears, or something falling that makes a paranoid person feel they are in danger.” I thanked the doctor for seeing me and left, wondering what a strange world the human brain was. We saw and believed whatever it wanted us to, even if it wasn’t real. It was scary to imagine that maybe everything we put reason to is wrong on a vast scale, but our mind makes us feel otherwise.
My next stop was at Dr Bose’s house. I made Mr Bagchi call her for an appointment and requested the doctor not to let his father know. The doctor and her husband welcomed me warmly.
“My my, you are so young.” Mr Bose smiled. “I imagined someone older.”
“Now now. The youth of our country are smarter than you think,” Dr Bose led me to the living room and requested some tea from the servant. Perhaps because she was at home in her regular clothes, she looked less like a doctor.
“Can you tell me how Colonel Bagchi is doing health-wise?”
“Well, his parameters are fine, he seems fit for his age, walks twice daily, is busy with his hobbies, nothing alarming.” She shrugged.
“You were there when he fell last year?” I asked.
“Oh yes, I did the stitches.” She nodded. “He was bruised, too.”
“Did it look like he was pushed or …” Dr Bose sat up straight with a frown from her casual leaning against the sofa.
“What do you mean?” She asked. “He said he tripped.”
“He also told the police that he was pushed.” Dr Bose shook her head. “Who would do such a thing? He did not even suffer major injuries.”
“Well, I was also… attacked.” I indicated my bruises. She looked concerned. “We should go to the police immediately if Colonel Bagchi is not safe.”
“I did go, but they did not help much. But from where I see, the danger is not in his life.” I said unmindfully.
“Then?” The doctor was eager.
“I think someone is after his artwork. There is an art dealer who is now in town, Mr Kapoor, but other than that…”
“ If you need any help, I am a call away.” The doctor offered.
I was walking back through the winding road between the pine trees using the light of my phone torch when something struck me. I called up the colonel.
“Sir, I am sorry to disturb you so late…” I said hurriedly. “I wanted to ask something.”
“It's okay, young man, I know detectives have no working hours. Tell me.” His familiar gruff voice spoke on the phone.
“Was the key to those drawers on you when you fell in the garden path and were unconscious?” The man gasped.
“Yes, it was. But the guard and servant said they came around immediately when they heard the sound.” He inhaled. “What is on your mind?”
“The fact that it takes a few seconds to imprint a key on soap and put it back on an unconscious body,” I said suggestively.
“Thank you for believing I was attacked, son.” He said briefly. “The police didn’t.”
I decided to go to the Bank the next day to check if the key was taken and re-question the staff at the house.
The Bank of India branch was in a beautiful wooden cottage in the valley. It was a small branch with a few employees and an ever-smiling manager, Mr Das, who had just transferred from Kolkata.
“No, sir.” He shook his head, checking his computer. “There is no entry suggesting Mr Bagchi’s locker has been opened since October last year. Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing, he tends to forget so…” I lied through my teeth, “His son sent me.” I knew Ravi had called ahead and informed the bank of my arrival.
I came out of the Bank, and the weather was sunny. The sun was up, the valley cleared, and I could see the magnificent Kanchenjunga. I took a moment to appreciate its magnificent beauty.
I decided to visit the Bagchi Bungalow again after lunch. This time, Mr Bagchi was there, tending to the seasonal orchids in the garden, and he waved at me and removed his gloves.
“I am here to talk to your staff again,” I said after a greeting. I was welcomed in and sat in the living room with a warm cup of Makaibari first flush, cookies and some homemade fruit cake, while one by one the staff came in. First, it was the gardener.
Charan was standing across the room with his hands folded when I told him to sit down. He refused cordially and enquired what this was about.
“Were you there the day Babu fell on the garden path?” I enquired as he scratched his head. “I was there that morning, yes, not when he fell.”
“When did you come back?”
“The next week, as usual.”
“Did he mention any paintings to you?”
“I am an illiterate person, Sa’ab. Why would Babu mention those things to me?”
“Did anyone visit or look around the house lately? Except Mr Kapoor?” He shook his head. “Not while I was around.”
“Who else was in the house when he fell?”
“I am not sure, Sa’ab, but I think Ramdas was the only one around.”
“But I was told you also…”
“It was not my working day, Sa’ab. You can ask Ramdas. Babu tends to forget.”
Kangru said he had been working nights and found nobody around the house.
“It's quiet here at night, Sa’ab. I would have heard something had someone come in or around the house earlier.”
“Does the window to the room remain open?” I enquired. He could not say. Ramdas could perhaps.
“No Sa’ab.” Ramdas nodded. “It's cold at night, all windows are closed.”
“Who closes them?”
“I do Sa’ab, in the afternoon itself.” He insisted.
“Do you check the house before you go to sleep?”
“I do now.” He said with a smile.
“So anyone could just be hiding inside after dark?” I suggested. He frowned.
“Would that not be risky? If Babu spotted them? He has guns.”
“The day Babu fell, who was here?”
“I was Sa’ab. I called the doctor. And Choto Babu.”
“Does your Babu follow routines strictly?” Ramdas nodded. Colonel Bagchi was a man of habit. It made me wonder if anyone keeping an eye could observe that he did not go to the living room or meet people after sundown. It would be perfect to hide there, too. Then escape through the window. But something made him uneasy at my indication.
“Babu said he went to the tailor that day.” Ramdas nodded. “Did he?” Ramdas nodded again, more firmly.
“He gave me the bill to pick up the clothes next week.”
“Can I see that?” Ramdas excused himself and came back with the bill. I eyed it. It did look genuine, but then why would the people at the tailoring shop lie?
I decided to tail the owner, and finally caught him in the morning alone, buying fruits in the main market.
“I needed to talk to you in private.” I bet he was not very pleased to see me snooping around like that, but he was cooperative when he heard that I saw the bill. He took me back to his shop before his employees arrived and checked the bills.
“My god, you are right, see this.” he turned the pages towards me. “This serial number is off; a bill is missing.”
“Who made the bill for him?” I enquired. “Do you have CCTV?”
“I am a small business owner, Sir.” He said humbly and checked the bills before and after that. “It looks like Bilaal.”
“The tailor?” He nodded. It could be a possibility that he was the one who took the impression of the key when Mr Bagchi came for the measurements. I was wondering if Bilaal had informants in the police telling him about Mr Bagchi’s paranoia or someone on the inside.
“Where can I find Bilaal?”
“He lives in the village near Khasmahal.” The owner shrugged, “That’s what he told me.”
I came out of the shop, thanking him and was thinking of having breakfast when my phone rang.
“Mr Sen.” Colonel Bagchi sounded terrified. “My miniatures are gone.”
I dialled Sangpo before going to the Bungalow and told him about the theft as well as Bilaal. When I reached the house, Colonel Bagchi was sitting on the living room couch with his hand on his head, the drawers and cupboards looked open and ransacked, the servant, gardener and guard stood in a corner, silent and scared.
“Choto Babu is on his way,” Ramdas informed me. I waited for Sangpo to arrive before I put on gloves and touched a few things. There was no hampering with the key; the back door was open this time, and the miniature of Bhairavi worshipping Lord Shiva was missing. Colonel Bagchi had put everything away in the drawers under my suggestion.
Sangpo took me aside and apologised for not being serious about my concerns. He also revealed that Bilaal never lived at the address he provided. They don’t know someone named Bilaal.
“How many tailors live in and around here?” I frowned. “He could not have gone far.”
“The ID he gave the owner was false, but it did have his picture, so we have sent an alert.” Sangpo insisted, “alerted the borders and railway too.”
“Could it be possible that Bilaal was not a tailor after all?” I asked curiously. “Can we talk to the owner again?” he nodded. He eyed the servants and said he wished to interrogate them first; there was an insider involved, especially when all three had access to the back door. Someone was desperate for the painting.
“Mr Kapoor could have sent someone,” I said instinctively. I had not had breakfast, and my stomach was churning, so I decided to have noodles before going to the shop again. The owner was angry and shouting as the salesman stood quietly. Bilaal had not shown up to work.
Seeing me, the owner’s face turned pale. He could sense trouble.
“He was employed six months ago.”
“His name and ID are not real. Bilaal doesn’t exist.”
“My God, why will he do such a thing?” The man sat down, horrified.
“What happened to your previous tailor?”
“Oh, he got a good offer from a shop in Darjeeling.” The owner nodded. “I could not pay him that much.”
“Did you know the name of this shop?” he shook his head and eyed his salesman. “It was on Mall Road, that’s all he told me.”
“His name?”
“Tsangzu. He recommended Bilaal a week after he left. Said he had been a neighbour.”
“Was Bilaal good at his work?” I saw the man look irked.
“Not at all, I was thinking of firing him when a few customers complained.”
I took his leave and dialled Sangpo, telling him to look into the old tailor and his new workplace. Then I decided to visit Mr Kapoor again. Sure enough, he refused to meet me, but as I was leaving, at the gate of the Morgan house, I spotted him heading towards the lawn with a man in a suit. A buyer, perhaps, for what?
Sangpo was quick to action once the crime happened. He kept repeating that such crimes were rare in his jurisdiction and a bad reflection on his records. He found out the owner of the shop, and surprisingly enough, Tsangzu said he never recommended anyone called Bilaal. “Your previous employee got a phone call.” The police had insisted. I was curious about the tailoring shop. Who was the owner? “Ratan Ghosh,” Sangpo read out from his notes. “His father is a retired officer who served in Kargil.”
“Wait a minute.” I shook my head. “Ask him if he knows Ravi.” Sangpo’s face lit up.
I was supposed to leave Kalimpong the next morning, but I let my disappointed parents go by, finally telling them I had a case in hand. I could not leave till Bilaal was caught. His picture was posted everywhere, and it was a matter of time. Sangpo called after two days to inform Ravi was at the house because the Colonel fell sick, and that Bilaal’s lookalike was spotted in a Bhutia slum near the borders. I decided to visit the Bungalow while Sangpo followed his lead.
Colonel Bagchi looked like he had aged even more. He was bedridden and lamenting about thieves among friends when I walked in, led by Ramdas. Ravi was sitting by his bedside and looked a little irked.
“Who told you to bring in visitors to his bedroom, Ramdas? Can’t you see he is unwell?” Ravi snapped. He did not look anything like his father. He was shorter, lean and had a messy beard.
“This is Detective Sen,” Ramdas spoke in a murmur.
“So?” Ravi looked irked. Colonel Bagchi opened his eyes and stopped him with a hand gesture.
“Let him come in.” He said feebly. I felt sorry for the man.
“I want to talk to him. You can rest.” I insisted as Ravi led me to the living room.
“How can I help you?” He asked.
“Do you know Mr Kanishq Kapoor?”
“Never heard of him,” Ravi said with a straight face.
“And Ratan Ghosh?”
“Who?” He raised his eyebrows.
“Ratan Ghosh.” I clenched my jaw. “He studied in the same Army school as you when your fathers were posted at Kargil.”
“Could be,” he shrugged. “I changed homes a lot because of his job. I don’t remember…”
“That is odd, he stays in Darjeeling too.” He smiled at my tone.
“Many Bengalis do, Mr Sen?” Ravi shrugged, “So what?”
I was irked by his confidence.
He offered his hand to shake, and I refused.
“I hope you don’t try to leave because a policeman will be posted at your door …” I walked away from the house.
Sangpo did not find Bilaal in the slum, but people did identify him as Harun, who came from Lingsay and settled there for some time. The name struck me. Charan was from that village. Sangpo arrested the gardener from his house and took him into interrogation. He said Harun was his cousin, but he had no idea where he was.
“And you had nothing to do with this?” Sangpo waved his cane and smashed it at his knee as he let out a groan. “You think we are fools?”
“Tell us who paid you, and you can be a witness.” I reminded him gently. Charan seemed to believe me. He told the police that once, when Colonel Bagchi was visiting Dr Bose, Mr Kapoor had come over when Ravi was home. They exchanged numbers, and Mr Kapoor came back again when Col Bagchi refused to sell him the paintings. He had contacted Ravi as a backup plan already.
The rest was easy to deduce as I explained to Sangpo that Ravi knew it was not easy to get the keys from his father. He tried knocking the man out on the garden path, and that was when Charan probably saw something. He wanted a part in it and introduced Ravi to Harun. Ravi wanted it to sound like his father’s paranoia and the fact that he planned the false theft. So he needed the keys. He led me to the duplicate, knowing it would mislead us. He was unsure until they visited his tailor, and he watched his father remove the keys for measurement. He went back to Darjeeling and found out Ratan was looking for a tailor. The opportunity knocked at his door now. He recommended Tsangzu and called the tailoring shop number, recommending Bilaal. He had already taken Charan into confidence. He made sure the back door was slightly open, and the window was open from the inside the first time. Ravi did take his sleeping pills to avoid suspicion, but they did not anticipate how alert the Colonel was at his age. The plan failed, and we started snooping around. This time, they were more desperate. I feel Ravi did not come home after his father got sick. He came ahead and waited somewhere. He or Charan mixed sleeping pills in the food that both Ramdas and Colonel consumed to make sure they did not wake up this time. Otherwise, the thief would never have taken his sweet time. He knew they wouldn’t wake up. It struck me the first time itself, for I was told numerous times how alert the Colonel was. Perhaps a reaction to that got him sick as well. Ravi pretended to come by and help after he had met Mr Kapoor and finished his transaction. I saw him that day at Morgan House. I thought it was a buyer, not a seller. Charan stayed employed to avoid suspicion, and Harun ran. Ravi is waiting for his payment after Mr Kapoor verifies the goods. He will escape once he gets it.
“But why? He would have owned them all after the Colonel.”
“Well, he could not wait. His Hotel business is doomed.” I shrugged. Charan agreed now. He had heard the Babus have a heated argument about money while attending to the bushes outside the bedroom.
“And the military shoes?” Sangpo enquired.
“It was also Ravi’s idea to steal his father’s shoes and make Harun wear them to confuse the police.” Sangpo looked embarrassed at the fact that he had been fooled.
“Well, I have dispatched two officers to arrest Ravi and one to get Mr Kapoor here. He has to give up the artwork, as it was stolen or face jail time. I think he’s intelligent enough to do the right thing.”
When Ravi walked into the police station, he spotted me standing there with my hand in my pocket. He seemed agitated as he shook the grip of the constable off his shoulder and came up to me.
“So this is what you do in your fine detective work? Instead of finding the actual thief, Bilaal or whoever he is, you are accusing the victim.”
“You are not the victim, Mr Bagchi. I have noticed you for a while now.”
“Why will I try to kill my father in the same place I want a hotel?” He sounded irked.
“Oh, you never wanted to kill your golden duck, Mr Bagchi, you just wanted money.” Sangpo intervened and took him away before he could utter another word.
“Find whoever this Bilaal is, and he will tell you he doesn’t know me.” He kept repeating.
Bilaal or Harun was found in the Teesta Bazaar trying to buy his way to Bhutan from some locals there. He was arrested but not questioned much because Charan had already spoken of his involvement in the plan and incriminated Ravi in exchange for a lesser sentence. I visited the Colonel the next day before leaving Kalimpong. My flight was from Bagdogra at noon. He thanked me for my job, and I could see the sadness in his face. Sometimes you win cases, but clients can’t be happy. He insisted I take a painting as a token of appreciation, so I chose a leaf painting of Ramayana to take along. He smiled politely, saying it was an interesting choice, the scene of Kumbhakarna being arrowed by Ram and Laxman. It will look good on my living room wall back in Fulham.
The End
