Read Online Mandala of Sherlock Holmes by Jamyang Norbu - Free Book Online
Authors: Jamyang Norbu
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Tell me …’ he said suddenly, ‘…what is the meaning of life, of this perennial circle of misery, fear, and violence?’ 1
‘Well, Sir…’ I began, somewhat at a loss for words. ‘I am, if you will pardon the expression, a scientific man, and therefore at quite a disadvantage when expressing opinions on such… ah… spiritual matters. But a Thibetan lama whom I once had the privilege of interviewing, for strictly ethnological purposes on matters of Lamaist ritual and beliefs, was of the opinion that life was suffering. Indeed, it was the primary article of his credo.’
‘Wise man,’ Holmes murmured, ‘wise man.’ He was silent for a while. His eyes gazed into space with a strange burning vacancy. For just a moment it seemed to me that beneath his calm, rational, superior self there struggled another more intense and restless soul — not at all European — but what would be recognised in the East as a ‘Seeker’. Then with a conscious effort he broke off his singular reverie.
‘Have you breakfasted?’ he asked. I noticed an empty breakfast tray pushed away to the side.
‘A cup of coffee? No? Well then, if it is not too early, could I trouble you to accompany me to the Bombay Natural History Society that you mentioned last night.’
‘Mr Symington, the secretary is at the premises quite early, Sir. He works on his own researches there as it is much cooler in the mornings.’
‘Excellent. Then let us not waste any time.’
He carefully coiled up the tube of his hookah, and taking off his dressing gown, put on the grey linen jacket he had worn the day before. Unlike most Europeans in India he did not wear a pith helmet or a topee, but made do with a light cap, of the kind which I think is called a deerstalker.
We quickly made our way downstairs. Before leaving the hotel Mr Holmes went over to the reception desk where he scribbled a chit and sealing it in an envelope handed it to one of the hotel clerks there. I suspected that the note was for Strickland. Then Mr Holmes and I left the hotel in a ghari.
There was the tang of saltwater in the air as we rattled down the beach road, where near-naked boys were selling coconut water, fresh in its own shell, and two ash-covered sadhus were performing their sun worship in the sea. Things were less peaceful at the Borah Bazaar where shopkeepers, vendors, tongawallahs, coolies, and pedestrians of all kinds were noisily beginning their day. Finally we arrived at the brick bungalow of the Bombay Natural History Society.
We waited in a large hall while the chaprasi went to find Mr Symington. The whole place was filled with an extraordinary variety of rather moth-eaten exhibits of stuffed birds and animals behind labelled glass cases. After a few minutes the chaprasi returned.
‘The sahib awaits you. Please come this way.’
Stumbling over stuffed crocodiles and the hoofs of sambhar floor rugs, we followed him through a corridor and into a long chamber lined and littered with botdes of various chemicals. Broad, low tables bristled with retorts, test-tubes, and littie Bunsen lamps, with their blue flickeringx flames. An overpowering smell of formaldehyde permeated the air. It did not seem to bother Symington, who sat behind a long marble-topped table sorting out what looked to me like dirty duckweed with the aid of a pair of tweezers. He was a small, untidy man with a bald shining head that was covered scantily on the sides and back with tufts of grey hair. Raising his head slightly he peered through his thick spectacles with weak watery eyes.
‘Hello, is that you Mookerjee?’
‘Yes, Mr Symington. How are you?’
‘As well as can be expected. By the way, I never got the chance to thank you for that specimen of Primula glacialis.1 It’s a real feather in my cap, you know. Even Hooker 3 never got one.’
‘Well, Sir, the true specimens only grow around twenty thousand feet. It is difficult for human life to manage at those heights.’
‘But somehow
‘Well, Sir…’ I began, somewhat at a loss for words. ‘I am, if you will pardon the expression, a scientific man, and therefore at quite a disadvantage when expressing opinions on such… ah… spiritual matters. But a Thibetan lama whom I once had the privilege of interviewing, for strictly ethnological purposes on matters of Lamaist ritual and beliefs, was of the opinion that life was suffering. Indeed, it was the primary article of his credo.’
‘Wise man,’ Holmes murmured, ‘wise man.’ He was silent for a while. His eyes gazed into space with a strange burning vacancy. For just a moment it seemed to me that beneath his calm, rational, superior self there struggled another more intense and restless soul — not at all European — but what would be recognised in the East as a ‘Seeker’. Then with a conscious effort he broke off his singular reverie.
‘Have you breakfasted?’ he asked. I noticed an empty breakfast tray pushed away to the side.
‘A cup of coffee? No? Well then, if it is not too early, could I trouble you to accompany me to the Bombay Natural History Society that you mentioned last night.’
‘Mr Symington, the secretary is at the premises quite early, Sir. He works on his own researches there as it is much cooler in the mornings.’
‘Excellent. Then let us not waste any time.’
He carefully coiled up the tube of his hookah, and taking off his dressing gown, put on the grey linen jacket he had worn the day before. Unlike most Europeans in India he did not wear a pith helmet or a topee, but made do with a light cap, of the kind which I think is called a deerstalker.
We quickly made our way downstairs. Before leaving the hotel Mr Holmes went over to the reception desk where he scribbled a chit and sealing it in an envelope handed it to one of the hotel clerks there. I suspected that the note was for Strickland. Then Mr Holmes and I left the hotel in a ghari.
There was the tang of saltwater in the air as we rattled down the beach road, where near-naked boys were selling coconut water, fresh in its own shell, and two ash-covered sadhus were performing their sun worship in the sea. Things were less peaceful at the Borah Bazaar where shopkeepers, vendors, tongawallahs, coolies, and pedestrians of all kinds were noisily beginning their day. Finally we arrived at the brick bungalow of the Bombay Natural History Society.
We waited in a large hall while the chaprasi went to find Mr Symington. The whole place was filled with an extraordinary variety of rather moth-eaten exhibits of stuffed birds and animals behind labelled glass cases. After a few minutes the chaprasi returned.
‘The sahib awaits you. Please come this way.’
Stumbling over stuffed crocodiles and the hoofs of sambhar floor rugs, we followed him through a corridor and into a long chamber lined and littered with botdes of various chemicals. Broad, low tables bristled with retorts, test-tubes, and littie Bunsen lamps, with their blue flickeringx flames. An overpowering smell of formaldehyde permeated the air. It did not seem to bother Symington, who sat behind a long marble-topped table sorting out what looked to me like dirty duckweed with the aid of a pair of tweezers. He was a small, untidy man with a bald shining head that was covered scantily on the sides and back with tufts of grey hair. Raising his head slightly he peered through his thick spectacles with weak watery eyes.
‘Hello, is that you Mookerjee?’
‘Yes, Mr Symington. How are you?’
‘As well as can be expected. By the way, I never got the chance to thank you for that specimen of Primula glacialis.1 It’s a real feather in my cap, you know. Even Hooker 3 never got one.’
‘Well, Sir, the true specimens only grow around twenty thousand feet. It is difficult for human life to manage at those heights.’
‘But somehow
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