t was at Lalmohan Babu’s insistence that we finally went to see a ‘jatra’. It was called Surya Toran and was staged by the well-known group, Bharat Opera. At the end of it, we had to admit it was a good show. The story and the acting bordered on melodrama, but in spite of that, the performers managed to hold the attention of the audience throughout. Obviously, they were all experienced actors, and the writer knew what would interest the public. ‘It was a bit like the stories I write, wasn’t it?’ Lalmohan Babu remarked as we came out. If you were to look at the whole thing critically, you could probably find a thousand flaws in it. Yet, it kept you entertained for hours. Wouldn’t you agree, Felu Babu?’ We both did. What Lalmohan Babu wrote inevitably lacked depth and serious thought. But he was amazingly popular among his readers. Every new book he wrote remained on the best-seller list for at least three months. He published only two books every year, one in April and the other in October. Of late, the factual errors in his books had grown minimal, since in addition to having his manuscripts corrected by Feluda, he had started to consult various encyclopaedias. The reason why I mentioned Surya Toran is that the case I am going to write about was related to a man who used to work for Bharat Opera. His name was Indranarayan Acharya. It was he who had written the play, as well as the songs. He had also joined the orchestra and played the violin, we were told. A gifted man, no doubt. The problems that arose involving him eventually turned out to be so very complex that Feluda had to use each of his grey cells to unravel the tangled web. Ten days after we had been to see Surya Toran, Mr Acharya himself rang us and made an appointment with Feluda. Feluda asked him to come the following Sunday at ten o’clock in the morning. By the time he arrived, we had been joined by Jatayu. Mr Acharya turned out to be slightly taller than most men and was clean-shaven. A man in his early forties, his hair had only just started to turn grey. Feluda told him how much we had enjoyed seeing his play, and said, ‘You are obviously what’s known as a man of many parts. How did you manage to learn so many different things?’ Mr Acharya laughed lightly, ‘The story of my life is somewhat strange, Mr Mitter. You’ll realize how odd my connection with the world of jatras is when I tell you about my family. Have you ever heard of the Acharyas of Bosepukur?’ ‘Yes, yes. It’s a well known family. Wasn’t Kandarpanarayan Acharya one of your ancestors? The one who went to England and adopted a lifestyle as lavish as that of Prince Dwarkanath Tagore?’ ‘Yes, that’s right. Kandarpanarayan was my great-grandfather. He went to England in 1875. He had many interests, music being one of them. The violin I play was bought by him. I have two brothers, Devnarayan and Harinarayan. Both are older.

‘Harinarayan is interested in music like me, but he doesn’t play any instrument. He’s more interested in western classical music. All he ever plays are records and cassettes. He’s a chartered accountant by profession. Devnarayan is a businessman. Our father, Keertinarayan, is still alive. He is seventy-nine. He was a barrister, though now of course he’s retired. So, you see, coming from such a background, normally a man like myself wouldn’t get involved with jatras. But I’ve had a flair for writing and a passion for music ever since I was a child. I did go to college, but didn’t wait to finish my graduation. A special tutor taught me to play the violin. And I had already begun writing songs. So I went straight to my father and told him I wanted to join a group of artistes who worked together to stage jatras. Father has a certain weakness for me, possibly because I am his youngest. He agreed. That’s how I began. Now I earn as much as my other brothers. I’m sure you know how well-paid jatra workers are.’ ‘Oh yes!’ Lalmohan Babu exclaimed. ‘The leading actors are paid something like twenty thousand rupees every month.’ ‘I do not wish to sound presumptuous,’ Mr Acharya went on, ‘but if Bharat Opera is well-known today, it is chiefly because of contributions I have made. My plays, my songs and my violin are the biggest attractions . . . and this is where the problem lies.’ He stopped as Srinath came in with the tea. ‘Are you talking of pressure from rival groups?’ Feluda asked, lifting his cup. ‘Yes, you’re right. Many other groups have been making rather tempting offers for quite a long time. I have been in two minds—after all, one can’t always ignore a good offer, can one? But, on the other hand, I’ve been with Bharat Opera for seventeen years. They’ve looked after me all this while and treated me with utmost respect. I cannot let them down. So I’ve had to play one group against another, simply to give myself more time to think things over. But . . . matters have now come to a head, which is why I’ve come to you today. An attempt was made three days ago to cripple Bharat Opera—for good—by removing me.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘In simple English, by murdering me.’ ‘What makes you say that?’ ‘I was attacked physically. My shoulder still hurts.’ ‘Where were you when you were attacked?’ ‘Our office is in Muhammad Shafi Lane, which is just off Beadon Street. That is where rehearsals are held. The lane is almost always dark, and quiet. When I stepped into the lane that evening, there was a power cut, making matters worse. As I made my way to the office, someone sprang up and hit me with a