Around two o’clock, we walked into the Copper Chimney restaurant in Worli to have lunch with Pulak Ghoshal and Tribhuvan Gupte, the dialogue writer. The place was packed, but Mr Ghoshal had reserved a table for us. ‘I say, Pulak,’ Lalmohan babu asked, ‘what is the name of your film?’ I, too, had wondered about the name, but hadn’t found the chance to ask Mr Ghoshal, All I knew for sure was that the film was not going to be called The Bandits of Bombay. ‘You cannot imagine, Laluda,’ said Mr Ghoshal, ‘the trouble we’ve had over the name. Whatever we chose had either already been used, or registered by some other party. You can ask Gupteji here how many sleepless nights he’s spent, puzzling over an appropriate name. Only three days ago— suddenly, out of the blue—it came. A high-voltage spark!’ ‘High-voltage spark? Your film is called A High-Voltage Spark ?’ Lalmohan babu asked in a low- voltage voice. Mr Ghoshal burst out laughing, making those sitting at neighbouring tables turn their heads and stare. ‘Are you mad, Laluda? You think a name like that would work? No, I was talking about a sudden flash of inspiration, a brain wave. It’s Jet Bahadur.’ ‘Eh?’ ‘Jet Bahadur. You’ll be able to see hoardings go up all over the city, even before you leave. You couldn’t find a better name for your story. Just think. Action, speed, thrill. . . you’ll find all three in the word “jet”. Plus you’ve got “bahadur”. We’ve sold the film—on all circuits—on the strength of that name and casting alone!’ Lalmohan babu had started to smile, but the joy on his face faded a little as he heard Mr Ghoshal’s explanation. Perhaps he was thinking: name and casting? Did only those things matter? Did no one appreciate the story? ‘Have you seen any of my previous films?’ asked Mr Ghoshal. ‘Teerandaj is running at the Lotus. You could catch the evening show today. I will tell the manager, he will keep three tickets for you in the Royal Circle. It’s a good film, it did a silver jubilee.’ None of us had seen any of his films. Lalmohan babu was naturally curious, so we accepted Mr Ghoshal’s offer. If one didn’t have friends in Bombay, the evenings sometimes became long and boring. The car would remain with us. It would take us to the Lotus whenever required. While we were eating, one of the men from the restaurant came and said something to Mr Ghoshal. Judging by the warm smile on every waiter’s face since we arrived, Mr Ghoshal was a frequent visitor here. Clearly, in a place like Bombay, a successful director was a welcome figure. Mr Ghoshal turned quickly to Lalmohan babu. ‘You’re wanted on the telephone, Laluda.’

Lalmohan babu had justed lifted a spoonful of pulao. Thank goodness he hadn’t yet put it in his mouth. If he had, he’d certainly have choked. As it happened, when he gave a start, a few grains of rice jumped out of the spoon and landed on the tablecloth; but there was no further damage. ‘Mr Gore wants to speak to you,’ Mr Ghoshal explained, ‘He may have some good news for you.’ Lalmohan babu left, and returned a couple of minutes later. ‘Mr Gore asked me to go to his house at four o’clock,’ he told us, picking up his knife and fork, ‘Looks like I’m about to come into some money—heh heh!’ That meant ten thousand rupees would make their way to Lalmohan babu’s pocket by the evening. ‘You’re buying us lunch tomorrow!’ Feluda told him, ‘And a copper chimney won’t do, let me tell you. We should look for a golden one!’ By the time we finished our meal of rumali roti, pulao, nargisi kofta and kulfi, and left the restaurant, it was a quarter to three. Mr Ghoshal and Mr Gupte returned to the studio. Some of the dialogue still remained to be written. Writing the dialogue always took time, Mr Ghoshal informed us, as every word had to shine and sparkle. Mr Gupte simply smiled, without removing the cigar from his mouth. I noticed that although he wrote all the dialogue in a film, he spoke very little himself. We bought some paan and climbed back into the car. ‘Shalimar?’ asked our driver. ‘It would be silly,’ Feluda remarked, ‘to return to Calcutta without having seen the Gateway to India. Please take us to the Taj Mahal Hotel.’ ‘Very well, sir,’ the driver replied. He could tell we had all the time in the world, and were interested only in seeing the place. So he drove around the city and showed us Victoria Terminus, Flora Fountain, the television station and the Prince of Wales Museum, before reaching the Gateway to India at around half past three. We got out of the car. Behind the Gateway was the Arabian Sea. I counted eleven ships in it, big and small. The road here was very wide. To the left, facing the Gateway, was a statue of Shivaji, astride his horse. To our left was the world-famous Taj Mahal Hotel. We could hardly leave without seeing it from inside. From the outside it was just awesome. My head began reeling as we stepped into the cool lobby. Where had I come? I had never seen so many people from so many different communities. Arabs seemed to outnumber other foreign visitors. But why? When I asked Feluda, he said it was because they could not travel to Beirut. So they had all come to Bombay to have a holiday. Thanks to the oil in their country, money was not a problem for them. We roamed in the lobby for about five minutes before returning to the car. By the time we finally reached Shivaji Castle and were pressing the button for the lift, it was two minutes past four. We emerged on the twelfth floor. There were three doors on different sides. The one