Satyajit Ray's The Complete Adventures of Feluda Vol 1 PDF

 SATYAJIT RAY THE COMPLETE ADVENTURES OF FELUDA I  Contents About the Author Foreword Introduction Chronology of the Feluda Stories Danger in Darjeeling The Emperor’s Ring One Two Three Four Five Six Seven E...

 SATYAJIT RAY THE COMPLETE ADVENTURES OF FELUDA I  Contents About the Author Foreword Introduction Chronology of the Feluda Stories Danger in Darjeeling The Emperor’s Ring One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Kailash Chowdhury’s Jewel The Anubis Mystery Trouble in Gangtok One Two Three Four Five Six Seven  Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve The Golden Fortress One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Incident on the Kalka Mail One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten A Killer in Kailash One Two Three  Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten The Key One Two Three Four Five The Royal Bengal Mystery One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve The Locked Chest The Mystery of the Elephant God One Two Three Four Five  Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven The Bandits of Bombay One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven The Mystery of the Walking Dead One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight The Secret of the Cemetery One Two Three Four Five  Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve The Curse of the Goddess One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Author’s Note Follow Penguin Copyright  PENGUIN BOOKS THE COMPLETE ADVENTURES OF FELUDA I Satyajit Ray was born on 2 May 1921 in Calcutta. After graduating from Presidency College, Calcutta, in 1940, he studied art at Rabindranath Tagore’s university, Santiniketan. By 1943, Ray was back in Calcutta and had joined an advertising firm as a visualizer. He also started designing covers and illustrating books brought out by Signet Press. A deep interest in films led to his establishing the Calcutta Film Society in 1947. During a six-month trip to Europe, in 1950, Ray became a member of the London Film Club and managed to see ninety-nine films in only four and a half months. In 1955, after overcoming innumerable difficulties, Satyajit Ray completed his first film, Pather Panchali, with financial assistance from the West Bengal government. The film was an award-winner at the Cannes Film Festival and established Ray as a director of international stature. Together with Aparajito (The Unvanquished, 1956) and Apur Sansar (The World of Apu, 1959), it forms the Apu trilogy and perhaps constitutes Ray’s finest work. Ray’s other films include Jalsaghar (The Music Room, 1958), Charulata (1964), Aranyer Din Ratri (Days and Nights in the Forest, 1970), Shatranj Ke Khilari (The Chess Players, 1977), Ghare Baire (The Home and the World, 1984), Ganashatru (Enemy of the People, 1989), Shakha Proshakha (Branches of a Tree, 1990) and Agantuk (The Stranger, 1991). Ray also made several documentaries, including one on Tagore. In 1987, he made the documentary Sukumar Ray, to commemorate the birth centenary of his father, perhaps Bengal’s most famous writer of nonsense verse and children’s books. Satyajit Ray won numerous awards for his films. Both the British Federation of Film Societies and the Moscow Film Festival Committee named him one of the greatest directors of the second half of the twentieth century. In 1992, he was awarded the Oscar for Lifetime Achievement by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences and, in the same year, was also honoured with the Bharat Ratna. Apart from being a film-maker, Satyajit Ray was a writer of repute. In 1961, he revived the children’s magazine, Sandesh, which his grandfather, Upendrakishore Ray, had started and to which his father used to contribute frequently. Satyajit Ray contributed numerous poems, stories and essays to Sandesh, and also published several books in Bengali, most of which became bestsellers. In 1978, Oxford University awarded him its DLitt degree. Satyajit Ray died in Calcutta in April 1992. *** Gopa Majumdar has translated several works from Bengali to English, the most notable of these being Ashapurna Debi’s Subarnalata, Taslima Nasrin’s My Girlhood and Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay’s Aparajito, for which she won the Sahitya Akademi Award in 2001. She has translated several volumes of Satyajit Ray’s short stories, a number of Professor Shonku stories and all of the Feluda stories for Penguin Books India. She is currently translating Ray’s cinematic writings for Penguin.  Foreword My husband was always deeply interested in science fiction stories. It was not surprising, therefore, when he decided to write them for his children’s magazine Sandesh. One day, he told me that he wanted to experiment with stories other than the science fiction ones. ‘What other kind?’ I asked, although I knew the answer instinctively, since both of us were avid readers of detective stories. He didn’t have to tell me, so he smiled and said ruefully, ‘But there’s a big snag...’ I looked inquiringly at him. ‘The magazine is meant for children and adolescents, which means I shall have to avoid sex and violence—the backbone of crime thrillers... you do realize the difficulty, don’t you?’ I did, indeed. Still, I told him to go ahead and give it a try—I had so much faith in him! He did. And that’s how ‘Feluda’ was born and became an instant hit. Story after story came out, and they all met with resounding success. When they were published in book form, they became best- sellers. It was really amazing! After finishing each story, he would throw up his hands and say, ‘I have run out of plots. How can one possibly go on writing detective stories without even a hint of sex and hardly any violence to speak of?’ I couldn’t agree with him more, but at the same time, I knew he would never give up and was bound to succeed at his endeavour. That is exactly what he did. He never stopped and went on writing till the end of his days. That was my husband, Satyajit Ray, who surmounted all difficulties and came out on top! Calcutta October 1995 Bijoya Ray  Introduction One of my earliest recollections of childhood is of struggling to get two thick bound volumes from my father ’s bookshelf, with a view to using them as walls for my dolls’ house. To my complete bewilderment, when my father saw what I had done, he told me to put them back instantly. Why? They were only books, after all. ‘No,’ he explained, handling the two volumes with the same tenderness that he normally reserved for me, ‘these are not just books. They are bound issues of Sandesh, a magazine we used to read as children. You don’t get it any more.’ Neither of us knew then that Sandesh would reappear only a few years later, revived and brought to life by none other than Satyajit Ray, the grandson of its original founder, Upendrakishore. That Satyajit Ray was a film-maker was something I, and many other children of my generation, came to know only when we were older. At least, we had heard he made films which seemed to throw all the grown-ups into raptures, but to us he was simply the man who had opened a door to endless fun and joy, in the pages of a magazine that was exclusively for us. This was in 1961. In 1965, Sandesh began to publish a new story (Danger in Darjeeling) about two cousins on holiday in Darjeeling. The older one of these was Feluda, whose real name was Pradosh C. Mitter. The younger one, who narrated the story, was called Tapesh; but Feluda affectionately called him Topshe. They happened to meet an amiable old gentleman called Rajen Babu who had started to receive mysterious threats. Feluda, who had read a great many crime stories and was a very clever man (Topshe told us), soon discovered who the culprit was. It was a relatively short and simple tale, serialized in three or four instalments. Yet, it created such a stir among the young readers of Sandesh that the creator of Feluda felt obliged to produce another story with the same characters, this time set in Lucknow (The Emperor’s Ring), in 1966. Feluda’s character took a more definite shape in this story. Not only was he a man with acute powers of observation and a razor-sharp brain, we learnt, but he also possessed a deep and thorough knowledge of virtually every subject under the sun, ranging from history to hypnotism. He was good at cricket, knew at least a hundred indoor games, a number of card tricks, and could write with both hands. The entries he made into his personal notebook were in Greek. After The Emperor’s Ring, there was no looking back: Feluda simply went from strength to strength. Over the next three years, Kailash Chowdhury’s Jewel and The Anubis Mystery, the first two Feluda stories set in Calcutta, appeared, followed by another travel adventure, Trouble in Gangtok. Over the next two decades, Ray would write at least one Feluda story every year. Between 1965 and 1992, thirty-four Feluda stories appeared. The Magical Mystery, the last in the series, was published posthumously in 1995-96. In 1970, Feluda made his first appearance in the Desh magazine, which was unquestionably a magazine for adults. This surprised many, but it was really evidence of Feluda’s popularity amongst young and old alike. Between 1970 and 1992, nineteen Feluda stories appeared in the annual Puja issue of Desh (the others were published in Sandesh, except for one which appeared in Anandamela, another children’s magazine). Pouncing upon the copy of Desh as soon as it arrived, after having artfully fended off every other taker in the house, became as much a part of the Puja festivities as wearing new clothes or going to the temple. A year later, Ray introduced a new character. Lalmohan Ganguli (alias Jatayu), a writer of cheap popular thrillers, who made his debut in The Golden Fortress. Simple, gullible, friendly and either ignorant of or mistaken about most things in life, he proved to be a perfect foil to Feluda, and a means of providing what Ray called ‘dollops of humour ’. The following year (1972) readers were presented with A Mysterious Case, where Jatayu made an encore appearance. After this, he remained with the two cousins throughout, becoming very soon an important member of the team and winning the affection of millions. It is, in fact, impossible now to think of Feluda without thinking of Jatayu. Interestingly, the two films Ray made based on Feluda stories (The Golden Fortress in 1974, and The Elephant God in 1978) both featured Lalmohan Babu, as did the television film Kissa Kathmandu Ka (based on The Criminals of Kathmandu) made by Sandip Ray a few years later. Ray had often spoken of his interest in crime fiction. He had read all the Sherlock Holmes stories before leaving school. It was therefore no surprise that he should start writing crime stories himself. But why did the arrival of Feluda make such a tremendous impact on his readers? After all, it wasn’t as though there had never been other detectives in children’s fiction in Bengal. The reason was, in fact, a simple one. In spite of all his accomplishments, Feluda did not emerge as a larger-than-life superman whom one would venerate and admire from afar, but never get close to. On the contrary, Topshe’s charming narration described him as so utterly normal and human that it was not difficult at all to see him almost as a member of one’s own family. A genius he might well be, but his behaviour was exactly what one might expect from an older cousin. He teased Topshe endlessly and bullied him often, but his love and concern for his young Watson was never in doubt. Every child who read Sandesh could see himself—or, for that matter, herself—in Topshe. Herein lay Ray’s greatest strength. Feluda came, saw and conquered chiefly because each case was seen and presented through the eyes of an adolescent. Ray’s language was simple, lucid, warm and direct, without ever becoming boring or patronizing, even when Feluda corrected a mistake Topshe made, or gave him new information. Added to this were his graphic descriptions of the various places Feluda and Topshe visited. Sometimes it was difficult to tell whether one was watching a film or reading a book, so well were all relevant details captured in just a few succinct words, regardless of whether the action was taking place in a small village in Bengal, a monastery in Sikkim, or the streets of Hong Kong. It would be wrong to think, however, that it was smooth sailing at all times. Feluda and his team, like most celebrities, had to pay the price of fame. It was their popularity among adults that began to cause problems. Naturally, the expectations of adults were different. They wanted ‘spice’ in the stories and would probably not have objected to subjects such as illicit love or crime passionnel. Feluda’s creator, on the other hand, could never allow himself to forget that he wrote primarily for children and, as such, was obliged to keep the stories ‘clean’. Clearly, letters from critical or disappointed readers became such a sore point that Feluda spoke openly about it in The Mystery of Nayan, the last novel published during Ray’s lifetime. ‘Don’t forget Topshe writes my stories mainly for adolescents,’ Feluda says in the opening chapter. ‘The problem is that these stories are read by the children’s parents, uncles, aunts and everyone else. Each reader at every level has his own peculiar demand. How on earth is he to satisfy each one of them?’ The readers were suitably chastened. And Feluda’s popularity rose even higher. In 1990, when he turned twenty-five, an ardent admirer in Delhi went to the extent of designing a special card to mark the occasion. Ray is said to have been both amazed and greatly amused by the display of such deep devotion. By this time, Feluda had already stepped out of Bengal. In 1988, the first collection of Feluda stories appeared in English translation (The Adventures of Feluda, translated by Chitrita Banerji). This was followed by my translations of the remaining Feluda stories, which appeared in The Emperor’s Ring: The Further Adventures of Feluda (1993), The Mystery of the Elephant God: More Adventures of Feluda (1994), Feluda’s Last Case and Other Stories (1995), The House of Death and Other Feluda Stories (1997), The Royal Bengal Mystery and Other Feluda Stories (1997) and The Mystery of the Pink Pearl: The Final Feluda Stories (1998). The Magical Mystery was published in Indigo, a collection of Ray’s short stories, in 2000. Initially, Ray was hesitant to allow the Feluda stories to be translated as he was unsure about the response of non-Bengali readers. However, the two films he had made as well as the television series made by his son had evoked an interest from other communities. When he did finally give his consent, it was only to discover that he need not have worried at all. The Three Musketeers, comprising Pradosh C. Mitter, Private Investigator, and his two assistants, were received with as much enthusiasm elsewhere in India as they had been in Bengal. Translating the Feluda stories has been a deeply fulfilling experience for me. Some of the early stories took me back to my early teens, when a ride in a taxi would cost one the princely sum of one rupee and seventy paise, and a bearded foreigner in colourful clothes was likely to be labeled a ‘hippie’ (The Anubis Mystery and Trouble in Gangtok). More importantly, translating these stories gave me a new insight into the author ’s mind and a chance to rediscover his varied interests, ranging from music and magic to history and hypnotism and, of course, cinema. This definitive edition contains, in two volumes, all the Feluda stories that Ray completed. Included are new translations (by me) of The Golden Fortress, The Bandits of Bombay and The Secret of the Cemetery. For the first time, the stories are arranged in chronological order, and one can note Feluda’s development from a totally unknown amateur detective to a famous professional private investigator. Those who have read them before may be pleased to find them all together in an omnibus edition. To those who haven’t, one hopes it will give an excellent opportunity to get acquainted with a legend in Bengal, and catch a glimpse of the brilliant mind of its creator. London June 2004 Gopa Majumdar Chronology of the Feluda Stories D A N G ER I N D A R J EELI N G I saw Rajen Babu come to the Mall every day. He struck me as an amiable old man. All his hair had turned grey, and his face always wore a cheerful expression. He generally spent a few minutes in the corner shop that sold old Nepali and Tibetan things; then he came and sat on a bench in the Mall for about half-an-hour, until it started to get dark. After that he went straight home. One day, I followed him quietly to see where he lived. He turned around just as we reached his front gate and asked, ‘Who are you? Why have you been following me?’ ‘My name is Tapesh Ranjan,’ I replied quickly. ‘Well then, here is a lozenge for you,’ he said, offering me a lemon drop. ‘Come to my house one day. I’ll show you my collection of masks,’ he added. Who knew that this friendly old soul would get into such trouble? Why, he seemed totally incapable of getting involved with anything even remotely sinister! Feluda snapped at me when I mentioned this. ‘How can you tell just by looking at someone what he might get mixed up with?’ he demanded. This annoyed me. ‘What do you know of Rajen Babu?’ I said. ‘He’s a good man. A very kind man. He has done a lot for the poor Nepali people who live in slums. There’s no reason why he should be in trouble. I know. I see him every day. You haven’t seen him even once. In fact, I’ve hardly seen you go out at all since we came to Darjeeling.’ ‘All right, all right. Let’s have all the details then. What would a little boy like you know of danger, anyway?’ Now, this wasn’t fair. I was not a little boy any more. I was thirteen and a half. Feluda was twenty- seven. To tell you the truth, I came to know about the trouble Rajen Babu was in purely by accident. I was sitting on a bench in the Mall today, waiting for the band to start playing. On my left was Tinkori Babu, reading a newspaper. He had recently arrived from Calcutta to spend the summer in Darjeeling, and had taken a room on rent in Rajen Babu’s house. I was trying to lean over his shoulder and look at the sports page, when Rajen Babu arrived panting and collapsed on the empty portion of our bench, next to Tinkori Babu. He looked visibly shaken. ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Tinkori Babu, folding his newspaper. ‘Did you just run up a hill?’ ‘No, no,’ Rajen Babu replied cautiously, wiping his face with one corner of his scarf. ‘Something incredible has happened.’ I knew what ‘incredible’ meant. Feluda was quite partial to the word. ‘What do you mean?’ Tinkori Babu asked. ‘Look, here it is,’ Rajen Babu passed a piece of folded blue paper to Tinkori Babu. I could tell it was a letter, but made no attempt to read it when Tinkori Babu unfolded it. I looked away instead, humming under my breath to indicate a complete lack of interest in what the two old men were discussing. But I heard Tinkori Babu remark, ‘You’re right, it is incredible! Who could possibly write such a threatening letter to you?’ ‘I don’t know. That’s what’s so puzzling. I don’t remember having deliberately caused anyone any harm. As far as I know, I have no enemies.’  Tinkori Babu leant towards his neighbour. ‘We’d better not talk about this in public,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s go home.’ The two gentlemen left. Feluda remained silent for a while after I had finished my story. Then he frowned and said, ‘You mean you think we need to investigate?’ ‘Why, didn’t you tell me you were looking for a mystery? And you said you had read so many detective novels that you could work as a sleuth yourself!’ ‘Yes, that’s true. I could prove it, too. I didn’t go to the Mall today, did I? But I could tell you which side you sat on.’ ‘All right, which side was it?’ ‘You chose a bench on the right side of the Radha restaurant, didn’t you?’ ‘That’s terrific. How did you guess?’ ‘The sun came out this evening. Your left cheek looks sunburnt but the right one is all right. This could happen only if you sat on that side of the Mall. That’s the bit that catches the evening sunshine.’ ‘Incredible!’ ‘Yes. Anyway, I think we should go and visit Mr Rajen Majumdar.’ ‘Another seventy-seven steps.’ ‘And what if it’s not?’ ‘It has to be, Feluda. I counted the last time.’ ‘Remember you’ll get knocked on the head if you’re wrong.’ ‘OK, but not too hard. A sharp knock may damage my brain.’ To my amazement, seventy-seven steps later, we were still at some distance from Rajen Babu’s gate. Another twenty-three brought us right up to it. Feluda hit my head lightly, and asked, ‘Did you count the steps on your way back?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘That explains it. You went down the hill on your way back, you idiot. You must have taken very big steps.’ ‘Well... yes, maybe.’ ‘I’m sure you did. You see, young people always tend to take big, long steps when going downhill. Older people have to be more cautious, so they take smaller, measured steps.’ We went in through the gate. Feluda pressed the calling bell. Someone in the distance was listening to a radio. ‘Have you decided what you’re going to say to him?’ I asked. ‘That’s my business. You, my dear, will keep your mouth shut.’ ‘Even if they ask me something.? You mean I shouldn’t even make a reply?’ ‘Shut up.’ A Nepali servant opened the door. ‘Andar aaiye,’ he said. We stepped into the living room. Made of wood, the house had a lovely old charm. All the furniture in the room was made of cane. The walls were covered with strange masks, most showing large teeth and wearing rather unpleasant expressions. Some of them frightened me. Apart from these, the room was full of old weapons—shields and swords and daggers. Beside these hung pictures of the Buddha, painted on cloth. Heaven knew how old they were, but the golden colour that had been used had not faded at all. We took two cane chairs. Feluda rose briefly to inspect the walls. Then he came back and said, ‘All the nails are new. So Rajen Babu’s passion for antiques must have developed only recently.’ Rajen Babu came into the room. Feluda sprang to his feet and said, ‘Do you remember me? I am Joykrishna Mitter ’s son, Felu.’ Rajen Babu looked a little taken aback at first. Then his face broke into a smile. ‘Felu? Of course I remember you. My word, you have become a young man! How is everyone at home? Is your father here?’ As Feluda answered these questions, I sat trying to hide my astonishment. How unfair the whole thing was—why hadn’t Feluda told me that he knew Rajen Babu? It turned out that Rajen Babu had worked in Calcutta for many years as a lawyer. He had once helped Feluda’s father fight a case. He had come to Darjeeling and settled here ten years ago, soon after his retirement. Feluda introduced me to him. He showed no sign of recognition. Perhaps the matter of offering me a lozenge a week ago had slipped his mind completely. ‘You’re fond of antiques, I see,’ said Feluda conversationally. ‘Yes. It’s turned almost into an obsession.’ ‘How long—?’ ‘Over the last six months. But I’ve managed to collect quite a lot of things.’ Feluda cleared his throat. Then he told Rajen Babu what he had heard from me, and ended by saying, ‘I still remember how you had helped my father. If I could do anything in return...’ Rajen Babu looked both pleased and relieved. But before he could say anything, Tinkori Babu walked into the room. From the way he was breathing, it appeared that he had just come back after his evening walk. Rajen Babu made the introductions. ‘Tinkori Babu happens to be a neighbour of Gyanesh, a friend of mine. When this friend heard that I was going to let one of my rooms, he suggested that I give it to Tinkori Babu. He would have gone to a hotel otherwise.’ Tinkori Babu laughed. ‘I did hesitate to take up his offer, I must admit; chiefly because of my special weakness for cheroots. You see, Rajen Babu might well have objected to the smell. So I wrote to him first to let him know. He said he didn’t mind, so here I am.’ ‘Are you here simply for a change of air?’ ‘Yes, but the air, I’ve noticed, isn’t as cool and fresh as one might have expected.’ ‘Are you fond of music?’ asked Feluda unexpectedly. ‘Yes, but how did you guess?’ Tinkori Babu gave a startled smile. ‘Well, I noticed your finger,’ Feluda explained. ‘You were beating it on top of your walking-stick, in keeping with the rhythm of that song from the radio.’ ‘You’re quite right,’ Rajen Babu laughed, ‘he sings Shyamasangeet.’ Feluda changed the subject. ‘Do you have the letter here?’ he asked. ‘Oh yes. Right next to my heart,’ said Rajen Babu and took it out of the inside pocket of his jacket. Feluda spread it out.  It was not handwritten. A few printed words had been cut out of books or newspapers and pasted on a sheet of paper. ‘Be prepared to pay for your sins,’ it read. ‘Did this come by post?’ ‘Yes. It was posted in Darjeeling, but I’m afraid I threw the envelope away.’ ‘Have you reason to suspect anyone?’ ‘No. For the life of me, I cannot recall ever having harmed anyone.’ ‘Do certain people visit you regularly?’ ‘Well, I don’t get too many visitors. Dr Phoni Mitra comes occasionally if I happen to be ill.’ ‘Is he a good doctor?’ ‘About average, I should say. But then, my complaints have always been quite ordinary—I mean, no more than the usual coughs and colds. So I haven’t had to look for a really good doctor.’ ‘Does he charge a fee?’ ‘Of course. But that’s hardly a problem. I’ve got plenty of money, thank God.’ ‘Who else visits you?’ ‘A Mr Ghoshal has recently started coming to my house... look, here he is!’ A man of medium height wearing a dark suit was shown into the room. ‘Did I hear my name?’ he asked with a smile. ‘Yes, I was just about to tell these people that you share my interest in antiques. Allow me to introduce them.’ After exchanging greetings, Mr Ghoshal—whose full name was Abanimohan Ghoshal—said to Rajen Babu, ‘I thought I’d drop by since you didn’t come to the shop today.’ ‘N-no, I wasn’t feeling very well, so I decided to stay in.’ It was clear that Rajen Babu did not want to tell Mr Ghoshal about the letter. Feluda had hidden it the minute Mr Ghoshal had walked in. ‘All right, if you’re busy today, I’ll come back another time... actually, I wanted to take a look at that Tibetan bell,’ said Mr Ghoshal. ‘Oh, that’s not a problem at all. I’ll get it for you.’ Rajen Babu disappeared into the house to fetch the bell. ‘Do you live here in Darjeeling?’ Feluda asked Mr Ghoshal, who had picked up a dagger and was looking at it closely. ‘No,’ he replied, turning the dagger in his hand. ‘I don’t stay in any one place for very long. I have to travel a lot. But I like collecting curios.’ Feluda told me afterwards that a curio was a rare and ancient object of art. Rajen Babu returned with the bell. It was really striking to look at. Its base was made of silver, the handle was a mixture of brass and copper, which was studded with colourful stones. Mr Ghoshal took a long time to examine it carefully. Then he put it down on a table and said, ‘You got yourself a very good deal there. It’s absolutely genuine.’ ‘Ah, that’s a relief. You’re the expert, of course. The man at the shop told me it came straight out of the household of the Dalai Lama.’ ‘That may well be true. But I don’t suppose you’d want to part with it? I mean... suppose you got a handsome offer?’ Rajen Babu shook his head, smiling sweetly.  ‘No. You see, I bought that bell simply because I liked it, I have no wish to sell it only to make money.’ ‘Very well,’ Mr Ghoshal rose. ‘I hope you’ll be out and about tomorrow.’ ‘Thank you. I hope so, too.’ When Mr Ghoshal had gone, Feluda said to Rajen Babu, ‘Don’t you think it might be wise not to go out of the house for the next few days?’ ‘Yes, you’re probably right. But this business of an anonymous letter is so incredible that I cannot really bring myself to take it seriously. It just seems like a foolish practical joke!’ ‘Well, why don’t you stay in until we can be definite about that? How long have you had that Nepali servant?’ ‘Right from the start. He is completely reliable.’ Feluda now turned to Tinkori Babu. ‘Do you stay at home most of the time?’ ‘Yes, but I go for morning and evening walks, so I’m out of the house for a couple of hours every day. In any case, should there be any real danger, I doubt if I could do anything to help. I am sixty- four, younger than Rajen Babu by only a year.’ ‘Don’t involve poor Tinkori Babu in this, please,’ Rajen Babu said. ‘After all, he’s come here to relax, so let him enjoy himself. I’ll stay in if you insist, together with my servant. You two can come and visit me every day, if you so wish.’ ‘All right.’ Feluda stood up. So did I. It was time to go. There was a fireplace in front of us. Over it, on a mantelshelf, were three framed photographs. Feluda moved closer to the fireplace to look at these. ‘My wife,’ said Rajen Babu, pointing at the first photograph. ‘She died barely five years after our marriage.’ The second photo was of a young boy, who must have been about my own age when the photo was taken. A handsome boy indeed. ‘Who is this?’ Feluda asked. Rajen Babu began laughing. ‘That photo is there simply to show how time can change everything. Would you believe that that is my own photograph, taken when I was a child? I used to go to a missionary school in Bankura in those days. My father was the magistrate there. But don’t let those angelic looks deceive you. I might have been a good-looking child, but I was extremely naughty. My teachers were all fed up with me. In fact, I didn’t spare the students, either. I remember having kicked the best runner in our school in a hundred-yards race to stop him from winning.’ The third photo was of a young man in his late twenties. It turned out to be Rajen Babu’s only child, Prabeer Majumdar. ‘Where is he now?’ Feluda asked. Rajen Babu cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know,’ he said after a pause. ‘He left home sixteen years ago. There is virtually no contact between us.’ Feluda started walking towards the front door. ‘A very interesting case,’ he muttered. Now he was talking like the detectives one read about. We came out of the house. It was already dark outside. Lights had been switched on in every house nestling in the hills. A mist was rising from the Rangeet valley down below. Rajen Babu and Tinkori Babu both walked up to the gate to see us off. Rajen Babu lowered his voice and said to Feluda, ‘Actually, I have to confess that despite everything, I do feel faintly nervous. After all, something like this in this peaceful atmosphere was so totally unexpected...’ ‘Don’t worry,’ said Feluda firmly. ‘I’ll definitely get to the bottom of this case.’ ‘Thank you. Goodbye!’ said Rajen Babu and went back into the house. Tinkori Babu lingered. ‘I am truly impressed by your power of observation,’ he said. ‘I, too, have read a large number of detective novels. Maybe I can help you with this case.’ ‘Really? How?’ ‘Look at the letter in your hand. Take the various printed words. Do they tell you anything?’ Feluda thought for a few seconds. ‘The words were cut out with a blade, not scissors,’ he said. ‘Very good.’ ‘Second, each word has come from a different source—the typeface and the quality of paper vary from each other.’ ‘Yes. Can you guess what those different sources might be?’ ‘These two words—“prepared” and “pay”—appear to be a newspaper.’ ‘Right. Ananda Bazar.’ ‘How can you tell?’ ‘Only Ananda Bazar uses that typeface. And the other words were taken out of books, I think. Not very old books, mind you, for those different typefaces have been in use over the last twenty years, and no more. Apart from this, does the smell of the glue tell you anything?’ ‘I think the sender used Grippex glue.’ ‘Brilliant!’ ‘I might say the same for you.’ Tinkori Babu smiled. ‘I try, but at your age, my dear fellow, I doubt if I knew what the word “detective” meant.’ We said namaskar after this and went on our way. ‘I don’t yet know whether I can solve this mystery,’ said Feluda on the way back to our hotel, ‘but getting to know Tinkori Babu would be an added bonus.’ ‘If he is so good at crime detection, why don’t you let him do all the hard work? Why waste your own time making enquiries?’ ‘Ah well, Tinkori Babu might know a lot about printing and typefaces, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’d know everything!’ Feluda’s answer pleased me. I bet Tinkori Babu isn’t as clever as Feluda, I thought. Aloud, I said, ‘Who do you suppose is the culprit?’ ‘The culp—’ Feluda broke off. I saw him turn around and glance at a man who had come from the opposite direction and had just passed us. ‘Did you see him?’ ‘No, I didn’t see his face.’ ‘The light from that street lamp fell on his face for only a second, and I thought—’ ‘What?’ ‘No, never mind. Let’s go, I feel quite hungry.’ Feluda is my cousin. He and I were in Darjeeling with my father for a holiday. Father had got to know some of the other guests in our hotel fairly well, and was spending most of his time with them. He didn’t stop us from going wherever we wished, nor did he ask too many questions. I woke a little later than usual the next day. Father was in the room, but there was no sign of Feluda. ‘Felu left early this morning,’ Father explained. ‘He said he’d try to catch a glimpse of Kanchenjunga.’ I knew this couldn’t be true. Feluda must have gone out to investigate, which was most annoying because he wasn’t supposed to go out without me. Anyway, I had a quick cup of tea, and then I went out myself. I spotted Feluda near a taxi stand. ‘This is not fair!’ I complained. ‘Why did you go out alone?’ ‘I was feeling a bit feverish, so I went to see a doctor.’ ‘Dr Phoni Mitra?’ ‘Aha, you’re beginning to use your brain, too!’ ‘What did he say?’ ‘He charged me four rupees and wrote out a prescription.’ ‘Is he a good doctor?’ ‘Do you think a good doctor would write a prescription for someone in perfect health? Besides, his house looked old and decrepit. I don’t think he has a good practice.’ ‘Then he couldn’t have sent that letter.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘A poor man wouldn’t dare.’ ‘Yes, he would, if he was desperate for money.’ ‘But that letter said nothing about money.’ ‘There was no need to ask openly.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘How did Rajen Babu strike you yesterday?’ ‘He seemed a little frightened.’ ‘Fear can make anyone ill.’ ‘Oh?’ ‘Yes, seriously ill. And if that happened, he’d naturally turn to his doctor. What might happen then is something even a fathead like you can figure out, I’m sure.’ How clever Feluda was! But if Dr Mitra had really planned the whole thing the way Feluda described, he must be extraordinarily crafty, too. By this time, we had reached the Mall. As we came near the fountain, Feluda suddenly said, ‘I feel a bit curious about curios.’ We were, in fact, standing quite close to the Nepal Curio Shop. Rajen Babu and Mr Ghoshal visited this shop every day. Feluda and I walked into the shop. Its owner came forward to greet us. He had a light grey jacket on, a muffler round his neck, and wore a black cap with golden embroidery. He beamed at us genially. The shop was cluttered with old and ancient objects. A strange musty smell came from them. It was quiet inside. Feluda looked around for a while, then said, sounding important, ‘Do you have good tankhas?’  ‘Come into the next room, sir. We’ve sold what was really good. But we’re expecting some fresh stock soon.’ ‘What is a tankha?’ I whispered. ‘You’ll know when you see one,’ Feluda whispered back. The next room was even smaller and darker. The owner of the shop brought out a painting of the Buddha, done on a piece of silk. ‘This is the last piece left, but it’s a little damaged,’ he said. So this was a tankha! Rajen Babu had heaps of these in his house. Feluda examined the tankha like an expert, peering at it closely, and then looking at it from various angles. Three minutes later, he said, ‘This doesn’t appear to be more than seventy years old. I am looking for something much older than that, at least three hundred years, you see.’ ‘We’re getting some new things this evening, sir. You might find what you’re looking for if you came back later today.’ ‘This evening, did you say?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Oh, I must inform Rajen Babu.’ ‘Mr Majumdar? He knows about it already. All my regular customers are coming in the evening to look at the fresh arrivals.’ ‘Does Mr Ghoshal know?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘Who else is a regular buyer?’ ‘There’s Mr Gilmour, the manager of a tea estate. He visits my shop twice a week. Then there’s Mr Naulakha. But he’s away in Sikkim at present.’ ‘All right, I’ll try to drop in in the evening... Topshe, would you like a mask?’ I couldn’t resist the offer. Feluda selected one himself and paid for it. ‘This was the most horrendous of them all,’ he remarked, passing it to me. He had once told me there was no such word as ‘horrendous’. It was really a mixture of ‘tremendous’ and ‘horrible’. But I must say it was rather an appropriate word for the mask. Feluda started to say something as we came out of the shop, but stopped abruptly. I found him staring at a man once again. Was it the same man he had seen last night? He was a man in his early forties, expensively dressed in a well-cut suit. He had stopped in the middle of the Mall to light his pipe. His eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. Somehow he looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t recall ever having met him before. Feluda stepped forward and approached him. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘are you Mr Chatterjee?’ ‘No,’ replied the man, biting the end of his pipe, ‘I am not.’ Feluda appeared to be completely taken aback. ‘Strange! Aren’t you staying at the Central Hotel?’ The man smiled a little contemptuously. ‘No, I am at the Mount Everest; and I don’t have a twin,’ he said and strode off in the direction of Observatory Hill. I noticed he was carrying a brown parcel, on which were printed the words ‘Nepal Curio Shop’. ‘Feluda!’ I said softly. ‘Do you think he bought a mask like mine?’ ‘Yes, he may well have done that. After all, those masks weren’t all meant for your own exclusive use, were they? Anyway, let’s go and have a cup of coffee.’ We turned towards a coffee shop. ‘Did you recognize that man?’ asked Feluda. ‘How could I,’ I replied, ‘when you yourself failed to recognize him?’ ‘Who said I had failed?’ ‘Of course you did! You got his name wrong, didn’t you?’ ‘Why are you so stupid? I did that deliberately, just to get him to tell me where he was staying. Do you know what his real name is?’ ‘No. What is it?’ ‘Prabeer Majumdar.’ ‘Yes, yes, you’re right! Rajen Babu’s son, isn’t he? We saw his photograph yesterday. No wonder he seemed familiar. But of course now he’s a lot older.’ ‘Even so, there are a lot of similarities between father and son. But did you notice his clothes? His suit must have been from London, his tie from Paris and shoes from Italy. In short, there’s no doubt that he’s recently returned from abroad.’ ‘But does that mean Rajen Babu doesn’t know his own son is in town?’ ‘Perhaps his son doesn’t even know that his father lives here. We should try to find out more.’ The plot thickens, I told myself, going up on the open terrace of the coffee shop. I loved sitting here. One could get such a superb view of the town and the market from here. Tinkori Babu was sitting at a corner table, drinking coffee. He waved at us, inviting us to join him. ‘As a reward for your powerful observation and expertise in detection, I would like to treat you to two cups of hot chocolate. You wouldn’t mind, I hope?’ he said with a twinkle in his eye. My mouth began to water at the prospect of a cup of hot chocolate. Tinkori Babu called a waiter and placed his order. Then he took out a book from his jacket pocket and offered it to Feluda. ‘This is for you. I had just one copy left. It’s my latest book.’ Feluda stared at the cover. ‘Your book? You mean... you write under the pseudonym Secret Agent?’ Tinkori Babu’s eyes drooped. He smiled slightly and nodded. Feluda grew more excited. ‘But you’re my favourite writer! I’ve read all your books. No other writer can write mystery stories the way you do.’ ‘Thank you, thank you. To tell you the truth, I had come to Darjeeling to chalk out a plot for my next novel. But I’ve now spent most of my time trying to sort out a real life mystery.’ ‘I do consider myself very fortunate. I had no idea I’d get to meet you like this!’ ‘The only sad thing is that I have to go back to Calcutta. I’m returning tomorrow. But I think I may be of some help to you before I leave.’ ‘I’m very pleased to hear that. By the way, we saw Rajen Babu’s son today.’ ‘What!’ ‘Only ten minutes ago.’ ‘Are you sure? Did you see him properly?’ ‘Yes, I am almost a hundred per cent sure. All we need to do is check with the Mount Everest Hotel, and then there won’t be any doubt left.’ Suddenly, Tinkori Babu sighed. ‘Did Rajen Babu talk to you about his son?’ he asked. ‘No, not much.’  ‘I have heard quite a lot. Apparently, his son had fallen into bad company. He was caught stealing money from his father ’s cupboard. Rajen Babu told him to get out of his house. Prabeer did leave his home after that and disappeared without a trace. He was twenty-four at the time. A few years later, Rajen Babu began to regret what he’d done and tried to track his son down. But there was no sign of Prabeer anywhere. About ten years ago, a friend of Rajen Babu came and told him he’d spotted Prabeer somewhere in England. But that was all.’ ‘That means Rajen Babu doesn’t know his son is here in Darjeeling.’ ‘I’m sure he doesn’t. And I don’t think he should be told. After all, he’s already had one shock. Another one might...’ Tinkori Babu stopped. Then he looked straight at Feluda and shook his head. ‘I think I am going mad. Really, I should give up writing mystery stories.’ Feluda laughed. ‘You mean it’s only just occurred to you that the letter might have been sent by Prabeer Majumdar himself?’ ‘Exactly. But... I don’t know...’ Tinkori Babu broke off absent-mindedly. The waiter came back and placed our hot chocolate before us. This seemed to cheer him up. ‘How did you find Dr Phoni Mitra?’ he asked. ‘Good heavens, how do you know I went there?’ ‘I paid him a visit shortly after you left.’ ‘Did you see me coming out of his house?’ ‘No. I found a cigarette stub on his floor. I knew he didn’t smoke, so I asked him if he’d already had a patient. He said yes, and from his description I could guess that it was you. However, I didn’t know then that you smoked. Now, looking at your slightly yellowish fingertips, I can be totally sure.’ ‘You really are a most clever man. But tell me, did you suspect Dr Mitra as well?’ ‘Yes. He doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, does he?’ ‘You’re right. I’m surprised Rajen Babu consults him rather than anyone else.’ ‘There’s a reason for it. Soon after he arrived in Darjeeling, Rajen Babu had suddenly turned religious. It was Dr Mitra who had found him a guru at that time. As followers of the same guru, they are now like brothers.’ ‘I see. But did Dr Mitra say anything useful? What did you talk about?’ ‘Oh, just this and that. I went there really to take a look at the books on his shelves. There weren’t many. Those that I saw were all old.’ ‘Yes, I noticed it, too.’ ‘Mind you, he might well have got hold of different books from elsewhere, just to get the right printed words. But I’m pretty certain that is not the case. That man seemed far too lazy to go to such trouble.’ ‘Well, that takes care of Dr Mitra. What do you think of Mr Ghoshal?’ ‘I don’t trust him either. He’s a crook. He pretends to be interested in art and antiques, but I think what he really wants to do is sell to foreign buyers at a much higher price what he can buy relatively cheaply here.’ ‘But do you think he might have a motive in sending a threatening letter to Rajen Babu?’ ‘I haven’t really thought about it.’ ‘I think I might have stumbled onto something.’  I looked at Feluda in surprise. His eyes were shining with excitement. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I learnt today,’ Feluda said, lowering his voice, ‘that the shop they both go to is going to get some fresh supplies this evening.’ Tinkori Babu perked up immediately. ‘I see, I see!’ he exclaimed. ‘A letter like that would naturally frighten Rajen Babu into staying at home for a few days. In the meantime, Abani Ghoshal would go in and make a clean sweep.’ ‘Exactly.’ Tinkori Babu paid for the chocolate and rose. We went out together. My heart was beating fast. Abani Ghoshal, Prabeer Majumdar and Dr Phoni Mitra. As many as three suspects. Who was the real culprit? Tinkori Babu went home. Feluda and I walked over to the Mount Everest Hotel. They confirmed that a man called Prabeer Majumdar had checked in five days ago. We were supposed to visit Rajen Babu in the evening. But it began to rain so heavily at around 4 p.m. that we were forced to stay in. Feluda spent that whole evening scribbling in a notebook. I was dying to find out what he was writing, but didn’t dare ask. In the end, I picked up the book Tinkori Babu had given Feluda and began reading it. It was so thrilling that in a matter of minutes, all thoughts of Rajen Babu went out of my mind. The rain stopped at 8 p.m. But by then it was very cold outside. Father, for once, stood firm and refused to allow us to go out. Feluda shook me awake the next morning. ‘Get up, Topshe. Quick!’ ‘What—what is it?’ I sat up. Feluda whispered into my ear, speaking through clenched teeth. ‘Rajen Babu’s Nepali servant was here a few moments ago. He said Rajen Babu wants to see us, and it’s urgent. Do you want to come with me?’ ‘Of course!’ We got ready and were in Rajen Babu’s house in less than twenty minutes. We found him lying in his bed, looking pale and haggard. Dr Mitra was by his side, feeling his pulse; and Tinkori Babu was standing before him, fanning him with a hand-held fan, despite the cold. Dr Mitra released his hand as we came in. Rajen Babu spoke with some difficulty. ‘Last night... after midnight... I woke suddenly and there it was... in this room... I saw a masked face!’ Rajen Babu continued, ‘I can’t tell you... how I spent the night!’ ‘Has anything been stolen?’ ‘No. But I’m sure he bent over me... only to take the keys from under my pillow. Oh, it was horrible... horrible!’ ‘Take it easy,’ said the doctor. ‘I’m going to give you something to help you sleep. You need complete rest.’ He stood up. ‘Dr Mitra,’ said Feluda suddenly, ‘did you go to see a patient last night? Your jacket’s got a streak of mud on it.’ ‘Oh yes,’ Dr Mitra replied readily enough. ‘I did have to go out last night. Since I have chosen to dedicate my life to my patients, I can hardly refuse to go out when I’m needed, come rain or shine.’  He collected his fee and left. Rajen Babu sat up in his bed. ‘I feel a lot better now that you’re here,’ he admitted. ‘I did feel considerably shaken, I must say. But now I think I might be able to go and sit in the living room.’ Feluda and Tinkori Babu helped him to his feet. We made our way to the living room. ‘I rang the railway station to change my ticket,’ said Tinkori Babu. ‘I don’t want to leave today. But they said if I cancelled my ticket now, they couldn’t give me a booking for another ten days. So I fear I’ve got to go.’ This pleased me. I wanted Feluda to solve the mystery single-handedly. ‘My servant was supposed to stay in yesterday,’ Rajen Babu explained, ‘but I myself told him to take some time off. His father is very ill, you see. He went home last night.’ ‘What did the mask look like?’ Feluda asked. ‘It was a perfectly ordinary mask, the kind you can get anywhere in Darjeeling. There are at least five of those in this room. There’s one, look!’ The mask he pointed out was almost an exact replica of the one Feluda had bought me yesterday. Tinkori Babu spoke again. ‘I think we ought to inform the police. We can no longer call this a joke. Rajen Babu may need protection. Felu Babu, you can continue with your investigation, nobody will object to that. But having thought things over, I do feel the police should know what’s happened. I’ll go myself to the police station right away. I don’t think your life’s in any danger, Rajen Babu, but please keep an eye on that Tibetan bell.’ We decided to take our leave. But before we left, Feluda said, ‘Since Tinkori Babu is leaving today, you’re going to be left with a vacant room, aren’t you? Would you mind if we came and spent the night in it?’ ‘No, no, why should I mind? You’re like a son to me. I’d be delighted. To tell you the truth, I’m beginning to lose my nerve. Those who are reckless in their youth generally tend to grow rather feeble in their old age. At least, that’s what has happened to me.’ ‘I’ll come and see you off at the station,’ Feluda said to Tinkori Babu. We passed the curio shop on our way back. Neither of us could help look inside. We saw two men looking around and talking. From the easy familiarity with which they were talking, it seemed as if they had known each other for a long time. One of them was Abani Ghoshal. The other was Prabeer Majumdar. I glanced at Feluda. He didn’t seem surprised at all. We went to the station at half-past ten to say goodbye to Tinkori Babu. He arrived in five minutes. ‘My feet ache from having walked uphill,’ he said. I noticed he was walking with a slight limp. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘it took me a while to buy this. I know Rajen Babu couldn’t go to the curio shop but they really did get a lot of good stuff yesterday. So I chose something for him this morning. Will you please give it to him with my good wishes?’ ‘Certainly,’ said Feluda, taking a brown packet from Tinkori Babu. ‘There’s one thing I meant to ask you. If I solve this mystery, I’d like to tell you about it. Will you give me your address, please?’ ‘You’ll find the address of my publisher in my book. He’ll forward all letters addressed to me. Goodbye... good luck!’ He climbed into a blue first-class carriage. The train left. ‘That man would have made a lot of money and quite a name for himself if he had lived abroad. He has a real talent for writing crime stories,’ Feluda remarked. We returned to our hotel from the station. But Feluda went out again and, this time, refused to take me with him. When he finally came back, it was time to go to Rajen Babu’s house to stay the night. As we set off, I said to him, ‘You might at least tell me where you were during the day.’ ‘I went to various places. Twice to the Mount Everest Hotel, once to Dr Mitra’s house, then to the curio shop, the library and one or two other places.’ ‘I see.’ ‘Is there anything else you’d like to know?’ ‘Have you been able to figure out who is the real cul—?’ ‘The time hasn’t come to disclose that. No, not yet.’ ‘But who do you suspect the most?’ ‘I suspect everybody, including you.’ ‘Me?’ ‘Yes. Anyone who has a mask is a suspect.’ ‘Really? In that case, why don’t you include yourself in your list?’ ‘Don’t talk rubbish.’ ‘I’m not! You didn’t tell me that you knew Rajen Babu, which means you were not totally honest with me. Besides, you could have easily used that mask. I did not hide it anywhere, did I?’ ‘Shut up, shut up!’ Rajen Babu seemed a lot better when we arrived at his house, although he still looked faintly uneasy. ‘I felt fine during the day,’ he told us, ‘but I must say I’m beginning to feel nervous again now it’s getting dark.’ Feluda gave him the packet from Tinkori Babu. Rajen Babu opened it quickly and took out a beautiful statue of the Buddha, the sight of which actually moved him to tears. ‘Did the police come to make enquiries?’ asked Feluda. ‘Oh yes. They asked a thousand questions. God knows if they’ll get anywhere, but at least they’ve agreed to post someone outside the house during the night. That’s a relief, anyway. In fact, if you wish to go back to your hotel, it will be quite all right.’ ‘No, we’d rather stay here, if you don’t mind. It’s too noisy in our hotel. I need peace and quiet to think about this case.’ Rajen Babu smiled. ‘Of course you can stay. You’ll get your peace and quiet here, and I can promise you an excellent meal. That Nepali boy is a very good cook. I’ve asked him to make his special chicken curry. The food in your hotel could never be half as tasty, I’m sure.’ We were shown to our room. Feluda stretched out on his bed and lit a cigarette. I saw him blow out five smoke rings in a row. His eyes were half-closed. After a few seconds of silence, he said, ‘Dr Mitra did go out to see a patient last night. I found that out this morning. A rich businessman who lives in Cart Road. He was with his patient from eleven-thirty to half-past twelve.’ ‘Does that rule him out completely?’ Feluda did not answer my question. Instead, he said, ‘Prabeer Majumdar has lived abroad for so long and has such a lot of money that I can’t see why he should suddenly arrive here and start threatening his father. He stands to gain very little, actually. Why, I learnt that he recently made a packet at the local races!’  I sat holding my breath. It was obvious that Feluda hadn’t finished. I was right. Feluda stubbed out his cigarette and continued, ‘Mr Gilmour has come to Darjeeling from his tea estate. I met him at the Planters’ Club. He told me there was only one Tibetan bell that had come out of the palace of the Dalai Lama, and it is with him. The one Rajen Babu has is a fake. Abani Ghoshal is aware of it.’ ‘You mean the bell that we saw here isn’t all that valuable?’ ‘No. Besides, both Abani Ghoshal and Prabeer Majumdar were at a party last night, from 9 p.m. to 3 a.m. They got totally drunk, I believe.’ ‘That man wearing a mask came here soon after midnight, didn’t he?’ ‘Yes.’ I began to feel rather strange. ‘Well then, who does that leave us with?’ Feluda did not reply. He sighed and rose to his feet. ‘I’m going to sit in the living room for a minute,’ he said. ‘Do not disturb me.’ I took his place on the bed when he left. It was getting dark, but I felt too lazy to get up and switch on the lights. Through the open window I could see lights in the distance, on Observatory Hill. The noise from the Mall had died down. I heard the sound of hooves after a while. They got louder and louder, then slowly faded away. It soon grew almost totally dark. The hill and the houses on it were now practically invisible. Perhaps a mist was rising again. I began to feel sleepy. Just as my eyes started to close, I suddenly sensed the presence of someone else in the room. My blood froze. Too terrified to look in the direction of the door, I kept my eyes fixed on the window. But I could feel the man move closer to the bed. There, he was now standing right next to me, and was leaning over my face. Transfixed, I watched his face come closer... oh, how horrible it was... a mask! He was wearing a mask! I opened my mouth to scream, but an unseen hand pulled the mask away, and my scream became a nervous gasp. ‘Feluda! Oh my God, it’s you!’ ‘Had you dozed off? Of course it’s me. Who did you think...?’ Feluda started to laugh, but suddenly grew grave. Then he sat down next to me, and said, ‘I was simply trying on all those masks in the living room. Why don’t you wear this one for a second?’ He passed me his mask. I put it on. ‘Can you sense something unusual?’ ‘Why, no! It’s a size too large for me, that’s all.’ ‘Think carefully. Isn’t there anything else that might strike you as odd?’ ‘Well... there’s a faint smell, I think.’ ‘Of what?’ ‘Cheroot?’ ‘Exactly.’ Feluda took the mask off. My heart started to beat faster again. ‘T-t-t-inkori Babu?’ I stammered. Feluda sighed. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. It must have been extremely easy for him. He had access to all kinds of printed material; and you must have noticed he was limping this morning. That might have been the result of jumping out of a window last night. But what I totally fail to understand is his motive. He appeared to respect Rajen Babu a lot. Why then did he do something like this? What for? Perhaps we shall never know.’ The night passed peacefully and without any further excitement. In the morning, just as we sat down to have breakfast with our host, his Nepali servant came in with a letter for him. It was once again a blue envelope with a Darjeeling post-mark. Rajen Babu went white. He took out the letter with a trembling hand and passed it to Feluda. ‘You read it,’ he said in a low voice. Feluda read it aloud. This is what it said: Dear Raju, When I first wrote to you from Calcutta after Gyanesh told me you had a house in Darjeeling, I had no idea who you really were. But that photograph of yours on your mantelshelf told me instantly that you were none other than the boy who had once been my classmate in the missionary school in Bankura fifty years ago. I did not know that the desire for revenge would raise its head even after so many years. You see, I was the boy you kicked at that hundred-yards race on our sports day. Not only did I miss out on winning a medal and setting a new record, but you also managed to injure me pretty seriously. Unfortunately, my father got transferred to a different town only a few days after this incident, which was why I never got the chance to have a showdown with you then; nor did you ever learn just how badly you had hurt me, both mentally and physically. I had to spend three months in a hospital with my leg in a cast. When I saw you here in Darjeeling, leading such a comfortable and peaceful life, I suddenly thought of doing something that would cause you a great deal of anxiety and ruin your peace of mind, at least for a short time. This was my way of settling scores, and punishing you for your past sins. With good wishes, Yours sincerely, Tinu (Tinkori Mukhopadhyay) T HE EMP ER O R ’ S R I N G  One I was at first quite disappointed when I heard Baba say, ‘Let’s have a holiday in Lucknow this year. Dhiru has been asking us for a long time to go and visit him.’ It was my belief that Lucknow was dull and boring. Baba did say we’d include a trip to Haridwar and Laxmanjhoola, and the latter was in the hills—but that would be just for a few days. We generally went to either Darjeeling or Puri. I liked both the sea and the mountains. Lucknow had neither. So I said to Baba, ‘Couldn’t we ask Feluda to come with us?’ Feluda has a theory about himself. No matter where he goes, he says, mysterious things start happening around him. And true enough, the last time he went with us to Darjeeling, all those strange things happened to Rajen Babu. If Lucknow could offer something similar, it wouldn’t matter too much if the place itself was boring. Baba said, ‘Felu would be most welcome, but can he get away?’ Feluda appeared quite enthusiastic when I told him. ‘Went there in 1958 to play a cricket match,’ he said. ‘It’s not a bad place at all. If you went inside the Bhoolbhulaia in the Burra Imambara, I’m sure your eyes would pop out. What an imagination those nawabs had—my God!’ ‘You’ll get leave, won’t you?’ Feluda ignored my question and continued to speak: ‘And it’s not just the Bhoolbhulaia. You’ll get to see the Monkey Bridge over the Gomti, and of course the battered Residency.’ ‘What’s the Residency?’ ‘It was the centre of the British forces during the Mutiny. They couldn’t do a thing. The sepoys tore it apart.’ Feluda had been at his job for two years. Since he hadn’t taken any leave in the first year, it wasn’t difficult for him now to get a couple of weeks off. Perhaps I should explain here that Feluda is my cousin. I am fourteen and he is twenty-seven. Some people think him crazy, some say he is only eccentric, others call him just plain lazy. But I happen to know that few men of his age possess his intelligence. And, if he finds a job that interests him, he can work harder than anyone I know. Besides, he is good at cricket, knows at least a hundred indoor games, a number of card tricks, a little hypnotism and can write with both hands. When he was in school, his memory was so good that he had memorized every word in Tagore’s ‘Snatched from the Gods’ after just two readings. But what is most remarkable about Feluda is his power of deduction. This is a skill he has acquired simply by reading and regular practice. The police haven’t yet discovered his talents, so Feluda has remained an amateur private detective. One look at a person is enough for him to guess—accurately—a number of things about him.  When we met Dhiru Kaka at the Lucknow railway station, Feluda whispered into my ear: ‘Is your Kaka fond of gardening?’ I knew that Dhiru Kaka had a garden, but Feluda could not have known about it. After all, Dhiru Kaka was not a relative; Baba and he were childhood friends. ‘How did you guess?’ I asked, amazed. ‘When he turns around,’ said Feluda, still whispering, ‘you’ll see a rose leaf sticking out from under the heel of his right shoe. And the index finger of his right hand has got tincture of iodine on it. Possibly the result of messing about in a rose bush early this morning.’ I realized on the way to Dhiru Kaka’s house from the station that Lucknow was really a beautiful place. There were buildings with turrets and minarets all around; the roads were broad and clean and the traffic, besides motor cars, included two different kinds of horse-drawn carriages. One, I learnt, was called a tonga and the other was an ekka. If Dhiru Kaka hadn’t met us in his old Chevrolet, we might have had to get into one of those. Dhiru Kaka said, ‘Aren’t you now glad you came to this nice place? It’s not filthy like Calcutta, is it?’ Baba and Dhiru Kaka were sitting at the back. Feluda and I were both sitting beside the driver, Din Dayal Singh. Feluda whispered again, ‘Ask him about the Bhoolbhulaia?’ I find it difficult not to do something if Feluda asks me to do it. So I said, ‘What is the Bhoolbhulaia, Dhiru Kaka?’ ‘You’ll see it for yourself!’ Dhiru Kaka laughed, ‘It’s actually a maze inside the Imambara. The nawabs used to play hide-and-seek in it with their queens.’ This time Feluda himself spoke. ‘Is it true that you cannot come out of it unless you take a trained guide with you?’ ‘Yes, so I believe. Once a British soldier—oh, it was many years ago—had a few glasses and laid a wager with someone. Said no one should follow him into the maze, he’d come out himself. Two days later, his body was found in a lane of the maze.’ My heart started beating faster. ‘Did you go in alone or with a guide?’ I asked Feluda. ‘I took a guide. But it is possible to go alone.’ ‘Really?’ I stared. Well, nothing was too difficult for Feluda, I knew. ‘How is it possible?’ Feluda’s eyes drooped. He nodded twice, but remained silent. I could tell he would not speak. His eyes were now taking in every detail of the city of Lucknow. Dhiru Kaka was a lawyer. He had come to Lucknow twenty years ago and stayed on. He was, I believe, fairly well known in legal circles. He had lost his wife three years ago, and his son was in Frankfurt. He lived alone, with his bearer, Jagmohan, a cook and a maali. His house in Secunder Bagh was a little more than three miles from the station. The main gate bore his name: D. K. SANYAL, MA, BLB, Advocate. A cobbled driveway led to a bungalow. His garden lay on both sides of the driveway. I spotted a maali working with a lawnmower as we stopped at the front door. Baba said after lunch, ‘You must be tired after your journey. I suggest we start our sightseeing from tomorrow.’ So I spent the whole afternoon learning card tricks from Feluda. ‘Indians have fingers that are far more flexible than those of Europeans,’ Feluda told me, ‘so it’s easier for us to learn tricks that require sleight of hand.’ In the evening, we went out to the garden to have our tea. As we sat under a eucalyptus tree, cups and saucers in our hands, a car drew up outside the main gate. Feluda said, ‘Fiat,’ without even looking. This was followed by footsteps on the driveway, and a gentleman in a grey suit appeared shortly. He was fair, wore glasses and most of his hair was grey. Yet, it was clear that he was not very much older than Baba. Dhiru Kaka rose with a smile, his hands folded in a namaskaar. ‘Jagmohan, bring another chair,’ he said. Turning towards Baba, he added, ‘Allow me to introduce a special friend. This is Dr Srivastava.’ Feluda and I had both risen by this time. Feluda muttered under his breath, ‘The chap’s nervous for some reason. He forgot to greet your father.’ Dhiru Kaka continued, ‘Srivastava is an osteopath and a genuine Lucknowwalla.’ I heard Feluda whisper again. ‘Do you know what an osteopath is?’ ‘No.’ ‘A doctor who specializes in problems of your bones.’ An extra chair arrived and we all sat down. Dr Srivastava picked up Baba’s teacup absentmindedly and was about to take a sip when Baba coughed politely. Dr Srivastava started, said, ‘I am so sorry,’ and put it down. Dhiru Kaka said thoughtfully, ‘You seem a little preoccupied today. Are you thinking of a difficult case?’ Baba intervened at this point. ‘You are talking to him in Bengali, Dhiru. Does he understand it?’ Dhiru Kaka laughed, ‘Understand it? Good God—why don’t you quote a few lines from Tagore, eh, Srivastava?’ Dr Srivastava appeared a little uncomfortable. ‘I know a little Bengali,’ he confessed, ‘and I have read some of Tagore’s works.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Yes. Great poet.’ Perhaps they would now start a great discussion on poetry, I thought. But Dr Srivastava picked up his own cup this time with an unsteady hand and said, ‘Last night a daku came to my house.’ Daku? What was that? The next words Dhiru Kaka spoke explained it. ‘You mean a dacoit? Heavens, I thought they existed only in Madhya Pradesh. How did one get into Lucknow?’ ‘Call it a dacoit or an ordinary thief. You know about my ring, don’t you, Mr Sanyal?’ ‘The one Pyarelal had given you? Has it been stolen?’ ‘No, no. But I do believe the thief came to steal it.’ Baba said, ‘What’s this about a ring?’ Dr Srivastava turned to Dhiru Kaka. ‘You tell him.’ Dhiru Kaka explained, ‘Pyarelal Seth was a famous, wealthy businessman of Lucknow. A Gujarati by birth, he had lived in Calcutta for some time. So he had a smattering of Bengali. When his son, Mahabir, was about thirteen, he went down with some serious ailment affecting his bones. Dr Srivastava cured him. Pyarelal’s wife was no more, and the first of his two sons had died of typhoid a few years earlier. So you can imagine how grateful he must have felt to Dr Srivastava for saving the life of his only remaining child. Before he died himself, he gave a very expensive and valuable ring to Dr Srivastava.’ ‘When did he die?’ ‘Last July,’ said Srivastava, ‘three months ago. He had his first heart attack in May, which nearly killed him. That was when he gave me the ring. Then the second attack came in July. I went to visit him. It was all over in no time. Look...’ Srivastava brought out a blue velvet box from his pocket. It was slightly bigger than a matchbox. The evening sun fell on its content as he lifted the lid, and a bright, glittering rainbow dazzled our eyes. Dr Srivastava looked around briefly before pulling the ring out of the box. A huge white stone gleamed in the middle. It was surrounded by several smaller red, blue and green ones. I had never seen a ring so exquisitely beautiful. I gave Feluda a sidelong glance. He was scratching his ear with a dry leaf of eucalyptus, but his eyes were fixed on the ring. ‘It must be very old,’ said Baba. ‘Is there a history behind it?’ Dr Srivastava replaced the ring in the box, put it back in his pocket and picked up his cup once more. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘there is indeed. This ring is more than three hundred years old. It once belonged to the Emperor Aurangzeb.’ Baba’s eyes widened. ‘You don’t say! You mean the Aurangzeb? Shah Jahan’s son?’ ‘Yes. But the story I’ve heard goes back to when Aurangzeb was still only a prince. Shah Jahan was the Emperor, trying to conquer Samarkand. His forces kept getting defeated. Once he sent his men under Aurangzeb’s command. Aurangzeb was badly injured in the attack. He might have died, but an army officer saved him. Aurangzeb took this ring from his finger and gave it to his officer as his reward.’ ‘Goodness, it’s incredible!’ ‘Yes. Pyarelal bought this ring in Agra from a descendant of that army officer. I don’t know how much he paid for it. But I have had the stones examined. That big one is a diamond. So you can imagine its value.’ ‘At least two hundred thousand,’ said Dhiru Kaka, ‘if it was Jahannan Khan’s instead of Aurangzeb’s, even then it would fetch about a hundred-and-fifty thousand rupees.’ Dr Srivastava said, ‘Now you know why I am so upset after yesterday’s incident. I live alone, you see, and I have to go out at all hours to see my patients. I could, of course, tell the police. But what if I did, and then someone attacked me? You never can tell, can you? I had, in fact, once thought of keeping the ring in a bank. But then I felt it would not be the same. I mean, I like showing it to my friends. So I kept it in my house.’ Dhiru Kaka said, ‘Have you shown it to many people?’  ‘No. I got it only a few months ago. And those who come to my house are all my friends, people I trust. I haven’t shown it to anyone else.’ It was beginning to get dark. The top of the eucalyptus tree shone in the remaining sunlight, but that would fade away soon. I looked at Dr Srivastava. He seemed oddly restless. ‘Let’s go in,’ said Dhiru Kaka, ‘we need to think this over.’ We left the garden and went into the living-room. Feluda didn’t appear to be interested at all. He pulled out a pack of cards as soon as we had all sat down, and began to practise a new trick he had learnt. Baba was not a great talker, but when he did speak, he chose his words carefully. ‘Why,’ he now asked, ‘are you assuming that the thief came simply to steal your ring? Wasn’t anything else stolen? After all, he—or they—might have been just petty thieves, interested in plain cash.’ Srivastava said, ‘Well, let me explain. Thieves and burglars don’t often strike in our area chiefly because of Bonobihari Babu. Besides, Mr Jhunjhunwalla is my next-door neighbour, and Mr Billimoria lives next to him. Both are very rich. You can tell that just by looking at their houses. So why should a thief come to my humble abode?’ ‘If your neighbours are rich,’ said Dhiru Kaka, ‘they must have made arrangements to guard their wealth. A petty thief wouldn’t risk breaking through heavy security. After all, big money isn’t his game, is it? I suspect if he could lay his hands on five hundred rupees, it would keep him going for six months. So I’m not surprised that they broke into your house, and not your neighbour ’s.’ Dr Srivastava continued to look doubtful. ‘I really don’t know, Mr Sanyal,’ he said. ‘I feel convinced they were after that ring. They opened a cupboard in the room next to mine. All its drawers were pulled out. There were other valuable things and enough time to grab them. Yet, when I woke suddenly, they ran away without taking a single thing. I find that odd. Besides—’ Srivastava stopped abruptly, frowning. After a few moments of silence, he said, ‘When Pyarelal gave me that ring, I got the impression that he was just trying to get rid of it. For some reason he didn’t want to keep it in his house any longer. And—’ He stopped again and frowned once more. ‘And what, Dr Srivastava?’ asked Dhiru Kaka. Srivastava sighed. ‘I went to see him after his second attack. He tried to tell me something, but couldn’t. But I heard one thing clearly.’ ‘What was that?’ ‘He said it twice—“a spy... a spy...”’ Dhiru Kaka rose from the sofa. ‘No, Doctor,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t matter what Pyarelal said. I am convinced it was just an ordinary thief. Perhaps you haven’t heard, but the barrister Bhudeb Mitra’s house was recently burgled, too. They got away with a radio and some silver. But if you’re feeling nervous about keeping the ring in your house, please feel free to leave it with me. I shall put it in my Godrej almirah and it’ll be quite safe. You can collect it when you get over your nervousness.’ Srivastava looked visibly relieved. His lips spread in a smile. ‘That is exactly what I came here to propose, but couldn’t bring myself to say it. Thank you very much, Mr Sanyal. I shall feel a lot easier in my mind if you keep the ring.’  He took the ring out of his pocket and handed it to Dhiru Kaka, who went straight into his bedroom with it. At this point, Feluda opened his mouth. ‘Who is Bonobihari Babu?’ he asked. ‘Pardon?’ Dr Srivastava was still slightly preoccupied. ‘Didn’t you just say that houses where you live were safe from burglars because of one Bonobihari Babu? Who is he? Someone in the police?’ Srivastava laughed, ‘Oh, no, no. He has nothing to do with the police—but he gives us a special protection that’s even better than what the police could give. He’s quite an interesting character. His ancestors were zamindars in Bengal. When they lost their land, Bonobihari Babu went into business. He began exporting animals.’ ‘Animals?’ Baba and Feluda spoke together. ‘Yes. Animals from here are often needed in Europe, America or Australia for their zoos, circuses and television. Many Indians are in this business. Bonobihari Babu made a lot of money, I believe. He retired about three years ago and came to Lucknow, together with some of his animals. He bought a house not far from mine and turned it into a zoo.’ ‘How very strange!’ Baba exclaimed. ‘Yes. What is special about this zoo is that all its animals are very... very... how shall I put it...’ ‘Vicious?’ ‘Yes, yes. That’s it. Most vicious.’ I had heard that Lucknow already had a very good zoo. Animals were kept out in the open there, on a man-made island. But what was this about a private zoo? Srivastava continued, ‘He has a wild cat. And a hyena, an alligator and a scorpion. You can hear some of these animals even from a distance. Thieves don’t dare come our way!’ Feluda now asked the question that was trembling on my lips. ‘Is it possible to see this zoo?’ Dhiru Kaka returned at this moment and said, ‘That’s simple. We can go any time. Bonobihari Babu is a most amiable man, not vicious at all!’ Srivastava rose to take his leave. ‘I must go now. There is a patient I need to see.’ We went with him up to the main gate to see him off. He said ‘good-night’ to everyone, thanked Dhiru Kaka again and drove off in his Fiat. Baba and Dhiru Kaka began walking back to the house. Feluda took a cigarette out of his pocket and was about to light it when a black car shot past us and disappeared in the same direction as Dr Srivastava’s car. ‘Standard Herald,’ said Feluda, ‘I missed the number.’ ‘What would you do with the number?’ ‘It looked as though that car was following Dr Srivastava. Can’t you see how dark it is on the other side of the road? That’s where it was waiting. The driver changed gears in front of our gate. Didn’t you notice?’ Feluda turned towards the house. It was at least fifty yards from the gate. I could tell, for I have often run in hundred-yards races in school. The light in the living-room was on. I could clearly see through the window. There were Baba and Dhiru Kaka, going into the room. Then I looked at Feluda. He was staring at the open window. The frown on his face and the way he bit his lip told me that he was worried about something. ‘You know, Topshe—’ I am not really called Topshe. My name is Tapesh, but Feluda has changed it to Topshe. ‘What?’ I asked. ‘I shouldn’t have allowed this to happen.’ ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘That window should have been closed. You can see everything that goes on in that room from the gate. An ordinary bulb might have made a difference; but Dhiru Kaka has got a fluorescent light, which makes it worse.’ ‘So what if you can see everything?’ ‘Can you see your father? ‘Just his head. He’s sitting in a chair.’ ‘Who was sitting in that chair ten minutes ago?’ ‘Dr Srivastava.’ ‘He stood up to show the ring to your father, remember?’ ‘Yes. I don’t forget things so quickly.’ ‘If someone was watching from the gate, he could quite easily have seen him do it.’ ‘Oh no! But why do you think there might have been someone?’ Feluda stooped and picked up a tiny object from the cobbled path. Silently, he handed it to me. It was a cigarette butt. ‘Look at the tip carefully,’ said Feluda. I peered at it closely and in the faint light from the street lamp, saw what I needed to see. ‘Well?’ said Feluda. ‘Charminar,’ I replied, ‘and whoever was smoking it was also chewing a paan. One end is smeared with its juice.’ ‘Very good. Come, let’s go in.’ That night, before going to bed, Feluda asked Dhiru Kaka to show him the ring again. The two of us had a good look at it. I had no idea Feluda knew so much about stones. He turned the ring round and round under a table lamp and kept up a running commentary: ‘These blue stones that you see are called sapphires. The red ones are rubies and the green ones emeralds. The others, I think, are topaz. But the real thing to look at, of course, is this diamond in the middle. Not many would have had the privilege of actually holding such a stone in their hand!’ Then he slipped the ring on to the third finger of his left hand and said, ‘Look, my finger is the same size as Aurangzeb’s!’ True, the ring fitted perfectly. Feluda stared at the glittering stones and said, ‘Who knows, this ring could have had an intriguing past. But you know what, Topshe—I am not interested in its history. Whether it had once belonged to Aurangzeb or Altamash or Akram Khan is not important. We need to know what its future is, and whether—at present—it’s being chased by an admirer. If so, who is he and why is he so desperate to get hold of it?’  Then he removed the ring from his finger, gave it to me and said, ‘Go now, give it back to Dhiru Kaka. And please open those windows when you return.’  Two The next day, we left for the Imambara after an early lunch. Baba and Dhiru Kaka went in the car. Feluda and I both chose to ride in a tonga. It was great fun. I had never ridden in a horse-drawn carriage before. Feluda had, of course. It was his view that a bumpy ride in a tonga was very good for one’s digestion. ‘Dhiru Kaka has such an excellent cook that I can see it’s going to be difficult not to indulge myself,’ he said, ‘so I think an occasional ride in a tonga is a good idea.’ Bumping through new and unfamiliar streets, we finally reached a place that the tongawalla said was called ‘Kaiser Bagh’. ‘See how they’ve mixed Urdu with German?’ Feluda remarked. Most of the well-known Mughal buildings were around Kaiser Bagh. The tongawalla began pointing them out: ‘There’s Badshah Manzil... and that’s Chandiwali Barradari... and that’s called Lakhu Phatak...’ The path led through a huge gate. ‘This is Rumi Darwaza,’ we were told. Beyond the Rumi Darwaza was ‘Machchli Bhawan’, which is where the Burra Imambara stood. I gaped, speechless, at its sheer size. I had no idea a palace could be so massive. We had spotted Dhiru Kaka’s car from our tonga. We paid the tongawalla and went to join the others. Baba and Dhiru Kaka were talking to a tall, middle-aged man. Feluda laid a hand on my shoulder and spoke under his breath: ‘Black Standard Herald!’ True enough, there was a black Standard Herald parked next to Dhiru Kaka’s car. ‘Look at that fresh mark on the mudguard!’ ‘How do you know it’s fresh?’ ‘It’s white paint, can’t you see? That car must have brushed against a newly painted wall or a gate. If the car wasn’t washed this morning, that mark could well have got there last night.’ Dhiru Kaka greeted us, ‘Come and meet Bonobihari Babu, the man with a zoo in his house.’ Surprised, I raised my hands in a namaskaar. Was this indeed that strange man? He was fair, about six feet tall, sported a thin moustache and a pointed beard and wore gold-framed glasses. The whole effect was quite impressive. He thumped me on the back and said, ‘How do you find the capital of Laxman? You do know, don’t you, that in the ancient times Lucknow was known as Laxmanavati?’ His voice matched his personality. ‘Bonobihari Babu was going to Chowk Bazar,’ said Dhiru Kaka, ‘he stopped here only because he saw our car.’ ‘Yes,’ said the gentleman, ‘I usually go out in the afternoon. Most of my mornings and evenings have to be devoted to the animals.’  ‘In fact,’ said Dhiru Kaka, ‘we were planning to descend on you. These two are very interested in seeing your zoo.’ ‘Good. You’re welcome any time. Why don’t you come today? I am always happy to receive visitors, but most people are too scared to step into my house. They think the cages I’ve put my animals in are not as strong as those in a regular zoo. If that was the case, how do you suppose I have survived all these years?’ Everyone laughed at this little joke, with the only exception of Feluda. He leant closer to me and muttered, ‘The man’s reeking with attar. Attempt at hiding the smell of animals, probably.’ The Standard, as it turned out, did not belong to Bonobihari Babu, for I saw him call his driver from a blue Ambassador and give him a couple of letters to post. Then he said to us: ‘You’ll see the Imambara, won’t you? We can go back to my place afterwards.’ ‘Are you coming in with us?’ ‘Yes, why not? I’ve been in it just once before. That was in 1963, two days after I arrived in Lucknow. Time I saw again what those nawabs could get up to.’ We passed through the gate and began walking across a large courtyard towards the main building. ‘Two hundred years ago,’ said Bonobihari Babu, walking by my side, ‘Nawab Asaf-ud-Daula built this palace. He wanted it to outshine all the buildings in Agra and Delhi. So a competition was held among the most well-known designers and architects. The best design was selected—and you can see the final result. It may not be as beautiful as some of the other Mughal buildings, but it is certainly the number one as far as the size of a palace goes. No other palace in the world has such a large audience hall.’ A whole football stadium could fit into this, I thought, staring at the hall. But that wasn’t all. Outside, there was a massive well. The nawab had clearly thought big. The guide told us the well was used for punishing criminals. They were simply thrown into it, and no one ever saw them again. But what took my breath away was the Bhoolbhulaia. Little passages ran in all possible directions. No matter where I went or what corners I turned, it always seemed as though I was back where I’d begun. All passages were identical—walls on both sides, a low ceiling and, in the middle of the wall, a tiny niche. The guide said that when the nawabs played hide-and-seek with their queens, oil lamps used to burn in those little niches. The thought of flickering lamps in those spooky little passages gave me goosepimples. Feluda, I noticed, kept very close to the wall. But I couldn’t understand why he was lagging behind all of us. Then I got totally absorbed in the excitement of going through the winding maze and had forgotten all about him, until I heard Baba exclaim: ‘Oh, where is Felu?’ I turned around quickly. Feluda was nowhere to be seen. My heart missed a beat. However, only a few seconds later, he reappeared after Baba called out to him. ‘If I were to walk so fast,’ he said, ‘I couldn’t possibly get an idea of how the maze is designed.’ The door at the end of the last passage in the maze opened onto the huge roof of the Imambara. It had a wonderful view. One could see practically the whole of Lucknow from it. There were a few other people already on the roof. One of them—a young man—came walking towards Dhiru Kaka, smiling. ‘Mahabir!’ Dhiru Kaka exclaimed, ‘When did you arrive?’  ‘Three days ago. I always return to Lucknow at this time of the year. I’ll go back after Diwali. I have two friends with me, so we’re out sightseeing.’ ‘This is Pyarelal’s son,’ said Dhiru Kaka, ‘he lives in Bombay. He’s an actor.’ I looked at Mahabir. He was staring at Bonobihari Babu as though he had seen him before. ‘Have we met before?’ asked Bonobihari Babu, echoing my thoughts. ‘Yes, I think so,’ Mahabir replied, ‘but for the life of me I can’t remember where.’ ‘I met your father once. But you were not here then.’ ‘Oh. I see,’ said Mahabir, embarrassed, ‘I must have made a mistake. Sorry. Well, I must get back to my friends. Namaskaar.’ He left. He must be younger than Feluda, I thought. A good-looking man, and very well built. Perhaps he was interested in sports. Bonobihari Babu said, ‘It might be a good idea to go to my place now. If you must see the animals, it’s best to do so in daylight. I haven’t yet been able to arrange lights in their cages.’ We paid the guide and went down. A staircase ran from the roof straight to the ground floor. Just as we came out of the gate, I saw Mahabir and his friends get into the black Standard.  Three It was nearly 4 p.m. by the time we reached Bonobihari Babu’s house. It was impossible to tell from outside that the house contained a mini zoo. The animals were all kept in the back garden. ‘This house was built about thirty years before the Mutiny by a wealthy Muslim merchant,’ Bonobihari Babu told us. ‘I bought it from an Englishman.’ The house was obviously quite old. The carvings on the wall were typically Mughal. ‘I hope you don’t mind having coffee. There’s no tea in my house, I am afraid,’ said Bonobihari Babu. I felt quite pleased at this for I wasn’t allowed to have too much coffee at home. But we had to see the animals first. The living-room led to a veranda, behind which sprawled a huge garden. Individual cages for the animals were strewn all over this garden. There was a pond in the middle surrounded by tall iron spikes. An alligator lay in it, sunning itself lazily. Bonobihari Babu said, ‘Ten years ago, when I found it in Munger, it was only a baby. I kept it in a water tank in my house in Calcutta. Then one day I discovered it had slipped out and swallowed a kitten!’ Little pavements ran from the pond to other cages. A strange hissing noise came from one of them. We left the alligator and made our way to it. A large cat, nearly as big as a medium-sized dog, stared at us through bright green eyes. It had a striped body and was really more like a tiger than a cat. ‘This comes from Africa. An Anglo-Indian dealer in animals in Calcutta sold it to me. Even the Alipore zoo doesn’t have a creature like this.’ We moved on from the wild cat to look at a hyena, then a wolf and then an American rattle-snake. I knew it was extremely poisonous. An object like a long, narrow sea-shell was attached to its tail, not different from the kind of shell I had often collected on the beaches of Puri. The snake shook its tail slightly as it moved, dragging the shell on the ground, making a noise like a rattle. In the western states of America, it was this noise that warned people of the movements of a rattle-snake. We saw two other creatures that made my flesh creep. In a glass case was the large and awful blue scorpion of America. In another was a spider, sticking out its black, hairy legs. It was probably as big as my palm, with all my fingers spread out. This, I learnt, was the famous Black Widow spider from Africa. ‘The poisons of the scorpion and this spider are neuro toxins,’ Bonobihari Babu said. ‘What it means is that one sting from either can kill a human being.’ We returned to the living-room and sat down on sofas. Bonobihari Babu himself took a chair and said, ‘Often, in the silence of the night, I can hear the hyena laugh, the cat hiss, the wolf cry and the snake rattle. It makes a rather strange chorus, but it helps me sleep in peace. Where would I find a better battery of bodyguards, tell me? But then, if an outsider did break in, none of these captive animals could really do anything. I have a different arrangement to take care of that. Badshah!’ A massive black hound bounded out of the next room. This was Bonobihari Babu’s real bodyguard. Not only did Badshah protect his master, but he also made sure that no harm came to the animals in the zoo. Feluda was sitting next to me. ‘Labrador hound,’ he said softly, ‘the same breed as the Hound of the Baskervilles!’ Baba had been silent throughout. Now he said, ‘Tell me, do you really enjoy living with these wild animals in your house?’ Bonobihari Babu took out a pipe and began filling it. ‘Why not?’ he replied. ‘What’s there to be afraid of? There was a time when I used to go hunting regularly, and my aim was perfect. But I never killed anything except wild animals. Once—only once—did I kill a deer. I was simply showing off to an American friend, trying to prove how good my aim was, and the deer was about a hundred-and- fifty yards away. I felt such bitter remorse afterwards that I had to give up hunting altogether. But animals had become a part of my life. So I went into the business of exporting some of them. Then, when I retired, having a zoo in my house seemed only natural. The good thing about living with these animals is that they don’t pretend to be anything other than what they are—vicious and venomous. But look at man! One who appears to be totally good and honest may turn out to be a first-rate criminal. You can’t really trust even a close friend these days, can you? So I’ve decided to spend the rest of my life in the company of animals. I don’t meddle in other people’s affairs, you see. I keep to myself. So what others think or say about my lifestyle doesn’t matter to me at all. But I’ve been told that my little zoo has been responsible for keeping burglars at bay. If that is true, I must say I’ve unwittingly done some good to the whole community.’ This last remark made me first look at Dhiru Kaka, and then at Feluda. Could it be that Bonobihari Babu didn’t know about the attempted theft at Dr Srivastava’s house? I didn’t have to wait long to get an answer. Dr Srivastava himself arrived almost as soon as Bonobihari Babu’s bearer appeared with the coffee and some sweets. After greeting everyone, Dr Srivastava said to Dhiru Kaka, ‘A boy fell from a tree and broke his arm, not very far from where you live. I went to your house after seeing him. Your bearer told me you hadn’t returned. So I came straight here.’ Dhiru Kaka gave Dr Srivastava a reassuring look, to indicate that his ring was safe. Srivastava appeared to know Bonobihari Babu quite well. Perhaps friendliness among neighbours ran more easily in small towns. ‘Bonobihari Babu,’ he said jokingly, ‘your watchmen are getting slack.’ Bonobihari Babu seemed taken aback. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘A thief broke into my house the day before yesterday, and none of your animals made a noise.’ ‘What? A thief? In your house? When?’ ‘At about 3 a.m. No, he didn’t actually take anything. I woke suddenly, so he ran away.’ ‘Even so, I must say he must have been an expert to have escaped Badshah’s attention. Why, your house can’t be more than a couple of hundred yards from mine! Whoever it was must have walked past my compound. There is no other way!’ ‘Never mind,’ said Srivastava, ‘I just wanted you to know what had happened.’ The sweets were still lying on our plates. ‘Have some of these,’ Bonobihari Babu invited, ‘these are called Sandile ka laddoo and gulabi reori. These and bhoona pera—all three are a speciality of Lucknow.’ I wasn’t too fond of sweets, so I paid little attention to these words and began watching Bonobihari Babu closely. He seemed a little thoughtful. Feluda, however, was busy stuffing himself. Having eaten two laddoos already, he stretched out a hand and pretended to wave a fly away from my coffee-cup. Before I knew it, he had picked up a laddoo from my plate with supreme nonchalance. Rather unexpectedly, at this point Bonobihari Babu turned to Srivastava and asked, ‘Hope you still have the Emperor ’s ring?’ Dr Srivastava choked. Then, pulling himself together with an effort, he covered the sudden fit of coughing with a small laugh and said, ‘Good God—you haven’t forgotten!’ Bonobihari Babu blew out smoke from his pipe. ‘How could I forget? Mind you, I’m not really interested in such things. But you don’t often get to see something so remarkable, do you?’ ‘Oh, the ring’s quite safe,’ said Dr Srivastava, ‘I am aware of its value.’ Bonobihari Babu stood up. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘it’s time to feed my cat.’ We took our cue and rose with him to take our leave. On our way out we saw a man carry a bag into the house. A powerful man, no doubt. His muscles were bulging under his shirt. His name was Ganesh Guha, we learnt. He had apparently been with Bonobihari Babu for a long time, right from the days of animal exporting. He now looked after the zoo. ‘I couldn’t have managed without Ganesh,’ Bonobihari Babu told us. ‘That man knows no fear. Once the wild cat clawed him. He stayed on, despite that.’ ‘It was really a pleasure to have you,’ he continued, as we got into our car, ‘do come again. You’re going to be in Lucknow for some time, aren’t you?’ ‘Yes,’ said Baba, ‘but we might go to Haridwar for a few days.’ ‘I see. Someone told me of a twelve-foot python that’s just been found near Laxmanjhoola. As a matter of fact, I was toying with the idea of going there myself.’ We dropped Dr Srivastava at his house. Just as he got out of the car, a sudden strange, eerie howl coming from Bonobihari Babu’s garden startled us all. Only Feluda yawned and said, ‘Hyena.’ Heavens—so this was the famous laugh of a hyena? It chilled my blood. ‘Yes, that noise often gave me the creeps,’ Dr Srivastava said through the window, ‘but now I’ve got used to it.’ ‘You didn’t have any further problems last night, did you?’ Dhiru Kaka asked. ‘No, no. Nothing,’ Dr Srivastava laughed. It was nearly dark by the time we got home. From somewhere in the distance came the sound of drumbeats. ‘Preparations for Ram Lila,’ Dhiru Kaka explained. ‘What is Ram Lila?’  ‘Oh, it’s a north Indian performance held during Dussehra. The whole story of the Ramayana is staged as a play. It ends with Ram and Lakshman galloping across in a chariot and