ook,’ said Lalmohan Babu, ‘I have been with you since your visit to Jaisalmer and the golden fortress there, but before that you had been to Lucknow and Gangtok, hadn’t you? I didn’t know you then, so I have not had the chance to see these two places. I am particularly interested in Lucknow. It’s got so much history. Why don’t we go back there in the Puja holidays this year?’ The idea appealed to both of us. Feluda loved Lucknow. I was quite young the last time we had been there, when Feluda had solved the mystery of the stolen diamond ring that had once belonged to Aurangzeb. If we went back to Lucknow, I knew I’d enjoy seeing it more than I had done the last time. It didn’t take Feluda long to make up his mind. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I must admit any mention of Lucknow makes me feel quite excited. It’s a beautiful place. How many cities in the country have a river flowing through it, tell me? Besides, it still hasn’t lost the old Mughal atmosphere. You can find signs of life from the time of the nawabs, and of course the mutiny of 1857. You’re right, Lalmohan Babu. I had been wondering where we might go this year. Let’s go back to Lucknow.’ Feluda was earning pretty well these days. He was easily the best known among all the private investigators in Calcutta. He usually got seven or eight cases every month, and he charged two thousand for each. Even so, it wasn’t possible to get anywhere near Lalmohan Babu. He had once told us that his annual income was in excess of three hundred thousand. He published two new books every year, and each ran into several editions. We completed all the arrangements without further ado. Feluda bought three first-class tickets on the Doon Express. It would leave Howrah at 9 p.m., reaching Lucknow at half past six in the morning. He also made our hotel bookings at the Clarks Avadh. ‘We couldn’t really enjoy ourselves if we didn’t stay somewhere comfortable,’ he said. ‘What’s Avadh?’ Lalmohan Babu wanted to know. ‘Avadh is the Urdu name for Ayodhya.’ ‘You mean Lucknow is in Ayodhya?’ ‘Yes, sir. Didn’t you know that? The name “Lucknow” has come from “Laxman”.’ ‘Laxman? You mean, as in the Ramayana?’ ‘Right. Clarks Avadh is the best hotel in Lucknow. The river Gomti flows by it.’ ‘Lovely. Avadh-on-the-Gomti, one might call it. Is it going to be cold?’ ‘Take a woollen pullover. The evenings may well be cool. Or a warm waistcoat will do, depending on whether you wish to wear western clothes, or dress as a traditional Indian.’ ‘I think I’ll take both.’ ‘Good.’ ‘A lot of Bengalis live in Lucknow, don’t they?’

‘Oh yes. Some families have been there for several generations. There’s a Bengali Club where they have Durga Puja every year. Who knows, you may even find people who have read your books!’ ‘You think so? Should I take a few copies of my latest, Shaken in Shanghai?’ ‘Take a dozen. Why stop at only a few?’ We left on the fifth of October, which was a Saturday. The station was absolutely packed. We were shown into our compartment by a railway official who happened to recognize Feluda. We had been given a lower and two upper berths in a four-berth section. We thanked the official and took our places. The fourth berth was already occupied by a middle-aged man, sporting a thin moustache. He moved aside to make room for us. We didn’t have much luggage. Feluda and I had packed our clothes in one suitcase, and Lalmohan Babu had brought his famous red leather case. A friend of his had brought it specially for him, all the way from Japan. ‘How far are you going?’ asked our fellow traveller when we were all seated. ‘Lucknow,’ Lalmohan Babu replied. ‘What about you?’ ‘I am also going to Lucknow. That’s where I live. My family has been settled in Lucknow for years —we go back three generations. Are you on holiday?’ ‘Yes.’ Feluda spoke this time: ‘I can see three letters on your suitcase: H J B. These are rather unusual initials. Would you mind if I asked your name?’ ‘Not at all. My name is Jayant Biswas. The “H” stands for Hector. I am a Christian. Everyone in my family has a Christian name.’ ‘Thank you. Please allow us to introduce ourselves. I am Pradosh Mitter, this is my cousin Tapesh and that’s my friend, Lalmohan Ganguli.’ ‘Pleased to meet you. You may have heard of my mother-in-law. She used to be an actress in silent films, and was quite well known.’ ‘What was her name?’ ‘Shakuntala Devi.’ ‘Good heavens!’ Lalmohan Babu exclaimed. ‘She was a major star in her time. One of my neighbours has old issues of the Bioscope magazine. He used to be a regular film buff in his youth. I’ve seen Shakuntala Devi’s pictures in those old magazines, and read articles on her. She wasn’t a Bengali, was she?’ ‘No, she was an Anglo-Indian. Her real name was Virginia Reynolds. Her father, Thomas Reynolds, was in the army. He could speak fluent Urdu. He married a Muslim singer. Virginia was their daughter.’ ‘Highly interesting,’ Lalmohan Babu remarked, ‘but she didn’t work in a single talkie, did she?’ ‘No. She married a Bengali Christian before talkies began to be made in India. Then, when she was expecting her first child, she retired from films. Her first two children were girls, the third was a boy. I married her second daughter in 1960. My wife’s sister married a Goan. Their brother has remained a bachelor.’ Feluda spoke again: ‘Didn’t a maharaja give Shakuntala Devi a valuable necklace at one time?’ ‘Yes, that’s right. It was the Maharaja of Mysore. He was so moved by Shakuntala’s acting that he gave her that necklace. Even in those days, it was worth a hundred thousand rupees.