The Bandits of Bombay: Adventures of Feluda Read Free

mild.
    When we landed at Santa Cruz, Lalmohan babu had already taken out the brown packet and was clutching it in his hand. We made our way to the domestic lounge and were looking around, when a voice suddenly said, ‘Mr Ganguli?’ We turned to our right to find a man in a dark red terylene shirt looking eagerly at a south Indian gentleman. It was he who had asked the question. The south Indian man looked faintly irritated, shook his head and went on his way. Lalmohan babu approached red shirt.
    ‘I am Mr Ganguli and this is from Mr Sanyal,’ he said in one breath.
    Red shirt took the packet, inclined his head, said ‘thank you’ and left. Lalmohan babu, having done his duty, looked relieved and dusted his hands.
    Our luggage emerged half an hour later. It was 1.20 when we collected it. By the time we reached the city, it would be nearly two o'clock. Pulak Ghoshal had sent a car to meet us, and told us its number. It turned out to be a mustard-coloured Standard. Its driver was both smart and cheerful. He could speak Hindi and English and didn't seem to mind at all that he'd been hired to drive three strangers from Calcutta. On the contrary, judging by the salute he gave Lalmohan babu, it appeared that he was quite gratified by his assignment. It was he who told us that we were booked at the Shalimar Hotel in the city. Pulak Ghoshal would meet us there at 5.30. In the meantime, we could keep the car and were free to go where we liked.
    Feluda had read up on Bombay before our arrival, as was his wont. According to him, unless you learned something about a place before you went to visit it, you could never really get to know it fully. Just as a person can be identified not just by his appearance and character, but also by his personal history, so can a city. The appearance and character of Bombay were still unknown to Feluda, but he did know that our hotel was near Kemp's Corner.
    We left the airport. As soon as our car left the highway and took a road to go to the city, Feluda spoke to the driver. ‘See that taxi in front of us? MRP 3538. Follow it, please,’ he said.
    ‘Hey, what's going on?’ Lalmohan babu asked.
    ‘Simple curiosity about something,’ Feluda replied.
    Our car overtook a scooter and two Ambassadors and slipped behind the Fiat taxi Feluda had indicated. The passenger on its back seat was visible through the glass. It was the man in the red shirt.
    My heart gave a tiny lurch. Nothing had happened, I didn't even know why Feluda wanted to follow that taxi; yet I felt a bit nervous, I suppose because the whole thing was so unexpected. Lalmohan babu said nothing more. He knew there was no point in asking Feluda to explain his behaviour. The real reason behind his action would be revealed at the right time.
    Our driver drove on, keeping close to the taxi. We began taking in all the sights of a new city. One thing that struck all of us was the presence of large hoardings and posters of Hindi films on virtually every road. I couldn't remember having seen such a thing, in such large numbers, in any other city. Lalmohan babu craned his neck to read what was written on many of them. Then he said, ‘There are so many names … but the writer of the story is hardly mentioned on these! Don't these people use writers?’
    ‘Lalmohan babu,’ Feluda told him, ‘if you are expecting to make a name as a writer, then Bombay is not the right place for you. Stories aren't written, but manufactured here. It is a commodity, a consumer product, like any other. Who would know the name of the person who actually makes Lux soap, tell me? At the most, one might know the name of the company. You should simply be happy that you are being paid for your pains. Take your payment, and keep quiet. Forget about recognition.’
    ‘I see …’ Lalmohan babu sounded quite concerned. ‘You mean Bengal will bring fame, and Bombay will produce fortune?’
    ‘Exactly,’ said Feluda.
    By this time, we were passing through an area that