‘Unbelievable! This is really incredible, isn’t it?’ Lalmohan Babu whispered. I found myself in full agreement. All that stretched before our eyes was an ocean of rocks. Stones and boulders of various shapes and sizes lay scattered on the ground, covering a total area of at least one square mile. Some lay flat, others on their side. Some were huge—as high as three-storeyed buildings—but others were relatively small. A few had large cracks running right across, possibly the result of an earthquake hundreds of years ago. It might have been a scene from prehistoric times. If a dinosaur had peeped out from behind a boulder, I would not have been surprised. This was one of the sights Dubrajpur was famous for. We had already seen the well-known pair called ‘Mama-Bhagney’. Soon after leaving Ganesh Dandania’s house, Feluda had suggested we saw these famous rocks. Inspector Chaubey, who had accompanied us, agreed that it was a good idea. Peter seemed absolutely overwhelmed. ‘Fantastic! Fantastic!’ I heard him mutter more than once. Tom, too, seemed a lot happier. I saw him smile for the first time, possibly because he had found a new subject for photography. Right now, he was sitting atop a huge rock, running a fine comb through his beard. How he had got there, I could not tell. ‘Tell me,’ said Peter, ‘how come there are so many stones lying around at this particular spot, when there are no mountains or hills nearby? Isn’t there a story or a legend behind this?’ Before Feluda could say anything, Lalmohan Babu piped up most unexpectedly. ‘Do you know of the god Hanuman?’ he asked. ‘I have heard of him,’ Peter said, smiling. ‘Well, when Hanuman was flying through the air with Mount Gandhamadan on his head, some rocks from the mountain fell here in Dubrajpur.’ ‘How interesting!’ Peter nodded. Feluda gave Jatayu a sidelong glance and said under his breath, ‘You just made that up, didn’t you?’ ‘No, sir!’ Jatayu protested loudly. ‘I heard that story from the manager of the lodge this morning. Everyone in this region believes in it. Why should I have made it up?’ ‘Because, my friend, the story I read in my guide book is different. According to it, it was Ram who had dropped these stones here accidentally, when he was gathering stones to build a bridge across the ocean.’ ‘I don’t care what you’ve read, Felu Babu! I think my story is much better.’ Lalmohan Babu walked away in a huff. By this time, Tom had climbed down from his rock and joined us. Now he was looking a little bored. Perhaps the stones and rocks weren’t photogenic enough for him. His real chance came a few minutes later when we made our way to an old and well-known Kali

temple. This was probably the first time he was seeing Hindu devotees having a puja in a temple. His camera didn’t stop clicking. This seemed to upset Inspector Chaubey. ‘Look, Mr Maxwell,’ he said, ‘people here don’t like to see photographs taken of religious rituals. You’ll have to be a little more discreet.’ ‘Why?’ Tom shot back angrily. ‘I am not doing anything illegal or unethical. I am merely taking photos of a public event, openly in front of everyone.’ ‘Yes, but people can sometimes be extremely sensitive. A foreigner may well find our customs and traditions strange and difficult to accept. Some may object to his taking these photos back home, misrepresenting our values and ideas.’ Maxwell started to protest again, but this time Peter looked at him sternly, which made him shut up. By the time we finished seeing all the sights of Dubrajpur, we were all quite thirsty. So we found a roadside tea stall and sat down at two of the long benches that were placed outside. Inspector Chaubey sat between Feluda and me. ‘I realized who you were the minute I heard your name,’ I heard him say to Feluda, ‘but I didn’t say anything since I thought you might not wish to reveal your profession to all and sundry.’ ‘You were absolutely right.’ ‘Are you here on holiday?’ ‘Yes, purely.’ ‘I see.’ ‘You are from Bihar, aren’t you?’ ‘Yes. But the last five generations of my family had lived here in Birbhum. By the way, has that boy called Maxwell got an Indian connection?’ ‘Yes. His great-great-grandfather used to own an indigo factory here. I think his name was Reginald Maxwell.’ ‘I see. My own grandfather used to talk about a Mr Maxwell, who was also a factory owner. Although he had lived many years ago, his name had not been forgotten. From what little I have seen of Tom Maxwell, it is obvious that this other Maxwell was his ancestor.’ ‘How is it obvious?’ ‘Reginald Maxwell hated Indians. He was unbelievably cruel to his workers. Tom Maxwell seems to have inherited his arrogance. But Mr Robertson seems just the opposite. He’s clearly genuinely fond of this country.’ Feluda made no reply. We had finished our tea. Peter and Tom joined us, and we set off for Hetampur, which was famous for its terracotta temples. The carvings on these enthralled Peter, particularly that of a European lady on a temple wall. It was two hundred years old, we were told. Tom wasn’t interested in temples or carvings. He began taking photos of a child being given a bath by its mother at a tubewell. Just before getting back into our car to return to the tourist lodge, Feluda turned to Inspector Chaubey to bid him goodbye. ‘You seemed to know Dandania pretty well,’ he said. ‘What sort of a man is he?’

‘Very clever. I know him, but I certainly do not regard him as a friend. He tries to keep himself in my good books. He’s involved in a lot of shady dealings, so he thinks if he knows someone in the police it might help. I go to his house occasionally, but I keep my eyes