Ramesh And The Great Match

Some play well on field. Some, like Ramesh, play well off it! Now read on...

Mr. Gupta, the Principal of our school, carefully polished his spectacles with a handkerchief, replaced them on the bridge of his nose, and looked owlishly at Ramesh and me.

“Do you want to know why I’ve summoned you both to my office?” he asked politely.

Ramesh and I shuffled our feet uneasily and stared at the floor.

“Or perhaps you do know why I’ve called you?”

Our uneasiness increased. We knew all right.

Mr. Gupta went on, still very politely. “Why were you late for school, yesterday?”

Ramesh, the more courageous one, stuttered an answer. “We—we missed our bus, sir.”

“And why did you miss your bus?” This time, Mr. Gupta’s tone was icy.

We did not answer. Some questions just cannot be answered.

Mr. Gupta spoke, and the temperature in the room fell a further few degrees. “Wasn’t it because you both decided to spend time in Mr. Thakur’s apple garden?”

There was nothing to say. We stood there with our heads bowed and our hearts heavy.

Mr. Gupta leaned back in his chair. He looked like a Roman emperor who had been growing fat on starchy foods, and was now dealing with some upstart rebels.

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, addressing the ceiling. “Since you both decided to take some time off from school yesterday, we must help you put in some more time, mustn’t we?” he asked, not choosing to explain the “we”.

Ramesh and I continued to shuffle our feet uneasily. There was nothing else we could do.

Mr. Gupta’s voice became purposeful. “You will both stay back in school after classes today, and each write one thousand lines on ‘I will never be late for school, again’. Which means, of course, that you will miss seeing the football match against St. Thomas’. As I’ll be going to see that match myself, you will now inform the security guard at the school gates that he is to watch over you.” And with that, he dismissed us.

Ramesh and I left the Principal’s office, shattered. My battered brain could only think of that line of Tennyson, whom we were then studying: “The curse is come upon me.” The Principal’s words had dealt us a great blow indeed. The match between St. Thomas’ school and ours was an annual event and the high-point of the football season.

The silver cup for which it was fought had become one of the most prestigious symbols of inter-school rivalry in our town. To miss seeing that match! The thought was too shocking for words! Nevertheless, the Principal’s order had to be obeyed.

It was while we were searching for the security guard (like all good watchmen, he was not available at the spot he was supposed to be guarding) that Ramesh got this crazy idea. He grabbed my arm excitedly. There was a glint in his spectacles which I did not like.

“Listen!” he exclaimed, breathing quickly. “Why shouldn’t we go to the match after all?”

I patted his shoulder kindly. “There, there,” I said sympathetically. “The shock’s been too much for you.”

Ramesh brushed off my hand irritably. “Don’t be an ass,” he said. “I’m dead serious.”

Warning bells began to ring in my head. “Wha-what do you mean?”

Ramesh, acting like a hero of a C-grade spy movie, looked carefully to his right and left and then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “What if we don’t tell the security guard to watch over us like the Principal said?” he hissed.

My head, never strong, was beginning to swim. “Are you crazy?” I nearly screamed.

Ramesh became persuasive. He started massaging my arm. “Just think carefully. Nobody except the Principal knows that we’re supposed to stay back after classes. We can easily write the lines at home, after seeing the match. If we hand them over to the Princi the first thing tomorrow morning, nobody will be the wiser. All we’ve got to do is to stay out of sight of the Princi during the match.”

Even I could understand the logic of all this. Ramesh, when he wants to, can be very persuasive. But if the Principal caught us playing truant… But then, on the other hand, I really would like to see the match…

Ramesh saw me wavering and grabbed this chance. “That’s settled then!” he exclaimed heartily, energetically shaking my limp hand. “Ah…there goes the bell for the next class!” With that, he hurried off, leaving me feeling lost.

What had I let myself in for?

Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: ‘it might have been.’ As I followed Ramesh from the bus-stop to St. Thomas’ school, a few blocks away, glancing nervously over my shoulder at frequent intervals and jumping at every small sound, I thought of the mess I was in. But for Ramesh, I might have been, at this very moment, sitting in school peacefully writing out my lines. In fact, but for Ramesh, there might have been no lines to write out at all! For it had been his suggestion to spend some time in Mr. Thankur’s apple garden. And look what it had led to…

Ramesh halted before a small restaurant.

“There’s still some time to go before the match is due to start. Shall we have something to drink before that?” Before I could say anything, Ramesh answered the question himself. “Yes, I think that’ll be a great idea. And for heaven’s sake,” he continued irritably, “stop looking like a dejected tapeworm!”

Speechless at his unfairness, I followed Ramesh into the restaurant.

It was while we were finishing our soft drinks that it happened. I heard the door swing open behind me and somebody enter the restaurant. I heard the restaurant owner hurry forward and say: “Good afternoon, sir. Nice to see you again.”

Then I heard a familiar voice return the greeting: “Good afternoon.”

That was all it said.

It was enough. I nearly choked over my soft drink.

Time sometimes does seem to stand still. It did then. For almost a lifetime I stared at Ramesh horror-stricken. I had the momentary illusion that the management of the restaurant had hit me over the head with a sock full of wet sand. Ramesh’s bespectacled face, too, was a mask of horror. He looked like a bombed area.

I carefully replaced my soft drink bottle on the table and cautiously peered over my shoulder.

Mr. Gupta, our Principal, was quietly sipping a cup of tea at the other end of the room.

Beside him, on the floor, was a large bag which I recognized. It was used for carrying the silver cup which we had won in the football match against St. Thomas’ last year. From the way the bag bulged, I could see that cup was still in it. I straightened my head quickly.

Ramesh came to life.

“Out!” he hissed.

I was slow to the uptake. “Wha-what?”

“Out!”

Ramesh jumped to his feet and, in one swift movement, placed some coins on the table, grabbed my arm, and hauled me out of the restaurant.

I think we made it in three seconds flat.

It took us two seconds more to turn into the nearest alley. We leaned against the wall, panting heavily.

It was some time before I got my breath back, but as soon as I was sufficiently resorted I turned on Ramesh.

“You-you-you-” I gasped.

Ramesh guessed what was coming. He hastened to pacify me. “I know, I know,” he said soothingly. “But how was I to know that the Princi would choose this restaurant to have tea in?” He smiled ruefully.

“Anyway, no harm’s been done. He never saw us. We’ll just wait until he leaves for the school to see the match. Then we can follow him at a distance.” So saying, he carefully peered around the corner of the alley.

After a moment’s hesitation, I, too, peered round the corner.

I was just in time to see the Principal emerge from the restaurant, carrying the bag in one hand. As I watched, a shabbily dressed boy with untidy hair approached Mr. Gupta.

“Sir, could you spare a few coins?” the boy asked in Hindi.

Mr. Gupta looked surprised. After a slight hesitation he said: “O.K. Just wait a moment while I see if I’ve some change.”

Mr. Gupta put the bag down near his feet. He took out his wallet, opened it, and raised his head – just in time to see the boy take off with the bag!
He was heading towards us.

Ramesh and I gave one startled look at each other and then sprang into action. Ramesh fell back a few steps while I shot out my leg.

The boy never knew what hit him.

One moment he was running and the next instant he was not. Contact with my leg sent him sprawling head first on the pavement, the bag flying from his hands. As Ramesh neatly caught the bag, I pounced on the boy. But the would be thief was too nimble for me. Neatly dodging my arms, he gave one startled look in our direction and disappeared up the alley.



Riper years and a chronic stiffness in the joints had prevented Mr. Gupta from chasing the boy with a similar burst of speed. But he had been witness to all the later action. Now, reaching us as we got our breath back, he stared at us in frank amazement.

“What…what…what are you doing here?” he asked.

It was not often that Ramesh found himself in the position of being able to score a debating point against the Principal. It seemed to lend to his manner a strange, quiet dignity. He held out the bag to Mr. Gupta. “The cup, sir,” he said.

Mr. Gupta slowly stared at the bag and then at Ramesh and then at me. For a moment he looked thoughtful. Then a smile spread over his face. “Ah, yes…the cup,” he said.

The smile told us all we wanted to know. Our sins had been forgiven.

Later that day, sitting on each side of Mr. Gupta, Ramesh and I witnessed one of the most magnificent victories that our school has ever won against any football team. Playing superbly, our team trounced St. Thomas’ 7-0 to claim the cup for another year. Some people were later heard to comment on how possessively our Principal held on to the cup during the post-match celebrations. Almost as if he expected somebody to grab it away from him…

Ramesh And The Scoop!

Every good journalist loves a scoop – a dramatic story that only his paper publishes. Ramesh was the new editor of the school magazine. Where was the scoop that could make his first issue exciting?

It all began when Ramesh was appointed the editor of our school magazine. Ramesh is a thin, spectacled boy, my age, my class, and considered the brainiest guy in the school. He is also the most notorious.

One day, at lunch-break, an excited-looking Ramesh bore down on me.

“Listen!” he exclaimed, “I’ve got an idea!” His spectacles glinted dangerously – a glint I had come to recognize, and fear. It always meant that Ramesh had thought of some crazy idea or plan.

I tried to take evasive action. “I’m busy,” I said.

Ramesh ignored the interruption. “I’m going to feature an expose in the first issue of our magazine.”

I was conscious of a feeling, such as comes to all of us at times, of not being equal to the intellectual pressure of the conversation. “A-a what?”

“I’m going to uncover a deep-rooted conspiracy and feature it in the magazine! It’ll be a sensation! It’ll be the biggest scoop of the century!” As you may have noticed, Ramesh, when excited, tends to let his imagination run away with him.

“Er…where do I come in?” I asked nervously.

“You? Why, you’re going to write it!”

“I am?” A happy thought struck me. “But I don’t know of any conspiracy, deep-rooted or otherwise.”

I had spoken too soon. “But I do,” said Ramesh impressively. “And it’s right here, in this school!” Although Ramesh looks more like a scientist, with his tousled hair and spectacles, he is more inclined to criminology. A voracious reader of detective fiction, he has a habit of building up criminal plots where none exist.

I was quick to point this out to him. “You have a habit of building up criminal plots where none exist,” I said accusingly.

Ramesh again ignored the interruption. “I always felt that the new head-gardener was a suspicious character,” he continued. “Now I’ve heard that he’s started staying in the school compound, claiming that his village is too far from the school. But I know better. I think he is planning to loot the Headmaster’s office of all our cups and trophies. And I’ll tell you why I think so.”

Ramesh lowered his voice to a conspirational whisper. “This morning, near the tool-shed, I actually heard the head-gardener tell someone I couldn’t see that he would get the job done by tomorrow.” Ramesh smiled triumphantly and added rather unnecessarily: “So there!” His eyes took on a dreamy expression. “If only we can photograph him in the act!” Here, Ramesh was obviously referring to his new camera-cum-flash-gun presented to him by a generous uncle.

“You’re crazy!” I said. “That ‘job’ which the head-gardener was talking about could be anything! Besides, what do you propose to do?”

“My plan is that we keep a watch on the headmaster’s office tonight,” said Ramesh, and added impressively, “the head-gardener may strike tonight!”

“You’re off your rocker!” I exclaimed. “Don’t count me in on this mad venture.”

Ramesh looked hurt. “Well then,” he said, disappointed, “I’ll have to go alone.”

Alone? My conscience bit me. Ramesh was my friend, after all. Maybe I could stop him from doing anything foolish. “I’ll come,” I said.

Ramesh’s face lit up. “Thanks,” was all he said. But I knew he meant much more, knowing how I hated doing anything dangerous.

Night Hunt

That night found Ramesh and me climbing stealthily over the school wall and then creeping equally stealthily across the school grounds. Clutching his photographic equipment in one hand and a torch in the other, Ramesh led the way to the Headmaster’s study. Feeling slightly foolish, I followed.



The headmaster’s office lay in darkness. Nothing seemed to be happening there.

Ramesh’s forehead creased into a frown. “Perhaps the head-gardener will strike later in the night,” he suggested.

“And do you intend us to hang around here all night, waiting for him?” I asked, as politely as I could.

“Well…no,” answered Ramesh thoughtfully, and then brightened. “Let’s check on what he’s doing,” he said - and without waiting for my reply, he turned and strode off purposefully towards the head-gardener’s quarters.

Muttering darkly to myself, I followed.

The head-gardener’s modest quarters looked dark and deserted in the night. Ramesh and I crept quietly up to the doorway – and for the first time that night I felt a cold hand clutch at my heart. Could Ramesh perhaps be right?

Before I knew what was happening, Ramesh had placed a hand on the doorknob and turned it. The door slid slowly and silently open. With my heart in my mouth, I gazed into the small room, slightly illuminated by the moonlight.

The head-gardener lay on a bed in the opposite corner of the room, gently snoring to himself.

Ramesh quietly shut the door and avoided my eyes.

“You and your deep-rooted conspiracy!” I hissed at him.

Ramesh tried to cool me down on our way back to the wall. “Maybe he’ll try tomorrow,” he said. “Maybe –,” suddenly Ramesh stopped in his tracks and grunted like a stuffed pig. It was as if he had been sauntering down a street and had walked into a lamp-post. “Hey!” he exclaimed, grabbing hold of my arm. “I think I saw a light in the Headmaster’s study window!”

“Oh no! Not again,” I protested. “If you really expect me to believe –,” and then I, too, stopped in my tracks. Even at this distance a faint light could be seen in the Headmaster’s study!

Who could it be?

Ramesh immediately took command. Motioning me to be silent, he led the way quietly to the main school building. I followed him only because I was scared to be left alone. By now I was feeling like a nervous saboteur with a time bomb in his suitcase who’s suddenly discovered his wristwatch had stopped. Ramesh halted only when he had reached the now open window and huddled beneath it. For the first time that night Ramesh was beginning to show signs of strain. “You look first,” he suggested.

I was firm. “No, you first.”

He sighed. “O.K. let’s look together.”

We slowly raised our heads, until our eyes were level with the window sill, and peered into the room.

My eyes boggled.

In the light of a powerful torch placed on the Headmaster’s desk, a tall, dark, man was carefully packing our school’s hard-won cups and trophies into a large sack!

We quietly ducked under the window again. I shivered.

“Shouldn’t we call the police?” I whispered.

“It’ll be too late,” Ramesh whispered back. “Let me, at least, take a photograph of him – then, even if he escapes, the police can easily identify him.”

Before I could say anything, Ramesh, holding his camera in front of him, raised his head again. I quickly followed suit – and banged my head loudly against the window sill, making (or so it seemed to me) a noise loud enough to awake the dead. The pain in my head did not prevent me from seeing the thief (what else could he be?) suddenly whirl around, clutching a knife in his hand.

For a moment, the world stopped. I felt like I was staring at a man-eating tiger from a distance of less than six feet.

Flash of Fear

They say that when you receive a great shock, a part of you dies. Well, a part of me most certainly died that night as I stared at the knife on the thief’s hand. Then, as my heart slowly started beating again, things started happening.

All the while as I had been standing like a zombie, Ramesh had been holding the camera in front of his face – he, too, seemingly frozen with shock. Now with admirable presence of mind he pressed the shutter. The effect was startling.

The brilliant glare of the flashlight in that dark room felt almost like a physical blow, and, as the flash gun was directed at the thief, he got the full brunt of it. The thief reeled back as if he had been slapped; the knife fell from his hand.

“At him!” screamed Ramesh.



Ramesh and I jumped over the window sill and launched ourselves at the thief. Ramesh made a grab for his hands while I dived for his legs. Fortunately for us, as the thief fell to the ground under the weight of our combined attack, he hit his head against the desk and blacked out! The struggle was over.

Front Page Story

Leaving me to watch over the now unconscious thief, Ramesh ran off to wake up the head-gardener. That worthy person responded quickly to the strange situation. Having tightly bound the thief, he summoned the police and the highly bewildered Headmaster. Ramesh and I were, of course, in the limelight – Ramesh managing to neatly evade all uncomfortable questions as to what we were doing in that particular place at that particular time. I, suffering from delayed shock, could only offer a few grunts by way of explanation.

We were, of course, school heroes for quite some time after that but the real triumph for Ramesh was when the first issue of the school magazine under his editorship came out. Prominently displayed on the front page was the dramatic photograph taken by Ramesh on that fateful night, showing the startled thief with the sack of loot in one hand and the knife in the other, standing in the middle of the Headmaster’s study. Nobody could accuse Ramesh of not taking his job seriously!

The most beautiful child - a folktale retold...

Emperor Akbar surveyed his crowded court. “I think,” he announced, “that my Prince Khurram is the most beautiful child in Agra. Don’t you all agree with me?”

The courtiers knew how very fond Akbar was of his grand children. They all cried out together: “You are very right, your Highness! Certainly, your Majesty!”

Birbal, Akbar’s chief Minister, however, remained silent. Akbar looked at him. “Why are you silent, Birbal?” he asked, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. “Do you think differently? Don’t you agree that my grandson is most beautiful?”

Birbal bowed low before his emperor. “You have posed a very difficult question, your Majesty,” he said. “There is no real test for beauty.”

Akbar stared crossly at Birbal: he was not used to being contradicted. “Is that so? All right, then, let us have a contest.” He waved his hand at the courtiers. “Let me see if tomorrow any of you can bring along a child who is more beautiful than my grandson!” And so saying, Akbar majestically rose to his feet and swept out of the hall followed by his attendants.

The courtiers, too, had hurriedly got to their feet and bowed low as Akbar made his exit. After the Emperor had gone, the courtiers straightened themselves and stared at one another. What would the old boy think up next?

Nevertheless, the ‘old boy’ being who he was, his wishes were commands and commands had to be obeyed. Akbar’s courtiers spent the rest of the day frantically searching among families of their friends and relations for good-looking children. As a result, the next day, the moment Akbar graced his court, his eyes encountered a historic sight. In a hall usually filled with middle-aged and elderly men, their features scarred with the lines of experience, Akbar saw a sea of smooth, cherubic faces, and eyes that stared at him wide-eyed and with anything but the respect due to a king. Where Akbar’s entrance usually created a hushed silence, today his ears were bombarded with the sounds of childish voices, some shouting, some crying and some laughing. Yes, following Akbar’s instructions, each of the nobles had brought along a small child to court.

Akbar had not forgotten about the contest he had arranged. He walked among his nobles and inspected each child carefully: “Hmm… That child is too fat. And that one there is too thin. And this child has eyes too far apart.” Finally: “Hmm…no, I still think my Khurram is the most beautiful child in Agra,” he announced. He turned to Birbal. “But why have you not brought a child?”

“Your Majesty, I have found the most beautiful child in Agra,” answered Birbal. “But to see him, I am afraid you will have to disguise yourself and come with me to the child’s house.”

Akbar’s curiosity was thoroughly roused. A child more beautiful than his grandson! Such a child would have to be very good looking indeed! “All right, then,” he told Birbal, “we will dress like ordinary citizens and go to see this child.”

A few hours later, a group of six men slipped out of Akbar’s palace by a side entrance. All six were similarly dressed – in long robes made from some coarse material and high turbans. All had long bushy beards which hid most of their faces. An observant person, however, might have noticed that one figure in the group walked a little more erect than the others, a little more confidently, you might even say a little more ‘royally’. And not surprisingly. For this bearded figure was none other than Emperor Akbar – in different clothes but with the same royal bearing. The figure leading the group was, of course, Birbal.

They walked until finally Akbar began to wonder what he was doing. Birbal had led the group almost to the outskirts of the city and the houses they passed were beginning to look more and more shabby and dirty.

“How much further do we have to go, Birbal?” asked Akbar, complainingly. He was tired.

“Just a little distance more, my lord,” assured Birbal. “Please be patient.”

Finally Birbal came to a halt in a small clearing surrounded by a few ramshackle huts. He pointed to a distant hut, in front of which a small boy was playing.

“There, my lord is the most beautiful child in Agra!” declared Birbal.

Akbar stared at the grimy little boy. “But-but, that is the ugliest child I have ever seen, Birbal! Have you dragged me all this way for a joke?”

Birbal smiled secretly. “I beg of you, your Majesty, please wait for a little while!”

As the men watched, the child got to his feet, a clay doll in his hands. He began to totter towards the hut. Suddenly, the child stumbled – and fell flat on his face! For a few seconds, the child’s face was numb with shock. Then he screwed up his eyes and began to howl.

Immediately a woman rushed out of the hut and ran to the fallen boy. “My poor child!” she cried. “How dare the earth hurt my jewel! We will kiss it all better, pretty one.”

A surprised Akbar turned to Birbal. “How can she love this ugly child?”

The child’s mother heard him. Picking up the boy in her arms and cuddling him, she turned to face the men. “How DARE you!” she cried, livid with anger. “Go and search all of Agra and see if you can find a lovelier child! Now go away, you blind fools, or I’ll give you a proper thrashing!”

Past battles had taught Akbar to know when it was best to retire. Now, after one startled look at the angry woman, Akbar and his companions beat a hasty retreat. As they made their way back to the palace, Akbar said thoughtfully: “I now understand what you mean, Birbal. Every child is the most beautiful in the eyes of its parents…”
“…or its grandparents, your Majesty!” added Birbal with a grin.

I will return to this blog after five days...

I am leaving for the airport for a five day business trip to Mumbai and Ahmedabad. I will get back to this blog on my return.

International Non-Violence Day...

Today, the world celebrates International Non-Violence Day, on the occasion of the 138th birth anniversary of Mahatma Gandhi.

His message: "I cannot teach you violence, as I do not myself believe in it. I can only teach you not to bow your heads before any one even at the cost of your life."

Ramesh And The Costly Mistake (Part 1)

The first thing both Ramesh and I noticed, when we entered the street where Sanjeev lived, was the police-van parked in front of our fat friend’s house.

“I wonder what the matter is?” murmured Ramesh, half to himself, as we stared at the policemen loitering around Sanjeev’s front door.

As we reached the small crowd of curious onlookers standing on the pavement, the front-door swung open and our plump friend rushed out to join us, his school-bag in one hand and a half eaten apple in the other.

“Hi!” exclaimed Sanjeev, as he fell into step beside us. “Something very exciting happened last night!”

“What?” asked Ramesh, casting a backward look at the policemen.

“You’d never guess!” replied Sanjeev, his face flushed with excitement. “It was most extraordinary!”

I scratched my head. “You skipped your dinner?”

“Very funny.” Sanjeev cast a withering look in my direction. “You can save your wisecracks for later. This is very serious.” He bit into his apple in an overwrought manner and continued with his mouth full: “Somebody tried to burgle our house last night!”

Ramesh started like a starving bear that has just smelt honey. “What?” he exclaimed, swinging his head around to stare at Sanjeev. “A burglary?”

“An attempted burglary,” corrected Sanjeev, with the self-satisfied air of a storyteller who has managed to capture the attention of his audience. “We were woken up in the middle of the night by Sheru barking away for all he was worth. When we rushed downstairs to the drawing-room, we found that the French windows at the back had been forced open. Sheru’s barking must have scared away the burglar before he could take anything!”

“Any clues to the burglar’s identity?” asked Ramesh.

“Only two footprints on the flower-bed near the French windows. But the soles of the shoes that made them had been worn smooth. So there are no distinguishing marks.”

“Hmm!” Ramesh frowned thoughtfully. “There must be some more clues!” He assumed his ‘I am more efficient than the police’ look. “I think I should also have a look around the scene of the burglary!”

Sanjeev’s mouth fell open. “But, but the police won’t let you!” he exclaimed.

“Not now,” explained Ramesh patiently. “After school – when the police have gone. Now we’ve got to catch the school bus. And we’ve only one minute to reach the bus-stop. So let’s run!”

After school, we returned to Sanjeev's house. In true Sherlock Holmes style, we began examining THE SCENE OF THE CRIME. From the open doorway, I looked around the large room that served as the drawing-room of Sanjeev’s house. There was the usual sofa set, a television, and a stereo system. There were shelves lined with books, a couple of paintings adorned the walls. And other knick-nacks were strewn about the room. It was around two o’clock in the afternoon and Ramesh and I had thought of nothing else during the first half of the day, while we were attending our classes, except what we might discover when we stopped by at Sanjeev’s house on our way home from school.

Ramesh and Sanjeev walked over to the open French windows. “This is where the burglar tried to get in,” said Sanjeev.

Ramesh gazed down at the floor which was completely bare of any tell-tale signs. “Mmm! Let’s see if we can find any clues outside.” He and Sanjeev walked out through the French windows into the garden.

I wandered about the room, hoping to contribute to the hunt for clues. But the difficulty confronting the novice on these occasions is that it is so hard to tell what is a clue and what is not. Probably, there were clues lying about all over the place, shouting to me to pick them up. But how to recognize them? Sherlock Holmes could extract a clue from a wisp of straw or a flake of cigar-ash. Doctor Watson had to have it taken out for him and dusted and exhibited clearly with a label attached. I was forced reluctantly to conclude that I was more like a Doctor Watson. Giving up, I halted in front of a large gilt framed mirror that had been hung up on the wall opposite the door and straightened my tie.

Ramesh and Sanjeev re-entered the room from the garden. “Stop admiring yourself!” exclaimed Ramesh, seeing me. “From the way you’re staring at the mirror you’d think you were looking at a painting of the Mona Lisa!”

Sanjeev stepped in like a proud householder. “But you must admit that even a painting like the Mona Lisa would look nice inside that gilt frame!” he told Ramesh.

Ramesh looked closely at the mirror. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “When did you get it? I never saw it here before.”

“My mother bought it yesterday along with a couple of other things from the antique dealer’s shop in the old bazaar,” replied Sanjeev. He pointed to a small carved wooden stool with a drawer and the brass flower vase that had been placed on it. “My mother liked these three items and thought their prices were not too high. She…,” he broke off suddenly as the front doorbell rang. “I’ll see who it is,” he said.

Sanjeev stepped through the open doorway, crossed the small hall and swung open the front door.

“Does Mrs. Sharma live here?” I heard a man’s voice ask.

“Yes,” replied Sanjeev. “She’s my mother.”

“I would like to speak to her,” said the man.

“Please come in,” invited Sanjeev. Sanjeev backed away from the front door and I saw a tall, thin, neatly dressed man step into the hall. Sanjeev’s mother came down the stairs.

The man turned to her. “Mrs. Sharma? Pleased to meet you,” he said smoothly. “I represent the antique dealer from whose shop you bought three items yesterday. I will not beat about the bush. The counter-boy sold those items to you by mistake. They were already reserved for another customer. I have been asked to offer to buy them back from you.”

I looked at Ramesh, who had by now joined me at the door of the drawing-room. What a coincidence!

Ramesh And The Costly Mistake (Part 2)

Sanjeev’s mother was taken aback. “But I bought those items in good faith!”

“I know.” The man was sympathetic. “I am very sorry about this. If you want, I can give you exact replicas of those items.”

“I don’t know what to say,” replied Sanjeev’s mother, doubtfully. “I will have to consult my husband.” She paused.

“Yes, yes, please do,” said the man quickly. “I’m sure he will understand our problem.”

“Perhaps. But he will return from office only at six o’clock.”

The man’s face fell. “Oh but this other customer will come to the shop at four! What will we tell him?”

“That is your headache.” Sanjeev’s mother was firm. “I can tell you my decision only after six!”

The man looked stumped. “Very well, then.” He turned quickly and walked out of the house.

Sanjeev shut the door after him and joined us in the drawing-room. “You heard?” he asked. “I didn’t think mother had bought anything extra-special yesterday!”

“Still, there must be something special about these three items,” pointed out Ramesh. “Otherwise, why can’t this man give those replicas he was talking about to that other customer?”

I stared at Ramesh. “That’s right!” I exclaimed. “Why does that other customer want only these particular items?”

Ramesh walked over to the wooden stool and vase and stared down at them. “These don’t look very valuable,” he opined. “The vase is of ordinary brass and the carvings on the stool are not very intricate.” He picked up the vase and peered into it. “Perhaps something’s hidden inside!” He put down the vase. “Nothing here.” He crouched before the stool and drew out the drawer. “Nothing here, either.” He pushed in the drawer and began running his fingers over the carvings on the stool.

I smiled down at Ramesh. “You can’t always expect to discover a secret drawer like you did in that junk shop case!” (Read: "Ramesh and the Secret of the Junk Shop".)

Ramesh frowned thoughtfully. “But there must be some reason why the antique dealer wants these things back so badly!” he exclaimed.

Sanjeev scratched his head. “I wonder who this other customer is?”

Ramesh jumped to his feet excitedly. “Of course! The identity of this other customer might throw some light on the problem! And we can easily find out the identity by keeping a watch on the antique shop and seeing who enters it at four o’clock!” He looked down at his school uniform and grabbed my arm. “Come on! Let’s go home and change into some ordinary clothes first!”

Ramesh And The Costly Mistake (Part 3)

Ramesh gulped down the last dregs of his soft drink, replaced the empty bottle on the table of the dhaba we were sitting in, and gazed out through the doorway at the antique shop across the street, glanced down at his wrist-watch and exclaimed: “Its four thirty and nobody’s turned up yet!”

Sanjeev bit into his fifth samosa. "Let’s sit here a while longer, yaar,” he mumbled through his full mouth. “The customer might turn up yet.”

Ramesh frowned at him. “You seem to think we’re on a picnic!” he exclaimed.

“I’ve got to keep up my strength, yaar!” said Sanjeev defensively. “Detective work can be very tiring. You don’t want me collapsing on you, do you?”

“Certainly not,” I grinned.

Ramesh squirmed restlessly in his seat. “Anyway, I can’t sit here any longer! I think I’ll go and snoop around at the back of the shop.”

“Should I come with you?” I asked.

“No, you stay here and see who goes into that shop,” replied Ramesh. He looked scornfully at Sanjeev. “Our friend here will be too busy eating to notice!” He got to his feet. “I’ll be back soon.”

Ramesh left and I ordered another soft drink for myself. The minutes ticked by. Some of the dhaba’s collection of flies settled on our table and began eying Sanjeev’s samosas in an offensive manner. Nobody entered or left the antique shop. Nor did Ramesh return. I slowly began to get worried. What was keeping Ramesh?

At five o’clock, even Sanjeev began to share my worry. He stopped eating and stared uneasily out of the window. Suddenly, he grabbed my arm.

“Look!” he hissed.

I looked. The street was filing up with evening shoppers. Harrassed householders were haggling over fruit pieces at the stalls to the right of the antique shop. That wasn’t why Sanjeev had grabbed me. A thin man with long hair had halted in front of the antique shop. He carried a bundle under his left arm. After a second’s thought, he entered the shop. He came out a few minutes later, minus the bundle, and walked away.

Sanjeev looked at me. “Was he the customer we were waiting for?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied, with a worried frown. “I wish Ramesh was here. He’d know!”

But Ramesh had not returned.

Ramesh And The Costly Mistake (Part 4)

I glanced at my wrist watch. “It’s five-thirty, now,” I said. “How much longer do we wait?” “I don’t know,” replied Sanjeev miserably. “Do you think anything else will happen now?”

I glanced out of the restaurant window and then stiffened. “I think something’s happening right now!” I hissed. Sanjeev jumped…

A large white car of foreign make had drawn up in front of the antique shop. A blond-haired foreigner got out of the car. He paused only to straighten his clothes and then walked into the antique shop.



Sanjeev and I stared at each other, with obviously the same question on our minds. Was this foreigner that other customer whom we had been watching out for?

We said nothing to each other and continued to stare out of the restaurant window. The minutes ticked away with agonizing slowness. Then, suddenly, the foreigner came storming out of the antique shop, his face red and looking very angry. Slamming the car door behind him with such force that the impact could be heard even inside the restaurant, he drove off.

I drew a deep breath. “Well, what do you make of that!” I exclaimed to Sanjeev. Something funny is going on inside that shop! I hope Ramesh hasn’t got involved.”

Sanjeev looked worried. “What do we do now? We can’t sit here forever.”

“You’re right.” I came to a decision. “I think we should also snoop around the back of that shop. We might find out what’s happened to Ramesh.”

Having paid the bill, Sanjeev and I left the restaurant. Deliberately not looking at the antique shop across the road, we quickly walked down to the end of the street. Then we crossed the road. Once across we rounded the corner and soon stood at the mouth of the dark alley that led to the back of the antique shop.

“I’m scared,” said Sanjeev.

So was I. “Don’t be silly!” I exclaimed, though not very convincingly. “There’s nothing to be scared of.”

Sanjeev grabbed my arm. “Oh, yes, there is!” he hissed. “Somebody’s running towards us!”

Ramesh And The Costly Mistake (Part 5)

He was right. Before I could react, Ramesh came into sight, running quickly down the alley. Ramesh saw us and stopped in his tracks. “What are you doing here?” he whispered.

“Looking for you,” I whispered back, nervously.

Ramesh hurried forward and pushed us out of the alley. “Let’s get away from here!” he said quickly.

We walked to the nearest bus-stand shelter, and sat on a corner of the long bench inside. “Now tell us,” I ordered Ramesh. “Why were you away so long?”

Ramesh’s spectacles began to glint excitedly. “I’ve been snooping about inside that antique shop!” he announced, with the air of a conjuror pulling a rabbit out of his hat. “I spotted a half-open window at the back of the shop and climbed in. Did you see a foreigner enter the shop? You did? Well, I was hiding in the small storeroom next to the showroom and heard everything. He’s the customer who wants those items Sanjeev’s mother bought!”

“Why?” I asked.

Ramesh frowned thoughtfully. “It appears that one of those three items has great value for some reason. This foreigner told the antique dealer that his employer had already incurred great trouble and expense in trying to secure that item. If they didn’t get it back, his employer would be very angry!”

Sanjeev looked bewildered. “But didn’t you say that the items weren’t very valuable?”

“Yes,” agreed Ramesh. “But it seems to me that something valuable must be hidden inside one of these items and it is that valuable something which the foreigner was talking about!”

I was impressed by this logic. However, there was one flaw. “You did check the items, yaar,” I reminded Ramesh. “But you couldn’t find any hidden stuff.”

“I didn’t give them a detailed examination,” said Ramesh defensively. “I’d like to go over those things once more before the antique dealer’s representative pays his second visit to Sanjeev’s house.

I suddenly remembered our deadline. I glanced at my wrist-watch. “We’d better hurry, then!” I exclaimed. “It’s nearly six o’ clock; that chap’ll be reaching Sanjeev’s house any time now!”

Ramesh jumped to his feet. “I’d forgotten!” he exclaimed loudly, startling the other people inside the bus-stand shelter. “We must hurry! Those people are pretty desperate to get back the stuff – they might do anything! Let’s run!

We ran.



There was a small black car parked right in front of the gate of Sanjeev’s house. We came to an abrupt halt some distance away from the house. The antique dealer’s representative was standing on the doorstep and ringing the bell.

“We’re too late!” I gasped.

“Not yet!” panted Ramesh. “We can enter by the back door! Let’s head for the black alley!”

“Here, hold on, yaar!” protested the plump Sanjeev, his chest rising and falling like a troubled ocean. “Let me get my breath back!” He wiped the sweat off his forehead. "I’ve never run so much in my life!”

“You need the exercise,” retorted Ramesh pitilessly.

We were standing at the back door of Sanjeev’s house only half-a-minute later. Ramesh rang the back doorbell – and kept ringing it.

Sanjeev’s mother opened the door. “Oh, it’s you boys,” she said, surprised. “Why didn’t you come by the front door?”

Ramesh did not beat about the bush. “Because we wanted to warn you about the antique dealer’s representative. The antique dealer is involved in some kind of shady business. It’s like this…” And, in a few terse words, Ramesh went on to tell Sanjeev’s mother about the foreigner and his own hunch about a valuable hidden object.

Sanjeev’s mother took the story without batting an eyelid. “I suspected something was wrong,” she said. “This man is a bit too eager to have the goods back. But what do we do now? He’s standing in the hall talking to my husband.”

“Stall him,” Ramesh said simply. “Don’t accept any offer he makes. Let’s first examine the goods.”

Sanjeev’s mother returned to the hall while we boys quickly entered the drawing-room through the door connecting it with the dining –room.

Ramesh headed straight for the wooden stool. He picked up the vase from it and handed it to me. “You check this,” he told me, “while I look over the stool.” He turned to Sanjeev. “You, Sanjeev, run your fingers over the gilt frame of the mirror. You might touch some secret spring that opens out a hidden compartment!” he added hopefully.

Ramesh And The Costly Mistake (Part 6)

We got to work. I peered into the vase and then turned it upside down. There was nothing inside. Sanjeev carefully felt every inch of the gilt frame of the mirror. He discovered no secret mechanism. Ramesh drew out the drawer of the stool, tapped it’s bottom, probed every nook and corner of the stool and carefully ran his fingers over the carvings. But he found no secret compartment and no hidden object.

Ramesh finally gave up and got to his feet, a disgusted look on his face. “Blast!” he exclaimed. “Are we on the wrong track? Perhaps there’s nothing hidden after all!”

“But I can think of no other reason why these items – or one of them – should be so important to those men,” I said.

“Neither can I!” Ramesh collapsed on the nearest sofa. “I –”

He was cut off by Sanjeev who suddenly gave an agonized cry and leaped towards the sofa like one possessed. “Get up.” cried Sanjeev. “Get UP!”

Something in Sanjeev’s voice made Ramesh obey at once. He scrambled to his feet. “What’s the matter?” He asked, bewildered.

As if in answer, Snajeev threw aside the cushion on which Ramesh had been sitting to reveal a wooden board which had been placed beneath it. He lifted the board – and a poster of Daniel Radcliffe (as Harry Potter) came into view!

“It’s a poster of the latest Harry Potter movie!” I exclaimed.

“Yes,” said Sanjeev. He picked up the poster tenderly, as if it were a very fragile piece of chinaware. “I put it under the board to smoothen out the folds.”

Ramesh’s eyes seemd to shoot out suddenly, like those of a snail. “Of course!” he cried, his face flushed with excitement. “How could I have been so blind?” He burst into a sudden flurry of frenzied activity. Rushing across to the mirror, Ramesh took it down from the wall, then laid it face down on a cushioned chair, took out his pen-knife from his trouser pocket – and proceeded, with it’s help, to take the plywood backing off the mirror, taking care not to scratch the gilt. When the back was almost off, Ramesh carefully drew out a painting!

Ramesh And The Costly Mistake (Part 7)

Sensation.

Ramesh stared at the painting for a couple of seconds and then looked up excitedly. “Do you recognize this painting?” he asked. “Why, it’s the Mughal period painting that was stolen from the museum last month! The theft was reported in all the newspapers.”

I pursed my lips into a soundless whistle. “That foreigner must have commissioned the antique dealer to arrange for it to be stolen! And, after the job was done, the painting was hidden behind the mirror! No wonder the foreigner was so angry that the mirror had been sold off!”

Ramesh became brisk. “We must act fast! We’ll let this man in the hall buy back these items. As soon as he goes off with them, we’ll phone the police. Please go and call your father, Sanjeev. And, meanwhile, if you don’t mind, I’d like to borrow something of yours…”

It all worked out as Ramesh planned. While Sanjeev’s mother bargained with the antique dealer’s representative, his father listened to Ramesh’s story and saw the painting. He readily agreed to sell back the goods. As the delighted man walked off with the goods, Sanjeev’s father phoned the police.

An hour later, the police swung into action. They raided the antique shop and arrested the foreigner, the antique dealer and his representative. It later came to light that it had been one of the antique dealer’s henchmen who had broken into Sanjeev’s house in an attempt to take away the mirror. Having failed, they tried to buy it back.



Only one thing more remains to be said about this episode. By a quirk of timing, the police surprised the three crooks at the very moment when they had just removed the plywood backing the mirror. The Inspector who led the raid was thus able to describe to us later the expression on the faces of the crooks as they goggled dumbstruck at the poster of the latest Harry Potter movie, which Ramesh had thoughtfully put beneath the plywood in place of the stolen painting…

Happy Daughters' Day!

Today, India celebrates "Daughters' Day" for the first time. May their tribe increase!

Hello from China...

I will return to this blog after two weeks...

I am going to Thailand and China on a 17 day trip. I will resume updating this blog on my return.

Ramesh and the night of the storm (Part 1)

A quiet holiday by the seaside? Not with Ramesh around. He sniffs out adventures like a bloodhound – and his friend just has to follow!

Ramesh and I were spending the summer holidays with my uncle at his little cottage on the east coast. My uncle had always loved the sea and, on retirement from government service, had bought and settled down in this cottage facing the Bay of Bengal.

It was a beautiful spot, certain to gladden the heart of any nature lover. However, as far as Ramesh and I were concerned, it did have one drawback: it seemed to be completely cut off from the rest of the world. The only other habitations nearby were a tiny fishing village and a big house surrounded by a tall wall. The village lost its charm after a few days of poking about and the house seemed to be occupied by some kind of a recluse and so was out of bounds. After a month’s stay we were beginning to feel a bit bored.

One evening, as dusk was falling, Ramesh and I were sitting on the beach watching some of the fishermen from the village repairing their nets. We were sitting next to a cluster of large rocks. Suddenly, from the other side of the rock, came a scraping sound and then a firm, educated voice spoke:

“We will need your boat, tonight. See that it is ready.”

There was a pause and then a second, rougher voice, spoke up. “But sir, must it be tonight?”

“Yes,” replied the first voice. “We have no choice in the matter. Why do you ask?”

“Because, sir, I don’t like the weather,” said the second voice. “It is too fine an evening. Too fine. The air is too still, and the breeze – it comes from the east. That is bad. Today the sun was a flame in the sky. That is bad. A little while ago I measured the little waves that were rocking my boat. When the weather is good, the little waves, they slap against the hull every three seconds, maybe every four. This evening? Twelve seconds, maybe even fifteen. For thirty years I have sailed up and down this stretch of coast. I know the waters here. I would be lying if I say any man knows them better. A big storm comes.”

This was followed by a minute’s silence. Then the first voice spoke up: “It is because of the storm that we are in a hurry. Tonight, the conditions will be just right. Now listen: you will meet us at the beach below the big house at midnight. The ship is due at twelve-fifteen. After delivery, you will land us back at the beach. Is that clear?”

There was a long pause. Then the second voice said unhappily: “I still don’t think we ought to risk it…” He broke off and there was the sound of a rustling of paper. When he next spoke, his tone had changed. “For that kind of money, sir, I’m ready to risk ten storms.”

“That’s settled then,” said the first voice. We heard the two men, who must have been sitting on the sand, get to their feet and slowly move away. I made as if to stand up too, but Ramesh quickly grabbed my arm and shook his head.

When Ramesh let go of my arm, I turned to him accusingly. “Why didn’t you let me have a look at those men?”

“And risk them seeing you and coming to know that they had been overheard? Don’t be silly!” said Ramesh.

He was right, of course. “But what does all this mean?” I asked.

“It means,” said Ramesh, his spectacles beginning to glint excitedly, “that we’ve stumbled into what may turn out to be the adventure of a lifetime! These holidays need not be a complete washout, after all!”

A warning bell began to ring loud and clear in my head. “Er… what are you talking about?” I asked slowly, knowing fully well what my excitable, adventure-loving, reckless friend was talking about.

Ramesh looked surprised. “Don’t you see? It’s pretty obvious that these men are planning to do something shady tonight. All we’ve got to do is spy on them when they meet at the beach below the big house at midnight and see what happens!”

My misgivings were justified. “Are you mad?” I exclaimed. “Firstly, as you yourself heard, there’s going to be a bad storm tonight. We’d be crazy to come out of the house while it’s raging. Secondly, if those men are doing anything illegal, it’s best we leave it to the police.”

“The police?” Ramesh assumed the air of a nurse talking to a mentally retarded child. “And what will we tell the police? Simply that we heard a man hiring a boat? Is that illegal? We’d look like complete fools. I think these men are up to no good, but we’d need to have some proof before we go to the police.”

But this time, I was not to be moved. “Look Ramesh,” I said, “this is not like any of our previous adventures. If these men really are doing something illegal then it must be something big – like smuggling, for instance. And you know how dangerous smugglers are! Besides,” I continued, making what I thought was a winning debating point, “what will my uncle think, if he finds us missing from our room?”

Ramesh looked at me for a long time and then seemed to give in. “All right,” he said smilingly. “Forget it.” He got to his feet. “I just got a bit carried away – that’s all. After all, there’s nothing wrong in some men taking a trip in a boat in the middle of the night, is there?”

Ramesh and the night of the storm (Part 2)

THE STORY SO FAR...

Ramesh and his friend are spending their school holidays at an uncle's house by the sea. The boys overhear two men planning a mysterious night out at sea. Ramesh is keen to come down to the beach that night to spy on the men. His friend opposes this potentially dangerous activity - what if the men are smugglers?

NOW READ ON...

For a few seconds I lay on my bed in the darkness of the bedroom, not knowing what had woken me up. Then I felt the strong breeze against my face and, raising my eyes, noticed that the window was half open. It took about half a minute for the full significance of that half-open window to strike me. Then, in one simultaneous movement, I sat up in my bed, switched on the bed-side lamp and stared unblinkingly at Ramesh’s bed a couple of feet away.

It was empty.

I have never been one of the world’s fast thinkers. Ramesh would tell you that I am not even an average thinker. But this time, I had no difficulty in arriving at the truth. Before going to sleep, I remembered having securely fastened the window in anticipation of the storm. Now, the window was open, Ramesh’s bed was empty and, a quick glance at the bed-side clock told me, it was a quarter to twelve. There could be only one explanation: my friend had gone alone to spy on those men we had overheard in the evening. The fool!

For a moment I debated about what to do and then gave up the pretence. I had no alternative but to follow Ramesh – I couldn’t let my friend, no matter how stupid he was, walk into danger alone.

I quickly changed my clothes, scribbled a brief note to my uncle and left it on the bed-side table, grabbed my torch and clambered out of the window.

As I made my way to the beach below the big house I felt the breeze strengthen, displaying all the signs of growing into a gale in the near future. In the distance, sounds of thunder could be heard and in the sky the stars were covered by clouds. I soon reached the beach. The big house itself was some distance away and screened off by a row of trees.

I found Ramesh peering over a larger boulder, his back towards me. “Ramesh!” I called out in a low whisper, not wishing to frighten the chap too much.

At first Ramesh did not hear me. He seemed intent on something happening on the beach.

“Ramesh!” I called out again, this time more loudly.

My bespectacled friend whirled around to face me and the amazement written on his face was clearly visible to me, even in the darkness. He stood rigid, gazing with open mouth. He might have been posing for a statue of Young Boy Startled By Snake In Path.

He finally found voice. “What-what-what are YOU doing here?”

“That,” I told Ramesh, tapping him on the chest with my forefingers, “is what I was intending to ask YOU.”

Ramesh was silent for few seconds. Then: “I just had to find out what was going on.”

I sighed. “Well then, I’ll have to come along with you now – to see that you don’t do anything stupid, if not anything else.” I fancied I saw a look of relief on Ramesh’s face, but it was quite dark and perhaps I was mistaken.

My friend grabbed my arm and pulled me close to the rock. “Look over there – at the far end of the beach,” he whispered into my ear. “They’ve come.”

He was right. In the distance, I could see three dim figures huddled together on the beach. Beyond them, a few yards out in to the sea, was a small fishing boat which, even in the darkness, I recognized as one of the fleet used by the fishermen of the village. A small light was glowing on the boat. As I watched, the three figures, carrying something bulky between them, moved to the edge of the beach and then started wading through the water to the boat. The darkness covered what happened next but they must have boarded the boat since, a few minutes later, it started drawing away from the beach. I watched the light on the boat for a few more minutes as it went further and further out into the sea until the darkness had swallowed both boat and light.

Beside me, Ramesh stirred. “I wonder what they were carrying,” he muttered, half to himself. He turned to me. “Well, we’ll just have to wait and see what happens when they come back.”

I was about to protest but then realized the futility of it all. Ramesh had the eager look of a greyhound pursuing an electric hare in his eyes. Whatever I said would not prevent him from seeing this adventure to its end. Muttering dark things under my breath, I waited with an anxiety that weighed upon my spirits like a mountain.

How long we stood behind that boulder, I do not know. It seemed like a lifetime. The earlier breeze had, by now, definitely grown into a gale, and the distant thunder was not sounding all that distant anymore. Finally, when I had almost given up hope of anything happening, Ramesh nudged me excitedly.

“There they are!” he exclaimed. “They’re heading towards this beach!” He pointed excitedly at the sea. As if Ramesh’s raised arm had been a signal, the mutter of distant thunder stopped abruptly. The whole world was quiet, listening, shivering with anticipation.

Following Ramesh’s pointing finger, I started out to the sea. Yes, I could definitely see a speck of light in the distance – light, moreover, which seemed to growing larger.

“Yes,” I said. “I...”

At that moment, a number of things happened in quick succession – so fast that they created a sort of blur, like telegraph poles seen from an express train. First the sky was lit up by a jagged streak of lightening which seemed to tear the heavens into two for an instant. This was followed by a tremendous clap of thunder that sounded so loud that, for a moment, I thought the cliff had collapsed behind us. Then, the sky started pelting water at us, with such force and intensity that, for a few seconds, I could not breathe with the shock. The storm had arrived. In front of us, the sea erupted into violent motion. The distant light zigzagged crazily, suddenly disappeared, and then reappeared again a split second later. Suddenly, we heard a shout from somewhere immediately to our left. We turned to see the dark figure of a man running towards us. Then, before Ramesh and I knew what was happening, my uncle was standing before us. His face red, his eyes wild, his hair disheveled, my uncle furiously waved the note, which I had left on the bed-side table, in front of us. “What,” he shouted above the roar of the storm, “is the meaning of this?”

Things were happening too fast for me. Helplessly, I turned to Ramesh for support. Ramesh, too, seemed to have been caught off-balance by my uncle’s sudden appearance. But he immediately recovered. Grabbing my uncle’s arm, he pointed to the light in the sea. “There are smugglers out there!” he announced dramatically.

My uncle stared at the light and then at Ramesh. “Is this a joke?”

Ramesh looked at uncle, his face flushed with excitement. “No, sir,” he said, “no joke. It’s like this...” And then, while we stood in the middle of that desolate, windswept beach, the rain pouring down in torrents all around us, the sky set ablaze by frequent flashes of lightening and huge, foam-flecked waves crashing to the ground barely a few yards away from us, Ramesh explained how we came to be there. After he had finished, my uncle once more stared at the light in the sea.

“Well,” he said, “you…” and then he suddenly stiffened. “That light!” he exclaimed. “It’s heading straight for some dangerous rocks! If they don’t change course immediately, they’ll crash!” He stared at the light for a few seconds and then exclaimed. “They seem to have lost their bearings!” He suddenly raised his right hand and there was a torch in it. He pointed it at the distant boat and began to flash it on and off.

Ramesh and the night of the storm (Part 3)

THE STORY SO FAR...

Ramesh and his friend are spending their school holiday's at an uncle's house by the sea. The boys overhear two men planning a mysterious night out at sea. They come down to the beach, ignoring the signs of an impending storm, to spy on the men. The uncle discovers the boys missing from his house and catches them in the beach. He is shocked to learn that the boys think they have stumbled upon a gang of smugglers. Worse, they see that the strange boat carrying the mysterious men is about to crash into some rocks!

NOW READ ON...

I watched the distant light breathlessly. Was it responding to uncle’s signal? For a moment, I wasn’t sure. Then, the light seemed to waver uncertainly, and, a little later, it began to grow larger and larger. Yes, the boat seemed to have changed direction, apparantly in response to uncle's flashing torch, and was now heading straight for the beach!

My uncle turned to Ramesh. “Have you got a torch?” he shouted, barely managing to be heard above the din caused by the rain and the storm-tossed waves.

“Yes!” shouted back Ramesh.

“Then do as I’ve been doing! I will run to the village for help.”

The next fifteen minutes or so on that beach were a nightmare. The rain lashed mercilessly down on us, stinging our unprotected faces and hands. One after the other, huge waves threw themselves onto the beach, with such force and fury that Ramesh and I were compelled to step back a few paces. When Ramesh’s arm grew tired from holding up the torch, I took over. As the boat responded to our guiding signal, the light grew larger and larger as it approached the beach, and soon the dim outlines of the vessel could be made out. And all the time, the question kept going round my head: when would Uncle return?

Uncle returned in the nick of time – and with him were four or five other men, fishermen from the village. When the group of men appeared on the beach the boat was about fifty feet away from land. Suddenly a huge wave appeared behind the boat and literally threw it towards us! Before the boat could recover, another giant wave crashed down on it, engulfing it completely!

I heard uncle give a shout and then, in a flurry of arms and legs, all the men rushed into the foaming water. For a few minutes all was confusion. Then a sudden brilliant flash of lightning in the sky illuminated the whole dramatic scene for an instant with a glare as if from a thousand floodlights. In the glare I saw the fishermen carry out of the seething waves and onto the beach, three limp figures. They were carefully laid down on the sand.

One of the three figures tried to sit up. Uncle shone his torch on the face of this man – and then gave a sudden exclamation. Stepping forward, he said: “Your face looks very familiar! Aren’t you Professor Kedar Kumar Sharma, the famous meteorologist?”

The man looked up. “Yes,” he said weakly and I recognized the voice Ramesh and I had heard talking to the fisherman behind the cluster of rocks that evening. The man managed a smile. “And, but for you, I would now have been the late Prof. Kedar Kumar Sharma…”

The confusion was soon cleared. The house on the cliff was really a special weather station whose primary task was the study of cyclones and other storms which frequently plagued the east coast. Attached to this station was a ship which patrolled the Bay of Bengal to study cyclones at their source. An important instrument in the ship had suddenly broken down and the scientists aboard needed a replacement immediately if they were to study the storm which they knew would hit the coast that night. They had informed the weather station of the problem by radio. It was to deliver the replacement that Prof. Sharma and his companions had set out on their night trip in the tiny fishing boat.

A couple of days later, as a mark of gratitude for our part in the rescue, Ramesh and I were given a conducted tour of the weather station. For a scientifically-minded chap like Ramesh, this was more exciting than catching a thousand smugglers. In due course, both of us received a gift from the Government. I would like to tell you about it, but Ramesh has asked me not to. He prefers to regard it as A Secret Of Great Scientific Importance!

India celebrates 60 years of freedom today...HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY!

Ramesh and the Age-old Script

Part I: Joining the Pujas

“My dear Sharma moshoi! Welcome, welcome!” The worlds were spoken in Bengali-accented English with which Ramesh and I, though we had been in Kolkata for only four days, had already become familiar.

“Good morning, Mr. Mukherjee,” replied Ramesh’s uncle. “Meet my nephew and his friend.”

We were all standing on the steps leading up to Mr. Mukherjee’s ancestral house on Kolkata’s S.N Banerjee Road. The Mukherjee mansion was fronted by a row of shops but the huge entrance stood out prominently. Mr. Mukherjee, a middle-aged gentleman dressed in a white silk kurta and dhoti (the traditional Bengali dress favoured by men), was an office colleague of Ramesh’s uncle.

“Welcome boys, welcome!” beamed Mr. Mukherjee. “Come, have a darshan of Goddess Durga Ma!”

We followed our host, who had generously invited us to join his family in the annual Durga Puja festival celebrations in the Mukherjee joint family mansion, through the entrance and a narrow corridor and suddenly found ourselves standing in a huge hall. I instinctively looked up and saw that the hall extended right up the entire middle of the building, and its ceiling was three storeys above our heads. The first and second floors were bounded by railings over which people were leaning and gazing down. I lowered my eyes to see what they were gazing at. They were watching a raised marble platform at one end of the hall on which were placed five larger-than-life idols. The hall itself was crowded with people. Everybody was dressed in new clothes, and the women wore lots of jewellery. Mr. Mukherjee gestured in their direction.

“All my relatives are here today!” he declared proudly. “No matter where they are, in this country or even outside, in foreign lands, they always come home in October, during Durga Puja!”

I saw a boy of about my age detach himself from a group of people and come towards us. Mr. Mukherjee introduced him.

“Meet my son, Niranjan,” he said. “Niranjan, I leave these boys in your care.” And, so saying, he led Ramesh’s uncle towards a group of men a little further off.

“We’ve never participated in Durga Puja celebrations before,” I told Niranjan. “This is our first visit to Kolkata. It sure was kind of your father to ask Ramesh’s uncle to bring us over!”

“I am glad you’re here,” said Niranjan, smiling.

Ramesh looked about him. “Who do those idols represent, Niranjan?” he asked.



“In the centre, standing on a lion, her ten arms holding different weapons, is Goddess Durga,” replied Niranjan. “She’s thrusting her spear into the evil king of the demons, who had been terrorizing the earth. To her right is Lakshmi, the Goddess of wealth and beyond her, with the elephant-head, is Ganesh, the patron God of businessmen. To Durga’s left is Saraswati, Goddess of learning and beyond her, Kartikey, the handsome God who represents beauty. All four, as Bengali mythology has it, are the children of the mother Goddess Durga.”

“How long has your family been celebrating Durga Puja in this house?” I asked Niranjan.

“Oh, for over a century!” replied Niranjan, a touch of pride in his voice.

Ramesh suddenly looked interested. “You mean this house is actually that old?” he asked.

Niranjan smiled. “Older,” he said. “This house was built around one hundred and seventy years ago!”

Ramesh’s spectacles began to glint excitedly. “Why, then this house is-is historical!” he exclaimed. “I’ve never been inside a house as old as this!” He looked at Niranjan and his eyes were almost pleading. “Could we explore the house a bit?” he asked.

I was shocked. “How can you make such a request, Ramesh!” I exclaimed terribly embarrassed by my friend’s presumptuousness. “You can’t go ferreting around somebody’s house as if it’s a tourist attraction!”

But, Ramesh, as usual, ignored my wet blanket treatment. He continued to look pleadingly at Niranjan.

“I’m flattered you find my house so interesting,” said Niranjan, smiling broadly. “I don’t think we’ll disturb anybody. They’re all down here watching the morning puja (prayer). Come along!”

I hesitated. My eyes wandered to the marble platform on which two priests sat, in front of the idols surrounded by huge plates full of fruits, sweets, gifts and offerings. The air was heavy with incense. Four drummers stood in front of the platform and beat a rapid-fire hypnotic rhythm. They were accompanied by the beating of gongs.

“Er…won’t they be serving Prasad soon?” I asked Niranjan, my eyes lingering longingly on the plates of fruits and sweets, which were being symbolically offered to the gods and would then be distributed amongst the worshippers after the morning puja (prayer) was over. “I think the puja is about to finish…”

Ramesh made a face. “Now, don’t be a greedy hog, yaar!” he exclaimed loudly, making heads turn and me blush with embarrassment. “The Prasad won’t run away!”

“Don’t worry!” grinned Niranjan. “I’ll make it a quick tour.”

We followed Niranjan up a huge marble staircase. On reaching the first floor, he turned into a large doorway.

We found ourselves standing inside a massive, high-ceilinged room. A gigantic chandelier hung from the ceiling in the exact centre of the room. Beautiful furniture, clearly of great antique value, was neatly arranged around the room. The walls were adorned with paintings and family portraits.

“Our drawing room!” announced Niranjan. “This is the room where we receive and entertain guests and family members gather together. Some of the furniture dates back to the last century!”

Ramesh whistled as he gazed around him. “This room was certainly built for a big family!” he exclaimed.

“Yes. We have lots of relatives, and they all made it a point to attend this Durga Puja.” Niranjan’s expression became sad. “It’s probably the last Durga Puja we’re going to celebrate in this house!”

Ramesh looked quickly at Niranjan. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Niranjan smiled wryly. “It’s a pretty expensive affair, you know,” he said. “And the family doesn’t have much money left. High taxes and increasing costs have eaten into the ancestral property. And my father certainly can’t afford to host such a festival on only his salary!”

“It’ll be a great pity if this family custom ends now!” I observed.

“I don’t think we’ve much choice in the matter,” murmured Niranjan softly. He quickly shook himself. “Anyway, we’re certainly celebrating this Durga Puja in style! Come on, let me show you the next room, now! If we don’t hurry through this tour, our friend here will miss his Prasad!”

The room Niranjan next took us to was clearly a library. It was a vast room with shelves filled with books lining all walls. Most of the shelves were dusty and the books looked old and little used.

Ramesh darted forward eagerly. He had the air of an archeologist who had just discovered another Mohen-jo-daro, India’s oldest excavation site. As he paused before a bookcase whose contents were coated with a layer of dust an inch thick, he uttered a noise that sounded like glue pouring out of a jug.

I recognized the symptoms. Sure enough, an excited Ramesh turned a pleading face to Niranjan. “Could I have a look at some of these old books?” he asked. “They don’t seem to have been touched for years and years! Maybe there’s a very valuable book lying forgotten in one of these shelves!”

Niranjan hesitated for only a moment. “Go ahead!” he replied. “It won’t harm the books to get a little dusting!”

The sound of the drums and gongs, which had been following us wherever we went, ceased abruptly. I looked at Niranjan. “Er…has the morning puja come to an end?” I asked meaningfully.

Niranjan smiled. “Yes,” he replied. “Should we go down?”

I nearly licked my lips. “Yes let’s do that!” I said, happy that Niranjan was so understanding.

We left Ramesh in the library and hurried down to the hall. When we returned, armed with packets of prasad, we found Ramesh sitting in front of a table piled high with books. He was holding a small wooden box. He looked up when we entered, his face flushed with excitement.

“Look what I’ve found in one corner of a bookcase!” exclaimed Ramesh, holding up the box.

“What’s inside?” asked Niranjan, interested.

“This!” announced Ramesh, and, in the manner of a conjurer pulling a rabbit out of his hat, he opened the box and carefully drew out a rolled up paper. Putting the box on his lap, he slowly unrolled the piece of yellowing paper then handed it to Niranjan. I craned my neck to look.

There were only four lines of thin, spidery writing, very faint. I couldn’t understand it, but knew the script was Bengali.

“It looks like a small poem,” said Niranjan slowly. “I’ve absolutely no idea who could have written it!”

“What does it say?” asked Ramesh quickly.

“Well, I’m not good at translating poems from Bengali to English,” replied Niranjan apologetically. “But I’ll try to give you the meaning of each line.” He raised the piece of paper closer to his face and peered intently at the words. “This is how it goes: ‘Neither summer nor winter…Mother has come home…beneath the peacock…number the petals…”

There was a brief silence.

“Sounds Greek to me,” I said, trying to be witty.

Ramesh ignored me. His brow had ceased into a puzzled frown. “Why has this poem been preserved like this in this box?” he asked Niranjan.

“I’ve no idea,” replied our host. “This is the first time I’ve seen this paper or the box. I don’t think my father knows about them, either!”

“You mean, there’s no way we can find out who wrote this poem and why it’s been preserved?” asked Ramesh, sounding very disappointed.

Niranjan scratched his head. “Well, perhaps my dadu – my grandfather - knows something about it,” he said hesitatingly. “Since the puja is over, he must have come upstairs and gone to his room. We can go and ask him.”

Ramesh jumped to his feet as if a spring had just been released beneath him. “That’s a good idea!” he exclaimed. “Let’s go!”

“Hey, hold it, yaar!” I cried agitatedly. “When are we going to eat the prasad?”

“Later, later,” said Ramesh impatiently.

“All right, let’s go” agreed Niranjan, handing the yellow paper back to Ramesh to roll up and replace inside the box.

We hurried out of the library. Niranjan led us down a long corridor and stopped before a small door. He knocked.

“Who is it?” We heard a soft voice from behind the door.

“Dadu, it’s me,” replied Niranjan. “My friends would like to meet you.”

“Come in,” invited the soft voice.

We obeyed and found ourselves standing in a small room sparingly furnished with a bed, a desk and some chairs. On one of the chairs, by the window, sat an old man. He smiled at us.

“Welcome, boys,” said Niranjan’s grandfather. “I hope you are enjoying Durga Puja.”

“Yes, sir, we are,” replied Ramesh. He opened the box in his hands and took out the piece of paper. “We just discovered this in the library,” he said, handing the paper to Niranjan’s grandfather.

Niranjan’s grandfather unrolled the paper and ran his eyes over the words written on it. And, as he did so, his face brightened.

“I’d almost forgotten about this poem,” he murmered softly.

“Do you know who wrote it, Dadu?” asked Niranjan.

Nirnjan’s grandfather looked up. “Yes,” he replied. “My grandfather – your great-great-grandfather – wrote it. As far as I know, it’s the only poem he ever wrote. It was found amongst his possessions after he had died. The handwriting is his. It was preserved, as were all his other possessions, because, as you know, your great-great-grandfather is a family hero!”

Ramesh’s head jerked up. He looked like an infant who’s suddenly spotted an ice cream parlour. “Was your great-great-grandfather a freedom fighter or something?” he asked Niranjan.

Niranjan smiled proudly. “Well, he was one of the few who stood up to Lord Curzon, the Viceroy of that time!” He looked at his grandfather. “Dadu, isn’t there a story about hidden treasure connected with my great-great-grandfather?” he asked.

Niranjan’s grandfather looked thoughtful. “Well, yes there is a story,” he replied slowly.

Ramesh could hardly control his excitement. “Please tell us the story,” he implored.

Niranjan’s grandfather smiled. “All right!” he said. “I’ll tell you.” He shifted slightly in his seat and then began: “As you must have studied in your history books, in 1905 the then British Viceroy, Lord Curzon, virtually the British ruler of India, initiated a move to partition the state of Bengal, which was the seat of Indian Nationalism and anti British agitation in those days. Well, this sparked off a big agitation against the move in which my family played an active part. Word spread that the British were planning to arrest the male members of our family. So it was decided that the whole family should leave the city for a time and lie low in a house they had near Siliguri in North Bengal. The story goes that, before leaving, my grandfather – Niranjan’s great-great-grandfather – who was the head of the family then, hid some of the family wealth in order to safeguard it from possible looters. Unfortunately, he died before the family could return to Kolkata after things had quietened down and so nobody knows where he had hidden the treasure – if, at all, he did hide any such treasure in the first place!”

All through the narrative Ramesh had been sitting on the edge of his chair, tensely clasping and unclasping his hands. Now he exclaimed: “You mean that, at this very moment, there’s a treasure trove hidden somewhere in this house?”

Niranjan’s grandfather smiled. “I didn’t say that,” he replied. “Nobody knows whether the story is true or not!”

At that moment, the sound of a gong reached our ears.

“Ah!” exclaimed Niranjan. “The mid-day bhog (festival lunch) will be served now.” He looked at me and grinned. “I think you’ll find it delicious!”

I hastily got to my feet. “…Then, shouldn’t we go and…participate?” I indicated the packets of Prasad I was still holding in my hands. “We haven’t eaten anything since morning.”

Yes, you boys go downstairs and have your bhog,” agreed Niranjan’s grandfather.

The bhog (the special festival lunch which is served to all worshippers and guests during all the five days of the Durga Puja celebrations) was indeed, delicious. It was a mixture of rice, dal (lentils) and vegetables. Niranjan kept referring to it as khichri. It was followed by paish, a very sweet rice pudding. I ate heartily.

Ramesh, however, barely touched his food. He lingered over the khichri in an absent-minded sort of way and looked too preoccupied to pay much attention to the paish. Suddenly, towards the end of the meal, his head shot up with a jerk. He grabbed my arm, nearly causing me to drop my spoonful of sweet rice over my shirt.

“Hey! Watch it!” I exclaimed.

“Listen!” cried Ramesh breathlessly, his spectacles beginning to glint. “I’ve just got an idea about that treasure!” He turned to Niranjan. "I think your great-great-grandfather may have left a clue to the treasure!"

End of Part I

Next Part: The Clue

Ramesh and the Age-old Script

Part II: The Clue

The story so far:

Ramesh and his friend are in Kolkata, the capital of the Indian province of Bengal, for the October holidays. They have been invited to celebrate Durga Puja in the old mansion of a friend of Ramesh’s uncle. All the members of this Bengali family have come home for the Pujas, as they always do, but Niranjan, the 15-year-old son of the house, explains sadly that it will probably be the last get-together since his father can no longer afford it. Ramesh excitedly explores the old house, and finds in the library a casket with a yellowing piece of paper inside. On it is written a poem in Bengali. Niranjan’s grandfather informs the boys that the poem was written by his own grandfather, during the colonial British rulers’ attempt to partition the province of Bengal. Niranjan remembers that there was a story about the family treasure being hidden in the house at that time. Later at lunch, Ramesh suddenly puts two and two together. He is sure that Niranjan’s great-great-grandfather has left behind a clue to that treasure!

Niranjan looked astounded. “What clue?” he exclaimed.

Ramesh put on his best Sherlock Holmes manner. “Didn’t your grandfather say,” he continued mysteriously, “that the lines written on the paper found in the library constitute the only poem your great-great-grandfather ever wrote in his life? Well, maybe he wrote it as a clue to where the treasure is hidden!”

My mouth fell upon. “Impossible!” I exclaimed.

“Why?” asked Ramesh quickly. “It’s certainly very possible and I think we should have a go at deciphering the poem.”

Niranjan nodded his head slowly. “How wonderful it’ll be if there really is a hidden treasure and we manage to discover it!” he exclaimed. “Let’s go up to the library!”

I made as if to protest, but seeing the determined look on the faces of the other two, decided to play along with them. Reluctantly discarding all thoughts of having a third helping of rice pudding, I followed Ramesh and Niranjan.

Once again we were in the library, Niranjan reading out the meaning of each line of the poem on the yellowing paper. “This is how it goes,” said Niranjan. “‘Neither summer nor winter…Mother has come home...beneath the peacock…number the petals…’”

There was a brief silence.

“Well,” I said, after a pause, “that sounds like a most unlikely clue to a hidden treasure.”

Ramesh looked pityingly at me. “Naturally, yaar!” he exclaimed. “If the message was obvious to one and all, then the hidden treasure wouldn’t be much of a secret, would it?”

Niranjan looked at Ramesh anxiously. “Can you decipher it?” he asked.

Ramesh put on his Sherlock Holmes manner again. “Well, let’s consider each line separately. What does the first line say? ‘Neither summer nor winter!’. The reference is clearly to the seasons. An in-between season, perhaps? There are two alternatives: spring and autumn. Maybe, the next line will make the picture clearer!”

“The next line says: ‘Mother has come home,” Niranjan repeated.

“Mother…” murmured Ramesh thoughtfully. “Whose mother?” His brow creased into a frown. “Reading the first two lines together, the poem is clearly referring to somebody’s mother who has come home either in the spring or in the autumn.”

My head was beginning to spin a little.

Niranjan broke in, his eyes sparkling. “Ramesh, what would you call the current season?” he asked.

“You mean now, in the month of October?” queried Ramesh. “Why, autumn, I suppose!”

Niranjan jumped to his feet. “Then the mother this poem is referring to must be Goddess Durga Ma!” he exclaimed excitedly. “She’s the mother Goddess who’s come to Earth. Every autumn, she descends from the Himalayas, where she lives with Lord Shiva, her husband, and comes to her father’s house for a visit. That’s what Durga Puja is all about!”

Ramesh stared at Niranjan and then his face broke into a wide smile. “That’s it, then!” he declared. “The message of the poem is clear! The treasure is hidden in the idol of the Goddess Durga!”

For a few seconds, nobody spoke. I stared at Ramesh in amazement. Niranjan broke the silence. “No” he said firmly. “The treasure is not hidden in the idol of Durga Ma.”

Ramesh looked puzzled. “How are you so sure?” he asked.

Niranjan smiled. “You jumped to the conclusion you did because you don’t know our customs,” he replied. “All the idols downstairs are only a few months old! Every year, on Bijoya Dashami – the fifth and last day of Durga Puja – all the idols, which have been worshipped during the previous four days, are taken to the banks of the river Ganges and immersed in the waters! This symbolizes Durga Ma’s return to her husband’s home after her short visit to her father’s house. So, you see, the idols used in my great-great-grandfather’s time have, long ago, sunk in the Ganges!”

Ramesh’s face fell. He looked like a cricketer who, having strode out jauntily to the wicket, suddenly discovers that he has forgotten to bring his bat. It was not often that Ramesh made a bloomer and the experience was clearly very painful to him.

“Anyway,” continued Niranjan, “from all accounts, my ancestors fled to Siliguri some time in the winter months. There would have been no idols then – either of Goddess Durga of her children – to hide treasures in!”

Ramesh looked apologetic. “I-uh-I didn’t know all this,” he said shamefacedly. “I was in too much of a hurry to jump to conclusions!”

“What does the next line say?” I asked. “Something to do with peacocks, I think?”

“Yes,” replied Niranjan. He looked at the yellowing paper in his hands. “It says: ‘Beneath the peacock’.” Niranjan looked puzzled. “What peacock?” he asked.

Ramesh’s brow creased into a frown. Then he snapped his fingers. “Do you have any pictures or engravings of peacocks in this house?” he asked.

Niranjan looked doubtful. “Not that I know of,” he replied. “If there was any such picture or engraving, I’m sure I would have noticed!”

“There must be!” insisted Ramesh. “And this peacock is, somehow, connected with Durga Puja!”

A sudden flash of light seemed to blaze upon Niranjan. He sat up with a jerk. “Of course!” he exclaimed.

Ramesh had the air of a policeman who knows that he is just a few minutes away from nabbing a gang of cat-burglars. “Where?” he asked quickly. “Where is this peacock?”

Niranjan composed himself. “I don’t know whether you noticed,” he began, “but each of the Gods and Goddesses downstairs is sitting is standing on some kind of a carrier. Durga Ma is on a lion. Lakshmi is on an owl. Saraswati is sitting on a swan. Ganesh is reclining on a rat. And Kartikeya, the God of Beauty, is sitting on a peacock!”

By now, even I had begun to feel the excitement of a hunter hot on a scent. “Wow!” I exclaimed. I looked at Niranjan excitedly. “What does the last line of the poem say?”

Niranjan once again raised the hundred-year-old scroll of paper. His hands, I saw, were trembling slightly. “The last line reads: ‘Count the petals’.”

Ramesh murmured to himself: “Beneath the peacock…count the petals…” He looked at Niranjan. “Tell me, what’s beneath the peacock downstairs?”

Niranjan slowly rolled up the scroll of paper in his hands. “The floor, of course!” he said finally. “What else?”

“No flowers?” asked Ramesh.

“Not that I know of.”

Ramesh got to his feet. “Well, I think we’ll have to take a close look at the idol of Lord Kartikeya,” he observed. “Let’s go down.

Niranjan quickly put the scroll back into its box and returned it to the bookshelf. We hurried down.

The afternoon puja (prayer service) had ended. Prasad (portions of sweets and fruits that had been offered to the gods) was being distributed to the worshippers by one of the priests. As we moved towards the marble platform on which the idols stood, the priest beckoned us to take some prasad.

Niranjan remembered his duties as a host. “Yes, take some prasad,” he said, and piloted us towards the priest.

I cupped my hands and received a packet of sweets and fruits. Ramesh also cupped his hands and the priest handed him a packet of prasad, too.

Ramesh did not move.

I stared in amazement at my bespectacled friend, who seemed to have suddenly frozen into a statue, his arms still upraised, the packet of prasad in his cupped hands.

“Ramesh!” I hissed. “What’s up?”

Ramesh was staring at the marble platform behind the priest. There was a glazed look in his eyes.

I nudged Ramesh. “What’s wrong?” I exclaimed.

Ramesh came to life. He pointed to the marble platform in front of us. I looked at the surface of the marble platform.

And then I understood.

Carved out of the surface of the marble platform was an intricate design of loops and circles and, at frequent intervals, beautifully engraved flowers. I grabbed Niranjan’s arm. “Look at the designs!” I exclaimed. “Don’t they cover the entire platform?”

“They sure do!” replied Niranjan, equally excited.

Ramesh quickly grabbed both Niranjan and me by the arms and motioned us to follow him. We quickly moved to a quiet corner of the hall. “Listen,” said Ramesh quickly, looking at Niranjan. “Are those idols always arranged the way they are now? I mean, every year – year after year?”

“Yes,” replied Niranjan, catching the drift. “Kartikeya is always placed to the left of Saraswati who is always left of Durga. And, the idols are always placed in the slight semi-circle that you see now.”

“That means,” concluded Ramesh triumphantly, “that earlier idols of Kartikeya must have covered the same flower which the present idol has been placed over!”

“Yes,” agreed Niranjan, nodding his head vigorously.

“Then that engraved floor is the one the poem is referring to!” cried Ramesh with a victorious smile.

“You must be right,” I agreed. “But the poem talks of counting the petals of the flowers. What’ll we achieve by doing that?”

“I don’t know,” said Ramesh impatiently. “Not yet, anyway. We must do things one step at a time.” He looked at Niranjan. “First, we must uncover the flower.”

Niranjan looked doubtful. “That will mean moving the idol of Lord Kartikeya. I’m not sure we’ll be allowed to do that.”

I broke in hastily. “There’s really no hurry, you know.” I said quickly. “The idols will be here for only four more days. Then, they’ll be taken to the river and immersed. After that we can spend all the time we want inspecting the engraved flower.”

Niranjan looked at Ramesh. “That makes sense,” he said.

Ramesh looked uncertain for a moment and then gave in. “Well, if there is a hundred-year-old hidden treasure,” he said, with a half-hearted smile,” I guess it can wait another four days to be discovered!”

The next four days must have been the longest Ramesh had ever lived through. Impatient by nature, he could barely control his excitement at the thought of being on the threshold of a major discovery. The delay irritated him and he wore the air of a wild beast straining at a leash.

I, on the other hand, enjoyed the Durga Puja festivities thoroughly – the morning and evening pujas (prayers), the drumming, the gongs, the chanting, the incense, the Prasad, the meals, the variety and cultural programmes, the people, the comings and goings and the visiting of other centres of worship in other parts of the city, all kept me preoccupied and in a sort of happy trance. I did not, of course, forget about our search for the hidden treasure, but I did not give it much thought during those four hectic days.

Finally, Bijoya Dashami, the last day of Durga Puja, arrived. Ramesh’s uncle, Ramesh and I accompanied the Mukherjee household, in procession, to the banks of the river Ganges. There we saw the five idols, along with hundreds of other idols from all over Kolkata, being immersed in the waters of the holy river.

We returned to the Mukherjee house, everybody a little sadthat the festivities were finally over. Ramesh, Niranjan and I immediately made a bee-line for the marble platform in the hall. We mounted the steps and rushed over to the spot where the idol of Kartikeya had stood. Sure enough, on the exact spot where the idol of the God of Beauty and his peacock had stood, was an engraved flower!

I stared at the flower and did a quick count. “The flower has nine petals,” I said. “What are we supposed to do now?”

You could almost hear the machinery of Ramesh’s brain working overtime.

“The poem tells us to count the petals,” he observed. “But the number of petals – nine—doesn’t seem to carry any message. My guess is that we’re supposed to do something while counting the petals!”

Nirnanjan looked thoughtful. “Maybe we’re expected to touch the petals?” he suggested.

Ramesh’s face lit up. “Of course!” he exclaimed. “That’s how hidden safes and trapdoors are opened in detective stories! We must press each petal! That’ll release the concerned springs!”

With Ramesh, thought is always quickly followed by action. He crouched over the engraved flower petals and pressed them one after the other.

Nothing happened. What an anti-climax!

“Try again,” urged Niranjan. “You might not have got the right petal to start with. Maybe there’s a certain sequence!”

It was on the third round that our patience was rewarded. Ramesh had pressed all the petals, one by one, in a different sequence than his earlier tries, when, suddenly, with a tiny whirring sound, a small portion of the marble floor a little above the engraved flower slid to one side revealing a gaping hole!

We could see three bags inside the hole!

Niranjan lowered his arms into the hole and lifted out of one of the three bags. The cloth bag, rotten with age, came to pieces in his hands and a glittering mass of gold and silver ornaments fell to the floor!

We stared at this dazzling spectacle for a few seconds, our breathing suspended. Then, Ramesh quickly lifted out another bag. This, too burst and a pile of gold and silver coins poured out!

Niranjan was lifting out the third bag when I heard footsteps and, raising my head, saw Mr. Mukherjee and Ramesh’s uncle hurrying towards us.

“Aren’t you boys coming up to have dinner?” asked Mr. Mukherjee. Then his eyes fell on the dazzling array of glittering wealth around us and both he and Ramesh’s uncle stopped in their tracks in amazement.

“What – what is all this?” stammered Mr. Mukherjee, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.

Niranjan slowly got to his feet. He smiled broadly. “Father, we can celebrate Durga Puja again next year,” he said quietly but with a note of triumph in his voice, “and for many, many more years to come! The gods have shown us the way...”