You often argued with me, when we were young fools
in Kobe, that logic is less important than passion. No.
There is logic and music in a blade of grass, in the song of
a hummingbird, in the sigh of a lover.
We reached Howrah Station, the main railway access point of Calcutta, around noon. The Hooghly River, over which we passed, is an offshoot of the Ganges that retains the mystique of its source. The July heat and the humidity of Calcutta affected us greatly, but my first impressions of the city were favourable—even if my description of it won’t be. It was different from Bombay and even more crowded. The air hung heavy with a concoction of smells, mostly offensive, but interesting on the whole.
The teeming mass of humanity belied description; poverty and utter deprivation seemed rife. The area was, I was told, in the midst of an extended drought of extreme severity and thousands from the hinterland were travelling to Calcutta to find a means of survival. I was moved by the plight of the hopeless and starving and the deep, silent stares of the emaciated children. But there was little I could do, being on a different mission that could not afford the slightest digression.
Holmes had an idea that we would find good rooms and remain inconspicuous in the Armenian Street area, which was filled with immigrants from that distant country—a quite surprising fact. We found rooms at the Rose Lodge that were comfortable, though we had to change our garb at an intermediate spot in order to avoid refusal. Holmes still insisted on a disguise for himself; he made himself up to look several years older. He bought a pair of spectacles for me and I was transformed into a scholar. We now looked like two English gentlemen—and since there were hundreds in Calcutta, it was fairly simple to assimilate. We checked in as James Smith and John Brown; not very original, but as inconspicuous as we could imagine.
We considered our options after lunch. The manager, Mr. Abel Petrosian, proved to be a genial and talkative soul.
‘Ah, gentlemen, you wish to travel to Shanghai? Excellent! Admirable! A fine place, home to so many of our Chinese immigrants here! Let me suggest some options.
‘The first way, perhaps the fastest, is to take a passenger ship to Singapore and then travel upwards to the northeast. The second way is to travel to Rangoon on the same ship, then head due east overland to Bangkok and finally resume the sea journey. This sounds arduous, but you will actually save time. During the monsoon, however, the overland road is nothing but a sea of mud and I would not suggest you go there. There is a third option that involves travelling to Dacca, then on to Kohima in the Naga Hills, Burma, China, but that is considered highly risky and there is every possibility that you will be subject to an attack on your persons—no, no, I would not advise that! I strongly recommend that you take the sea route to Singapore. If you like, I can arrange for first-class tickets. I believe there is a passenger ship, the Isabella, to Singapore in two days. I recommend it highly.’
‘Two days seem considerable, Mr. Petrosian,’ said Holmes, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘But I suppose there is no alternative. If you could arrange for passage for two on the Isabella, we would be indebted. Going to Singapore makes eminent sense.’
‘Your tickets will be in your hands by this evening, gentlemen. Now, I do suggest you take a tour of this interesting city. If you wish, I can arrange a coach to take you around.’
Holmes declined. ‘I think we shall walk around, Mr. Petrosian. I hear there is considerable musical influence in this town. Could you guide us to someone who could elucidate?’
‘Ah no, Mr. Smith, this is not the refined and cultured music that you are used to. The music of India is primitive, barbaric, and quite disorganized. I would not recommend it at all. There is no philharmonic or conservatory of music here, sadly.’
‘I’m afraid that is not quite what I am looking for, Sir. Well, I shall find out. Good day.’
As we stepped out Holmes remarked, ‘There is no question of going to Singapore, of course, Watson. This is a talkative man not given to circumspection and it is best to give him an incorrect impression about our true plans. We shall travel on that ship, but get off at Rangoon or elsewhere and take the land route. There is no doubt in my mind that Professor Moriarty would be scanning the Singapore port. Well, let us discuss that later. I—we—shall be frustrated by a forced rest of two days, but we might as well make the most of it and soak in the culture.’
We explored Calcutta for a short while. The city was unusually filthy, with evidence of grinding poverty and decay. Neither of us was deterred. There was a different kind of life here, full of emotion and energy. We decided we rather liked Calcutta.
We strolled through the European Quarter. I had rarely seen Sherlock Holmes in such a relaxed frame of mind, though I was quite sure his gigantic brain was ahead in Tokyo.
We stopped at a large bookstore in an area called College Street. The owner came up and introduced himself as Mr. Shyam Chundur Mookerjee. He was a slight man and spoke excellent English.
‘Perhaps you can give us an idea of what we could see and experience in Calcutta for the next two days, Mr. Mookerjee? In particular, I would be keen to be introduced to a local musician.’
‘A local musician, Sir? An unusual but wise choice! We are certainly proud of our music and musicians. Would you like to meet someone specific?’
‘Perhaps someone who could teach me for a few hours. I have seen that music sharpens my mind. I am a violinist, albeit a dilettante.’
‘Unusual, unusual! But commendable.’ Mr. Mookerjee was quite flustered by this peculiar request from an Englishman.
A young Indian gentleman in Western attire stepped out from behind a large bookshelf. He had a regal bearing and intelligent eyes, with hair parted in the middle. He bowed gravely.
‘Gentlemen, excuse me. I happened to overhear your conversation with Mr. Mookerjee, quite inadvertently, for which I do beg your pardon. I may be able to assist you in your endeavours if you permit me.’ His English had no accent. Mr. Mookerjee stepped back in deference.
‘My name is Rabindranath Tagore, gentlemen. I am a regular patron at this establishment. If you could step behind here, there are some comfortable seats where we could converse in private. Mr. Mookerjee, perhaps some tea for your esteemed visitors?’
‘Of course!’
We introduced ourselves to the gentleman as visitors in Calcutta who would soon be on our way to Singapore. I was quite content watching Holmes adapt to our surroundings so easily and converse with natives of all classes; this young man of aristocratic bearing, suggesting a man of independent means, would likely be an interesting individual to be acquainted with.
Holmes puffed at his pipe. ‘I am a violinist, Mr. Tagore, perhaps merely an itinerant one. Nevertheless, if I could be instructed on a few select local compositions, I believe it would be time well spent. I propose to write a monograph on the adaptation of the violin to the music of India one day.’
Mr. Tagore looked at us very carefully. ‘A most noteworthy and desirable objective, Mr. Smith. I may be able to help you. The music of India is demanding, however, and may not be appreciated and absorbed over a matter of three days. Some take decades before declaring a mild appreciation for its underlying complexities. Nevertheless, a very brief introduction is certainly possible. As it happens, I am a lover of music myself and do compose music that is of a somewhat lighter nature, but I have an assistant, Mr. Sen, who is a classical musician of some eminence and could impart some training for a few hours, should it be convenient.’
‘I appreciate your courtesy. And what would be his fees?’
‘None whatsoever! A visit from Sherlock Holmes to my humble home would be fee enough.’
It is not often that I have seen Sherlock Holmes let surprise show vividly on his face. He took the pipe out of his mouth and stared.
‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Tagore?’
‘Come, come, Sir! I am certain—quite certain, Sir—that I am speaking with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the eminent private detective. It is an extraordinary coincidence that I am meeting you here in a bookshop in Calcutta. I lived in England for a few years and your famous face is quite familiar to me, though you seem a little older than I had imagined—excuse my poor manners! I was privy to the manner in which you handled a certain case involving the Treaty of Pondicherry. Your intervention prevented extreme embarrassment to the French governor-general and some other individuals. I am also aware of your role in retrieving the missing diamonds of the Princely State of Gwalior. Your name and fame precede you, Sir. And this, of course, must be Dr. Watson.’ He bowed. ‘Please tell me if I am wrong.’
Holmes regained his composure. ‘I must compliment you, Mr. Tagore. Let us drop this pretence. I can, of course, completely count on your discretion. I am here on a mission of great secrecy and shall leave in two days. If news of our identity is made known, I am afraid the consequences would be disastrous.’
‘In that case, Mr. Holmes, permit me to take charge of your affairs. I will proceed to my home in an area called Jorasanko, north of Calcutta, to make arrangements and organize myself. And if you will permit me, I shall like to send word to my good friend Mr. Jagdish Chandra Bose to join us there. He is a lecturer in Physics at Presidency College and is involved in several controversial forays into the world of science, for which, I confess, I have no talent. I know that he is an admirer of yours and would be sorely disappointed not to be able to avail of this opportunity to meet you. Mr. Mookerjee here will give you a brief guided tour of the city and then provide you with reliable transportation to my residence. You will then be escorted back to your hotel later tonight. Does this plan suit you?’
Holmes nodded and, within minutes Mr. Tagore departed after giving Mr. Mookerjee instructions. Mr. Mookerjee organized a brougham and we embarked on a brief but interesting tour of the city.
We visited a Kali temple, which turned out to be an unsettling experience. The place was dirty, noisy, and extremely crowded and we had to exercise care, as dozens of urchins and beggars made futile attempts to divest us of our money, clothes, and belongings. The priests—referred to as pandas, if I recall—were particularly persistent in their manner, to the point of being unpleasantly intrusive, and promised salvation for monetary considerations, a matter in which we evinced no interest. Goddess Kali, depicted as a rather ruthless eradicator of evil, appears central to the culture of Bengal and the city is named after her. Devotees sacrifice all manner of animals to propitiate her rather startling idol at this temple; this can be a very unpleasant sight. We left quickly.
I erred in making a slightly uncivil remark about the natives and their beliefs. ‘Such heathen customs, Holmes!’
Sherlock Holmes shook his head disapprovingly. ‘Heathen? Tut! A most uncharitable comment from you, Watson. Doubtless our own beliefs guided by the Church of England will not stand the test of scrutiny from the lens of their perspective!’
‘Yes, you have a point, Holmes,’ I said, suitably chastened.
As we travelled to Jorasanko to meet Mr. Tagore (after picking up Holmes’ violin from our hotel and dropping Mr. Mookerjee back at his bookstore), we passed by a motley group of Bengalees of the labour class waving red flags and raising slogans outside a factory on the outskirts of the town. We had never seen such a sight before and Holmes requested our driver to drive by slowly to enable us to observe the event closely.
At regular intervals, the group, as a body, would clench their fists, raise their right hands and shout something loudly, which invariably ended with the expression ‘Moordabad,’ which I understood later is condemnatory and hopes for death for the person or persons who are the object of their ire. Holmes directed some enquiries at the driver, who responded, presumably explaining what the matter was.
‘Why are they upset, Holmes?’ I asked, quite fascinated by the sight.
Holmes sank back in the seat as the coach gathered speed. ‘It would appear that the Bengalees are an excitable people, Watson. Easily agitated about issues big and small and prone to endless argumentation. For a moment, I thought we were witnessing some form of political protest, which is indeed the case, but the coachman tells me that the gentlemen were, in fact, additionally leading a labour disturbance. In essence, they were protesting against working conditions and their pay, which they believe is altogether too modest. Their suggestion is that working hours be reduced and the pay increased, a proposition that they hope the mill owner [for it was a mill the gentlemen were standing outside] will consider favourably.
‘Doubtless you are aware of the influence of Karl Marx, presently comfortably interred at the Highgate Cemetery in London. He made a powerful case—though, I would personally argue, an erroneous one—for common ownership of land and industry and the notion of socialism. I would hazard a guess that the citizens of this area are quite taken by this utopian ideal and look forward to an equalization of economic conditions. While I would not challenge the premise of the demonstrators, being unaware of the specifics, I also conjecture that the disturbance is some form of political catharsis. I wonder if we are witnessing the beginning of some stirring changes, Watson, in the very concept of the British Empire. Time will tell.’
By now, we had reached Jorasanko and after dismissing the cab, we entered the rather large and beautiful building where we expected to meet Mr. Rabindranath Tagore. We were welcomed elaborately and most warmly and then escorted to an inner room. In a moment, Mr. Tagore entered the room, greeted us with great warmth, and made the most courteous enquiries about our well-being.
He sat opposite us on an oversized chair made of teak and studied us carefully with his intense eyes, his fingers drumming the wooden arms. ‘Mr. Smith and Mr. Brown? Well, well! You could have done better! In any case, I am delighted, Mr. Holmes, to learn about your interest in the culture of India. Someone did mention that you had written a monograph7 on the dead language of Pali, which is considered the final word on the matter. I hope to give you any additional information that is within my capacity to provide.
‘And you, Dr. Watson,’ he said, turning to me. ‘How I envy you your excursion to Afghanistan of which I have read so much! Yes, it was war and doubtless unpleasant, but I am a romantic man, Sir, and think of Afghanistan in a certain dreamy way—strong and proud Pathans, beautiful women, Kandahar, mountains, the famous city of Kabool…’
‘May I?’ enquired Holmes, taking out his pipe after some additional pleasantries.
‘Of course! And ah, here is Jagdish!’
An Indian gentleman in his late thirties, in Western attire, rushed in, panting slightly. He started speaking in Bengalee with Mr. Tagore, but arrested himself when he saw us and continued in English.
‘Gentlemen, my apologies, I have just concluded my classes and was delayed. I—’
Mr. Tagore raised his arm in greeting. ‘Jagdish! No need to apologize! Let me introduce you to Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, newly arrived from England. Gentlemen, this is Mr. Jagdish Chandra Bose, a man with a remarkable penchant for scientific enquiry, who, I dare say, will make a name for himself very soon.’
Mr. Bose bowed to us and we shook hands.
‘Mr. Tagore is too kind. I am just a humble student of science. And I am delighted to meet both of you. I used to read about you while I was a student at Cambridge, Mr. Holmes, obviously through the wonderful efforts of Dr. Watson here. Lord Rayleigh, my professor there, spoke often about your scientific methods and urged me to review some of your cases to see how the application of scientific methods could solve some kinds of criminal situations.’
I observed Holmes study this interesting gentleman carefully. Mr. Bose was obviously of an excitable disposition, his eyes darting here and there. Of medium height and average build, wearing rimless spectacles, he radiated a certain magnetism and energy. He made for an interesting contrast to the more reflective Mr. Tagore.
Mr. Bose sniffed the air. ‘Tobacco. An unusual variant—not from India. Possibly Brazilian? No—a subtle Virginia.’
Sherlock Holmes was delighted. ‘Quite so! You know your tobacco, Mr. Bose!’
Mr. Bose shrugged. ‘Merely the result of having spent time with others in London who were quite obsessed. And I have read a couple of your monographs on the distinctive nature of various kinds of tobacco ash. Really sir, your range of interests is fascinating!’
‘More monographs, Holmes?’ I asked wearily. Holmes pretended not to have heard my cry of hopeless misery.
‘I am, after all, a scientist, gentlemen, and may be forgiven my questions. As I understand from Mr. Tagore, you are travelling in a roundabout way to Japan on a sensitive mission, all the way from London. Is that correct?’
He saw our hesitation and continued hurriedly, ‘I can only assure you of confidentiality, for whatever that might be worth, Sirs, but it happens that I too have some knowledge of Japan and may be able to suggest a few lines of enquiry. But that is entirely up to you.’
‘Have you heard of the Yakuza, Mr. Bose?’ asked Holmes.
‘Yes, I have. And if it is them you seek, you obviously know it is a difficult and dangerous business. But I am sure you have thought it through. It is the fear of violence from organized gangs that is the apparent deterrent to probing from the outside. But since their value systems are invariably convoluted, you will find a weak link based solely on some principle of irrationality that ties them together. That is my suggestion for your line of enquiry, not knowing much more about your mission.’
Holmes nodded, his eyes already gazing into the distance, weighing this sage advice and various facts he was privy to.
Servants flitted in and out, serving us tea and local sweets. (‘The Bengalees have quite the sweet tooth, Watson. People of extremes in every aspect of behaviour,’ Holmes had earlier remarked.)
Mr. Tagore said, ‘Mr. Holmes, let me take a moment to tell you about my family, though I am not ordinarily given to boasting.
‘The Tagores have been landed zamindars in this area. We are quite prosperous, perhaps due to the canny business sense and political adroitness of prior generations, particularly my grandfather Dwarkanath Tagore. Incidentally, his business empire spanned many areas, such as jute, tea, and coal production, and even shipping and banking. But it was in the trade of opium that the large bulk of our fortune was made and the family had very strong connections with the East India Company, which in turn had ties with China. I will not detain you with details of our family wealth, but to this day we have properties all over India and even in England. Indeed, my grandfather is buried, contentedly we hope, in Kensal Green.’
I saw Holmes stiffen at the reference to opium and China.
‘I myself received some form of education in England, but cannot boast of an excellent academic record. I have strong views on the matter and I intend to prove in due course that the lack of formal education need not come in the way of a rich and fulfilling life. However, I digress. Allow me to turn the conversation to my friend.
‘Since I lack a scientific disposition, I am unable to engage in a discussion on the astonishing new ideas propounded by him.’ He looked up at Mr. Bose and said, ‘Perhaps I should let my young friend take over the conversation now. His English superiors keep him at a distance, his colleagues have other interests and his students lack the spirit of enquiry he sorely desires to see in them. I think he will enjoy an argument with you on some aspect of science.’
‘It would be a great privilege to listen to the perspectives of Mr. Bose,’ said Holmes, politely.
I did not share Holmes’ enthusiasm and could not understand why he was getting diverted into scientific discussions when, on his own admission, it was imperative that we find ways to think about reaching Japan and staying ahead of our ill-wishers.
The restless Mr. Bose stood up and walked about the room, his head bent and his hands clasped behind him. He was evidently an intense man with many weighty matters on his mind.
‘Yes, I am a man of physics, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. After gaining my Tripos at Cambridge and then a degree from London, I returned to India. I am presently a member of the faculty at Presidency College—’
‘Not treated very well, sadly,’ remarked Mr. Tagore. ‘There is reason to suspect our brown skin—’
Mr. Bose waved his hand impatiently. ‘It is not relevant. Small men resent the potential and race of others and I personally do not care for popularity.’
‘I am, however, currently grappling with issues related to plants. And now, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, I must ask you a question, quite distinct from the world of electromagnetism, which is what I teach at Presidency. What is your opinion of plants? Do they possess sentient life?’
‘Yes,’ I volunteered. ‘But the implied comparison can be challenged.’
Holmes did not respond immediately. He puffed at his pipe for a moment and said, ‘Please elucidate. I believe you are trying to say something that we have not yet understood.’
‘Do they live with awareness? Do they experience death?’
‘Yes,’ said Holmes.
‘Would you compare their lives to ours?’
‘To the extent that we, Homo sapiens, are believed to be at the apex of animal development and claim that we can reason and feel emotion—I would say that no, it would not be correct to compare plant and human life,’ said Holmes slowly, puffing at his pipe.
‘It seems almost heretical to make the claim of equivalence of human and plant life, Mr. Bose. We are quite convinced we are superior in every way and would not tolerate any opinion to the contrary, as it would put emotive issues like religion on the table. This is a world that does not even accept the equivalence of human and animal life. What is your proposition, Sir?’
‘I say I am embarking on a journey to prove that plants, too, feel emotion and pain. My initial experiments demonstrate very clearly that if presented with certain stimuli, plants respond in a manner similar to us.’
‘My dear sir!’ I exclaimed.
‘Most remarkable! And can we see a scientific validation of your theory?’ said Holmes, ignoring my outburst.
‘At this moment, no, Mr. Holmes. I am building a machine called a Crescograph, which I hope will demonstrate that plant physiology has curious similarities to our own. This should take a few more months. If you happen to be in Calcutta, it would be my honour to have you examine the machine and witness my experiments personally.’
‘Sadly we shall not be here then, but we shall certainly follow developments with interest.’
Mr. Bose’s intensity was quite overpowering. ‘The scientific spirit of enquiry must banish notions of superiority and not be fixated on one absolute ideal of what the term “life” means. How brainwashed we are, gentlemen! Never challenging, never questioning self-serving axioms dinned into our heads from a young age. We live on oxygen. Others may not—could they thrive on nitrogen, perhaps? We have a cardiovascular system. Others may not. We reproduce in a certain way. Others may reproduce in different ways. We have a view of the meaning and experience of time. Other life forms may think differently. Who decides which is more advanced and correct? I have even shown that plants react to music!’ It was difficult to contain this passionate man.
Mr. Tagore spoke. ‘Yes, quite a remarkable experiment that I was witness to and in which I participated, as a matter of fact. Jagdish asked me to sing my songs to some plants he had brought with him. When I did, some died while others experienced terror!8 Ha ha ha!’
We laughed politely at Mr. Tagore’s little joke, though he himself was quite taken by it and kept chortling for a few minutes.
‘Well, Mr. Bose, I am certain there is merit in what you say. You may or may not convince me with your theories, but I am certainly convinced that you are a man born too soon. I hope I shall have the pleasure of corresponding with you.’
I heaved a sigh of relief. This pointless conversation was finally coming to an end.
But then Holmes continued, ‘Mr. Bose, tell me about your work in physics.’
I almost cried out in frustration. When would this end? When would we discuss Japan? Mr. Tagore observed my restlessness and hurriedly placed some sweets in front of me.
‘These rosogollahs are remarkable, Dr. Watson,’ he said in a soothing voice. ‘I must insist that you try one.’
I did and was silenced. They really were quite remarkable.
‘I am a researcher of radio waves, Mr. Holmes. I have been attracted by the work of Heinrich Hertz in the issue of invisible electromagnetic waves in space—’
‘The German professor from Karlsruhe,’ remarked Holmes.
‘Quite so. How pleasing that you have heard of him. He worked on Maxwell’s theory. You seem to know all this, though we are speaking of developments of only the past ten years or so. Now, this theory says in essence that it is possible to transmit signals through walls, via what we shall call electromagnetic waves. Wires are not necessary. You can imagine the world of possibilities that opens up.’
I was astonished, but Holmes was the picture of equanimity. ‘Unusual, but not impossible, I imagine.’
‘Naturally, like Tesla and many other pioneers, we are faced with skepticism and even derision. I have a small lab—it will suffice—at the Presidency College. I am convinced that this is an entirely new area of science waiting to open up. But I am unable to attract funds and attention.’
‘Genius is always met with skepticism. I am sure you will not give up.’
‘I am grateful that you are not dismissive. To begin with, I need the opinions of men of logic such as yourself on creating a vision for the future application of such electromagnetic waves. People are attracted by applications, not theory alone, I have come to realize.’
‘Have you approached the Royal Society? What is the opinion of Oliver Lodge? I heard him speak once on the existence of Maxwell waves.’
‘Indeed, I am in correspondence with the Royal Society, but the whole process takes a long time and I am impatient by disposition. I am now designing a microwave receiver and transmitter, but there are challenges…’
‘…Hertz…’
‘…galvanometer…antenna…’
‘…coherer…crystal detector…’
And thus the discussion turned scientific and to my discomfiture, I soon found myself bewildered, distracted, and utterly bored. Mr. Tagore, too, was finding it difficult to keep up and, much to my amusement, the distinguished gentleman fell asleep in his chair, snoring loudly, while not ten feet away two men of science discussed the quirks of a new theory.
With an effort, I kept my eyes open. Sherlock Holmes was speaking.
‘…wireless telegrams would soon emerge, I believe. An Italian scientist Marconi is presently discussing this matter with the Home Office, if I recall. My brother Mycroft mentioned that there was interest at the highest places. You must, I believe, patent these discoveries of yours.’
‘I am not driven by lucre, Mr. Holmes. Whatever I discover must be in the public domain. I refuse to profit from it.’
‘A noble perspective, no doubt. But you may face problems in funding future experiments if you do not take precautions.’
‘Perhaps, but I am prepared. Science belongs to humanity, not to the scientist. There is no room for ego.
‘I dream of a wide series of applications that I imagine may change the world one day. Electromagnetic communication—perhaps a device through which the public can listen to the music of my good friend Mr. Tagore. Perhaps the speeches of the prime minister. Or the emperor of Japan.’
‘The mind draws its own boundaries, Mr. Bose. I believe such a day as you describe will come. I see that it may be possible for police departments to exchange information through wireless devices, discarding the inefficiencies and eccentricities of the telegraph bound by Morse Code. Though I wonder what would happen if my criminal adversaries, such as Professor Moriarty, were to take possession of such science.’
‘I do not feel, Mr. Holmes, that such discoveries must be limited to select groups simply because of the fear of its misuse, its benefits must touch humanity at large!’ exclaimed Mr. Bose with passion.
I was impressed by Mr. Bose’s obviously sincere, though perhaps slightly naïve, altruistic nature.
Holmes shook his head. ‘There we perhaps disagree, Mr. Bose. My assessment is that the abilities of the public to use the benefits of science in a constructive way are limited. I am by no means one to advocate denying convenience, but appropriate authorities must first explore and certify, and only then let the benefits of science and engineering percolate to the citizenry. I say this only from the perspective of pure logic, having observed the behaviour of all manner of people in my career—the common man who lives for today, the criminal who seeks to maximize profit through illegal means as soon as possible, the woman who covets a necklace and would go to any length to get it, the merchant who profits by arbitrage because he has an unfair advantage…’
Mr. Bose’s eyes flashed. This was bait that he could not ignore.
‘Autocracy! Who decides?’ Mr. Bose cried, his voice rising in anger. ‘Who gave these authorities the right to decide what is good for the public and what is not? Is this not how autocrats and dictators keep power—by limiting access to knowledge on the specious theory that they possess the ability, power, and right to discriminate? And who can decide that they have used knowledge and science wisely? Mr. Holmes, the first application of science has invariably been on the battlefield. We would rather kill with better cannons and guns using the principles of science. No, Mr. Holmes, no! I have no patience for the self-serving votaries of regulation and control!’
Mr. Tagore was suddenly awake, the raised voice of Mr. Bose having penetrated his siesta. He observed his guests with bleary eyes.
‘Let us agree to disagree, Mr. Bose,’ Holmes responded in a conciliatory tone. ‘Both of us have travelled on different roads and have reasons to believe what we believe. What we should do is celebrate science and the scientific temper. No doubt we shall see the application of your discoveries soon. Naturally, I am forced to wonder if a day might not come—very soon—when information will be shared easily and almost instantaneously anywhere in the world, making it much smaller in a manner of speaking. What if information about the Yakuza, the Thuggees, and the Mafia were made available to investigators around the world in seconds instead of months, if at all?’
I was unable to control my laughter. ‘My dear Holmes! I too am a man of science in my own way—but surely there must come a time when fantastic ideas must be challenged?’
‘Watson, what is possible? What is probable? How much do we know? How much do we not know?’ asked Holmes. ‘I am surprised at you, my dear fellow, that such a refreshing idea could provoke such a hot-blooded response from you. Perhaps the effect of malaria continues in some insidious manner. If this discussion were happening a hundred years ago, you would perhaps have been outraged by the suggestion of the principle of the telegraph. Yet we—you!—frequently send wires without a second thought. When you chronicle this episode and if it were to be read a hundred years hence when the world is entirely different, you may look rather ridiculous, Watson!’
I recall feeling outraged and perhaps my face showed my strong feelings as I searched for a sharp retort.
‘Some more Bengalee sweets, Dr. Watson?’ interjected Rabindranath Tagore, seeking to soothe tempers.
I accepted a peculiar-looking white sweet called sondesh with some hesitation and nibbled at it tentatively. The taste was quite enchanting. ‘Pray, carry on, gentlemen,’ I said, my anger subsiding in seconds, ‘while I conduct a prolonged scientific enquiry into the secrets of this sweet.’
My attempt at humour was well received and the others broke out in laughter. I proceeded with my enquiry in earnest, while their voices rose and fell around me.
Holmes’ voice suddenly interrupted my consciousness. ‘And now, Watson, if you are quite done with those Bengalee sweets, perhaps Mr. Tagore would be kind enough to introduce me to his musician acquaintance, Mr. Sen, from whom I may pick up a few pointers on music.’
I was embarrassed to discover that I had consumed almost the entire plate of sweets in barely ten minutes!
After the good-natured laughter subsided, we went out to a small building in the garden, where we found a thin, dark gentleman waiting for us. He wore a dhoti and seemed rather nondescript at first glance, but made up for it with a bright and genuine smile a moment later. He was seated on the floor on a carpet behind a harmonium and stood up as we entered and brought his palms together in a namaste. After some initial exchange in Bengalee between him, Mr. Bose, and Mr. Tagore, he spoke.
‘Meester Holmes, I am Binayak Sen, teacher of music. I teach you some music if you like!’
Sherlock Holmes bowed courteously. ‘Thank you for the privilege. You will find me a poor student. A few suggestions on the basics of Indian classical music are all I ask, if not inconvenient. And I have here my violin.’
‘A violin!’ exclaimed Mr. Bose. ‘Excellent, Mr. Holmes! Physics in action in every possible way, would you not say? May we have the pleasure of hearing you?’
Holmes removed his violin from the case. ‘Hold on to the music sheets, Watson. They are irreplaceable.’
He took the violin to his shoulder and applied bow to strings and, after a few minor tuning adjustments, played the instrument with a verve and sensitivity I had rarely heard from him before. He played some Welsh tunes, then the “Devil’s Trill” of Tartini, and then a soulful composition of his own. The atmosphere in the room was transformed; Mr. Bose and Mr. Tagore had closed their eyes and were quite lost, swaying as their bodies kept time. Mr. Sen observed the deft movements of Holmes’ fingers very carefully and nodded vigorously in appreciation.
We clapped when Holmes concluded and bowed.
‘Outstanding, Mr. Holmes! A true application of the beauty of science!’ cried Mr. Bose.
‘Very poetic,’ remarked a subdued Mr. Tagore.
‘Bhery good, bhery good!’ exclaimed Mr. Sen, rubbing his hands in glee.
‘Thank you. I am now at your service.’
‘You please sit down on carpet in front of me and we begin the simple Indian music lesson,’ commanded Mr. Sen.
With great difficulty, Holmes managed to sit cross-legged on the carpet in front of Mr. Sen. Mr. Bose and Mr. Tagore followed. I expressed my inability to sit on the floor owing to my overall lack of flexibility, and a chair was found.
Mr. Sen placed his fingers on the keys of the harmonium and produced a peculiar, though not unpleasant combination of sounds.
‘We first create atmosphere. Raaga is emotion and atmosphere. First we tune your violin, then you follow what I play on harmonium. Is it all right?’
Holmes followed Mr. Sen’s instructions and tuned his violin carefully. (‘An unusual combination of notes Watson, not native to the violin as we know it,’ he commented later. ‘But appropriate for their music. A clever adaptation. It was quite difficult to avoid making comparisons while playing, but I did my best. The fingering, arpeggios, the bowing—our technical conventions do not find easy applicability here.’)
Then Mr. Sen began teaching Sherlock Holmes the basics of Indian classical music. The experience was enjoyable for all of us, watching the world-famous investigator struggle to understand the thick accent of Mr. Sen, while extracting unfamiliar notes and cadences.
Holmes proved to be a quick learner, however, and the cries of joy from Mr. Sen seemed to indicate that he had found a promising student. This went on for a couple of hours, with neither student nor teacher showing any signs of tiring and all kinds of peculiar melodies and language emerging. Raagas, Swar, Vadi, Samvadi, Aarohon, Abarohan. I took notes, of course, and Sherlock Holmes told me later what his interpretation of these words was.
The class came to a close, and Holmes and Mr. Sen acknowledged each other’s competence with pleasure. A lavish dinner awaited all of us, with several Indian dishes being brought in, one after the other in rapid succession. My fondness for the local sweets had become a talking point in the kitchen and I kept finding new dishes appearing mysteriously in front of me. I consumed them in as inconspicuous a manner as possible, finding myself unable to resist.
Meanwhile, Holmes was in an animated discussion with Bose on his left and musical discourses with Sen on his right. Mr. Rabindranath Tagore played the perfect host, involving all of us in his conversations and ensuring we were fed well.
We said our good-byes and departed for our hotel around midnight, very satisfied with our day. Mr. Bose and Holmes promised to be in frequent touch and he wished us well with our plans to engage with the Yakuza, once again advising us to concentrate not on the apparent but on the implied and exaggerated.
‘A boastful enemy is your best friend, Sirs, since he is given to overconfidence,’ observed Mr. Bose as we shook hands.
We were suffused with contentment. Music and science (and Bengali sweets) had enriched this strange journey and we felt refreshed as never before, ready to take on the formidable dangers ahead.
By mutual agreement, Mr. Sen came to the hotel the following morning and spent all day guiding Holmes in the nuances of Indian music. Holmes told me later that he knew quite well it would be impossible to learn anything of significance of the vast ocean of Indian music in a few hours, but he was satisfied that he had had an excellent introduction. His violin-playing somehow became more emotional and subtle.
Many years after his formal retirement, when he took up beekeeping in Sussex, he would often invite me to visit and would invariably play charming little tunes that brought back memories of those two remarkable days in Calcutta.
7 I recall that I felt a sense of doom and déjà vu as the existence of one more example from an apparently bottomless pit of monographs written by Holmes on every possible arcane subject became known.
8 My audacious—and perhaps, some may argue, attractive—editor, foisted on me by Messrs Poisoned Pen Press, wanted wholesale cuts claiming that the modern reader sought crime and not botany, missing the point entirely, due to her being immature, and, after all, a woman. The point of this narrative is to chronicle the interesting discussions and experiences Holmes and I had during our adventure. The modern crime-seeking reader, easily bored with scientific enquiry and seeking unwholesome racy entertainment is advised to gift this book to an acquaintance with more finely honed sensibilities, or return this book to the commercial establishment from where it was purchased and apply formally for a refund. The intelligent and mature reader is requested to stay on and read carefully, as he will doubtless benefit.