What happened was a terrible accident. But, before I speak about it, there’s something else I must mention. There was a small report in the newspaper the next day, which confirmed Uncle Sidhu’s suspicions: The Headless Yakshi The head from the statue of a yakshi has been stolen from the wall of the Raja-Rani temple in Bhubaneshwar. This temple serves as one of the best examples of old Indian architecture. The chowkidar of the temple is said to be missing. The Archaeological Department of Orissa has asked for a police investigation. I read this report aloud, and asked, ‘Would that mean the chowkidar is the thief?’ Feluda finished squeezing out toothpaste from a tube of Forhans and placed it carefully on his toothbrush. Then he said, ‘No, I don’t think stealing the head was just the chowkidar’s idea. A poor man like him would not have the nerve. Someone else is responsible, someone big enough and strong enough to think he is never going to be caught. Presumably, he—or they—simply paid the chowkidar to get him out of the way for a few days.’ Uncle Sidhu must have seen the report too. He would probably turn up at our house again to tell us proudly that he was right. He did arrive, but not before half past ten. Today being Thursday, our area had been hit by its regular power cut since nine o’clock. Feluda and I were sitting in our living room, staring occasionally at the overcast sky, when someone knocked loudly at the door. Uncle Sidhu rushed in a minute later, demanding a cup of tea once more. Feluda began talking of the headless yakshi, but was told to shut up. ‘That’s stale news, young man,’ Uncle Sidhu barked. ‘Did you hear the last news bulletin?’ ‘No, I’m afraid not. Our radio is not working. Today is . . .’ ‘I know, it’s Thursday, and you’ve got a long power cut. That is why, Felu, I keep asking you to buy a transistor. Anyway, I came as soon as I heard. You’ll never believe this. That flight to Kathmandu crashed, not far from Calcutta. It took off at seven-thirty, but crashed only fifteen minutes later. There was a storm, so perhaps it was trying to come back. There were fifty-eight passengers. All of them died, including Saul Silverstein. Yes, his name was mentioned on the radio.’ For a few moments, neither of us could speak. Then Feluda said, ‘Where did it crash? Did they mention the place?’ ‘Yes, near a village called Sidikpur, on the way to Hasnabad. Felu, I had been praying very hard for that statue not to leave the country. Who knew my prayer would be answered through such a terrible tragedy?’ Feluda glanced at his watch. Was he thinking of going to Sidikpur?

Uncle Sidhu looked at him sharply. ‘I know what you’re thinking. There must have been an explosion and everything the plane contained must have been scattered over miles. Suppose, among the belongings of the passengers, there is—?’ Feluda decided in two minutes that he’d take a taxi and go to Sidikpur to look for the head of the yakshi. The crash had occurred three hours ago. It would take us an hour and a half to get there. By this time, the police and the fire brigade would have got there and started their investigation. No one could tell whether we’d succeed in our mission, but we could not miss this chance to retrieve what was lost. ‘Those paintings I sold to Nagarmal fetched me a tidy little sum,’ Uncle Sidhu told Feluda. ‘I would like to give you some of it. After all, you are going to get involved only because of me, aren’t you?’ ‘No,’ Feluda replied firmly. ‘It is true that you gave me all the details. But, believe me, I wouldn’t have taken any action if I didn’t feel strongly about it myself. I have thought a great deal about this, and—like you—I have come to the conclusion that those who think they can sell our ancient heritage to fill their own pockets should be caught and punished severely.’ ‘Bravo!’ Uncle Sidhu beamed. ‘Please remember one thing, Felu. Even if you don’t need any money, you may need information on art and sculpture. I can always help you with that.’ ‘Yes, I know. Thank you.’ We decided that if we could find what we were looking for, we would take it straight to the office of the Archaeological Survey of India. The thief might still be at large, but at least the stolen object would go back to the authorities. We quickly got ready, and got into a yellow taxi. It was 10.55 when we set off. ‘I’ve no idea how long this is going to take,’ Feluda said. ‘We can stop for lunch at a dhaba on Jessore Road on our way back.’ This pleased me no end. The food in dhabas—which were usually frequented by lorry drivers— was always delicious. Roti, daal, meat curry . . . my mouth began to water. Feluda could eat anything anywhere. I tried to follow his example. There was a shower as soon as we left the main city and reached VIP Road. But the sun came out as we got close to Barasat. Hasnabad was forty miles from Calcutta. ‘If the road wasn’t wet and slippery, I could have got there in an hour,’ said our driver. ‘There’s been a plane crash there, sir, did you know? I heard about it on the radio.’ On being told that that was where we were going, he became very excited. ‘Why, sir, was any of your relatives in that plane?’ he asked. ‘No, no.’ Feluda could hardly tell him the whole story, but his curiosity was aroused and he went on asking questions. ‘I believe everything’s been reduced to ashes. What will you get to see, anyway?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Are you a reporter?’ ‘I . . . well, I