O the words “Mama-Bhagney” mean anything to you?’ Feluda asked Jatayu. I knew what he meant, hut looked curiously at Lalmohan Babu to hear his reply. ‘Uncle and nephew?’ he asked. ‘No, a mere translation of the words won’t do. We all know “mama” means uncle and “bhagney” is nephew. What do the words remind you of?’ ‘To be honest, Felu Babu I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. Your questions always startle me. You tell me what you mean.’ ‘Have you seen the film Abhijaan?’ ‘Yes, but that was years ago. Why does that—oh, yes, yes!’ Jatayu’s eyes lit up. ‘Now I do remember. Rocks, aren’t they? There is a small, flat rock balanced on top of a bigger rock. It seems as though one little push would make the smaller one jiggle and dance. It’s Uncle giving his nephew a piggy-back, isn’t it?’ ‘Right. That’s what the locals say. But can you remember which district it’s in?’ ‘No.’ ‘It’s in Birbhum. I have never been there. Have you?’ ‘No, sir.’ ‘Shameful, isn’t it? You are a writer, Lalmohan Babu. Never mind what you write, or who reads your books. You ought to have visited the area in which Tagore spent so many years of his life.’ ‘The thing is, you see, I have often wanted to go there, but somehow couldn’t manage it. Besides, how can Tagore possibly provide any inspiration to someone who writes stuff like The Sahara Shivers?’ ‘Yes, but Birbhum isn’t famous only because of Santiniketan. There are the hot springs of Bakreshwar, there’s Kenduli where the poet Jaydev was born, there’s Tarapeeth where the famous tantrik Bama Khepa used to live, there’s Dubrajpur which has those funny rocks we were just talking about, apart from endless temples made of terracotta.’ ‘Terracotta? What’s that?’ Feluda frowned. Lalmohan Babu’s ignorance often turned Feluda into a schoolteacher. ‘It’s a mixture of Latin and Italian,’ he said. ‘Terra is a word meaning soil, and cotta is burnt. It refers to statues and figures made with clay and sand, and baked in fire, like bricks. There are many temples in Bengal that have work done in terracotta, but the best and the most beautiful are in Birbhum. If you didn’t know about these, Lalmohan Babu, I’m afraid there’s very little that you’ve learnt about your own state.’ ‘Yes, I see that now. Forgive me, Felu Babu. Kindly excuse my ignorance.’

‘And yet, a European professor has done such a lot of research in this subject. It’s really most impressive. I assume you don’t read anything but the headlines in newspapers, so obviously you’ve missed the article published in today’s Statesman. The name of this professor has been mentioned in this article. He was called David McCutcheon.’ ‘Which article do you mean?’ ‘“Robertson’s Ruby”.’ ‘Right, right! I did see it, and the colour photograph of the ruby, too. But just as I had begun to read it, you see, my dhobi turned up, and then I forgot all about it.’ ‘The writer of that article, Peter Robertson, is visiting India at present. He appears to be very interested in India and Indians. McCutcheon’s work and what he wrote about the temples of Birbhum made Robertson want to see them. He wants to go to Santiniketan, too.’ ‘I see. But what’s this about a ruby?’ ‘There’s a story behind it An ancestor of Peter Robertson called Patrick had fought in the mutiny against the sepoys. Although he was in the Bengal regiment, he happened to be in Lucknow when the mutiny ended and the British won. He was only twenty-six at the time. He joined some of the other British officers who barged into the palace of a nawab and looted whatever they could lay their hands on. Robertson found a huge ruby which he brought back to England with him. In time, it became a family heirloom for the Robertsons, and people began to refer to it as “Robertson’s Ruby”. Only recently, someone found a diary Patrick Robertson had kept in his old age. No one had been aware of its existence so far. In it, he apparently expressed deep regret at what he had done as a young man, and said that his soul would find ultimate peace only if someone from his family went back to India and returned the ruby to where it had come from. Peter Robertson has brought it with him. He’ll give it to an Indian museum before he returns to England.’ Lalmohan Babu remained silent for a few minutes when Feluda finished his story. Then he said, ‘Kenduli has a big mela every winter, doesn’t it?’ ‘Yes. A large number of hauls come to it.’ ‘When does it start?’ ‘As a matter of fact, it has started already this year.’ ‘I see. Which is the best way to go?’ ‘Do you really want to go to Birbhum? ‘Very much so.’ ‘Well, then, I suggest you ask your driver to take your car straight to Bolpur. We’ll go the same day by the Santiniketan Express. We should reach Bolpur in less than three hours. This train stops only at Burdwan. We need to book rooms for ourselves at the tourist lodge.’ ‘Why should we go by train?’ ‘Because this train is different from all the others. It has a first class compartment called the Lounge Car. It’s huge, like the ones they had years and years ago, furnished with settees, tables and chairs. Travelling in it will be an experience none of us should miss.’ ‘Oh, I quite agree. Perhaps I ought to inform Shatadal.’ ‘Who is Shatadal?’

‘Shatadal Sen. We were together in school. Now he lives in Santiniketan, a professor of history in Vishwa Bharati. He was a brilliant student. I could never beat him.’ ‘You mean you were a brilliant student yourself?’ ‘Why, is that so difficult to believe about a man who is the most popular writer of thrillers in Bengal?’ ‘Well, your present IQ—’ Feluda broke off,