I am a detective in the police force. In my life, there were only two aims — my wife and my work. Earlier, I lived in a joint family. Because my wife did not receive proper respect there, I quarrelled with my elder brother and left home with her. My brother had been supporting me, so suddenly leaving his shelter with my wife was an act of great daring on my part.
But I never lacked confidence in myself. I knew for certain that just as I had won over a beautiful wife, I could also win over reluctant Fortune. Mahimchandra would not lag behind in this world.
I entered the police department in a humble position, but it did not take me long to rise to the post of detective.
Just as a bright flame leaves soot, so too from my wife’s love came the darkness of jealousy and suspicion. This sometimes hindered my work. In police duty, one cannot always choose convenient times and places; one has to work more at inconvenient times and places. This only made my wife’s natural suspicion even stronger. To frighten me, she would say, “You go anywhere at any time, and we meet so rarely. Don’t you ever feel anxious for me?” I would reply, “Suspicion is our profession, that is why I do not bring it home.”
My wife would say, “Suspicion is not my profession — it is my nature. If you ever give me even the slightest reason to doubt you, I am capable of anything.”
I had made a firm resolve that I would become the greatest of all detectives and make a name for myself. I read every available account and story on the subject; I left nothing unread. But reading them only increased my dissatisfaction and restlessness.
The reason was that the criminals of our country are timid and foolish, their crimes lifeless and simple. There is no complexity or difficulty in them. Our murderers cannot contain within themselves the fierce excitement of shedding human blood. A forger spreads his net and immediately gets himself entangled in it from head to foot; he knows no clever trick to escape the web of his own crime. In such a lifeless country, there is neither joy nor glory in being a detective.
Many times, after easily arresting a Marwari gambler in Barabazar, I would say to myself, “O disgrace of the criminal race! Ruining others is the work of talented masters. Someone as clumsy and stupid as you should have become a saint instead.” And to a murderer I would say in my mind, “Was the government’s tall gallows made for worthless creatures like you? You have neither bold imagination nor stern self-control. How dare you call yourselves murderers!”
When my mind’s eye saw the crowded streets of London and Paris, with tall buildings on both sides piercing the misty winter sky, my whole body would thrill. I would think: “Just as streams of people, streams of work, streams of festivals, and streams of beauty flow ceaselessly through those buildings and lanes, so too, beneath it all, moves a dark, cunning, terrifying current of crime. It is this hidden presence that gives European social life its vast, thrilling charm. But in the open-windowed houses of our Calcutta, there is nothing but cooking, household chores, examination studies, card games, quarrels between husband and wife, or at most, family separations and legal consultations. Looking at any house, one never feels that perhaps at this very moment, in some corner of that house, Satan sits with his face hidden, hatching his black eggs.”
Often I would go out on the streets and observe the faces and gaits of passers-by. Whenever someone appeared even slightly suspicious, I would secretly follow him, find out his name, address, and history, and then discover with deep disappointment that he was an innocent, respectable man. Even his relatives spread no serious scandal about him behind his back. The person I thought looked most villainous — the one I was sure had just committed some dreadful deed — would turn out to be the second teacher of a school returning home after class. Such people, had they been born in another country, might have become famous thieves or dacoits. It was only the lack of sufficient vitality and manliness that made them spend their lives as teachers and die after drawing a pension. After much effort, my contempt for the harmlessness of that second teacher became deeper than any I had ever felt for a petty pot-and-pan thief.
At last, one evening, near our own house, I saw a man under a gas lamp. Without any apparent reason, he was restlessly pacing up and down the same spot. I had no doubt that he was engaged in some secret mischief. Hiding in the darkness, I observed his appearance carefully — he was young and remarkably good-looking. I said to myself, “This is the perfect face for wrongdoing. Those whose faces are their greatest witnesses against them should carefully avoid all crime. They may fail in honest work, but success in crime is beyond their reach.” This young man’s face was his greatest asset. I admired him silently for a long time and thought, “If you can make proper use of the rare advantage God has given you, then bravo!”
I came out of the darkness, slapped him on the back and said, “Hello! How are you?” He started violently and turned deathly pale. I said, “Forgive me, I made a mistake. I thought you were someone else.” In my mind I knew I had made no mistake. But such excessive startled reaction was unworthy of him, and it disappointed me a little. He should have had better control over his body. Even among criminals, the highest ideals are rare. Nature is stingy even in making the perfect thief.
From hiding, I saw him leave the gas lamp in fear and walk away. I followed. He entered the round pond garden and lay down on the grassy bank, gazing at the sky. I thought this was a better place for plotting than under the lamp — if anyone suspected anything, they would at most think the young man was drawing his beloved’s face on the dark sky to make up for the moonless night. My interest in the boy grew stronger.
I made enquiries and learned where he lived. His name was Manmatha. He was a college student who had failed his exams and was wandering about during the summer vacation while his hostel mates had all gone home. During the long vacation, every student leaves the hostel. I became determined to find out what evil planet kept this one from going home.
I too dressed as a student and took a room in his lodging. The first day he saw me, he gave me a strange look. I could not quite understand it — as if he was surprised, as if he had guessed my intention. I realized he was worthy prey for a hunter; he could not be caught easily in a straightforward way.
Yet when I tried to befriend him, he did not hesitate at all. But it seemed he too observed me with sharp eyes and wanted to understand me. Such constant, alert curiosity about human character is the mark of a master. I was delighted to see so much cleverness at such a young age.
I thought that without bringing a woman into the middle, it would not be easy to open the heart of this extraordinarily cunning young man.
One day, in an emotional voice, I told Manmatha, “Brother, I love a woman, but she does not love me.”
At first he looked at me with a startled glance, then smiled slightly and said, “Such misfortune is not rare. It is for this kind of sport that the playful Creator made men and women different.”
I said, “I need your advice and help.” He agreed.
I invented many stories. He listened to everything with eager curiosity, but spoke little. I had thought that sharing tales of love, especially forbidden love, quickly deepens intimacy. But here there was no such sign. The young man became quieter than before, yet he seemed to take in every word. My respect for him knew no bounds.
Meanwhile, I could not discover what Manmatha did every day behind closed doors, nor how far his secret plan had advanced. Yet it was clear that it was advancing. Some deep matter occupied him, and it had now reached full ripeness — one could tell just by looking at this young man’s face. I secretly opened his desk with a duplicate key. There was only a notebook of rather incomprehensible poems, college lecture notes, and a few insignificant letters from home. The letters proved that his relatives had repeatedly urged him strongly to return home. Yet he had a valid reason for not going — if it were an honest reason, it would surely have come out in conversation long ago. The likelihood that it was the opposite made his movements and history intensely interesting to me. He was not an ordinary schoolboy. He belonged to that vast, ancient race of people who remain completely hidden underground and keep shaking human society from below. In the guise of a harmless, bespectacled modern Bengali student, he studied his college lessons. Had he appeared as a skull-bearing Kapalik, his terror would not have seemed more terrifying to me. I respected him.
At last, I had to bring a woman in person. Harimati, who was on the police payroll, helped me. I told Manmatha that I was the unfortunate lover of this Harimati. It was for her that I had been reciting “Why does the moon rise again in the sky” repeatedly by the round pond beside Manmatha. Harimati too, partly from the heart and partly in play, let it be known that she had given her heart to Manmatha. But the result was not as hoped. Manmatha watched everything with distant, unmoved curiosity.
Then one afternoon, I found some torn pieces of a letter on his floor. Putting them together, I made out the incomplete sentence: “Today at seven in the evening, secretly, at your lodging…” I could find nothing more despite much searching.
That evening I invited Manmatha to dinner outside, but he refused, saying he was not well. I sat in his room chatting. Growing restless, he reminded me to bring Harimati. I left, but hid nearby and watched. Soon a closed palanquin arrived and entered the house. My heart beat wildly. I stealthily climbed the stairs and stood listening.
Manmatha was sitting facing the stairs. Opposite him sat a veiled woman. I burst in, pretending I had forgotten my watch. Manmatha turned pale. “Who is this lady?” I demanded in a voice trembling with triumph.
The veil was lifted.
It was my own wife.
What happened after that can easily be imagined.
This was the first thief I caught in my career as a detective.
Some time later, I said to detective Mahimchandra, “Even if the relationship between Manmatha and your wife is not against society…”
Mahimchandra said, “It may not be. This letter from Manmatha to my wife was found in her box.” And he handed me the letter, which is given below:
Manmatha’s Letter
To the virtuous one,
You have probably forgotten the unfortunate Manmatha by now. In my childhood, when I used to visit my maternal uncle’s house at Kajibari, I would often go to your house from there and play with you a great deal. That playhouse and that playful relationship of ours have been broken.
I do not know whether you know that once, losing all patience and throwing away all shame, I tried to arrange a marriage with you. But our guardians on both sides did not agree because we were nearly of the same age.
After that you were married, and for four or five years I had no news of you. Five months ago I learned that your husband had been transferred to Calcutta as a police officer. On hearing this, I searched and found your residence.
I have no hope of meeting you, and God knows I have no evil intention of disturbing your domestic happiness. In the evening I stand like a sun-worshipper under a gas lamp in front of your house. Every day at exactly half past seven you regularly place a lighted kerosene lamp in front of the glass window of the southern room on the upper floor. For one brief moment, your lamp-lit form appears before my eyes. That is my only offence regarding you.
In the meantime, by chance I have become acquainted with your husband, and the acquaintance has grown closer. From what I have seen of his character, it is clear to me that your life is not a happy one. I have no social claim upon you, yet the same Providence who has made your sorrow my own has placed upon me the burden of trying to remove that sorrow.
Therefore, if you will forgive my boldness, kindly come to my house this Friday evening at exactly seven o’clock, secretly in a palanquin, for just twenty minutes. I wish to tell you certain secret matters concerning your husband. If you do not believe me and if you can bear it, I can even show you proof. Along with that, I wish to offer you some advice. Keeping God in my heart, I truly hope that if you follow that advice, one day you may become happy.
My intention is not entirely selfless. The desire to see you once before me, to hear your voice, and to sanctify my humble home forever with the touch of your feet — this longing too lives in my heart. If you cannot trust me and if you wish to deprive me even of this happiness, then write to me. I shall convey everything through a letter in reply. And if you cannot even trust me enough to write a letter, then show this letter of mine to your husband. Whatever I have to say, I shall tell him directly.
Your ever well-wisher,
Shri Manmathanath Majumdar
Also Read:
