Lalmohan babu simply toyed with his food that evening, saying he wasn’t hungry at all. Feluda said it didn’t matter as Lalmohan babu had eaten the most that afternoon at the Copper Chimney. The previous night, we had all gone out together after dinner to buy paan. Tonight, Lalmohan babu refused to leave the hotel. ‘Who wants to go out in the crowded streets? I bet Sanyal’s men are watching the hotel. One of them will plunge his knife straight into me, if I am seen.’ In the end, Feluda went out alone. Lalmohan babu stayed put in our room with me, muttering constantly, ‘Why on earth did I have to accept that packet?’ After a while, he began blaming something else for his present predicament: ‘Why did I have to write a story for a Hindi film?’ Eventually, I heard him say, ‘Why the hell did I ever start writing crime thrillers?’ Feluda returned in a few minutes and offered us the paan he’d bought. ‘Will you be all right sleeping alone in your room?’ he asked Lalmohan babu, who made no reply. ‘Look,’ Feluda said reassuringly, ‘there’s a tiny cubby-hole at the end of the passage. You’ve seen it, haven’t you? A bell boy remains in that room, all the time. Besides, some of the hotel staff are on duty all night. This is not Shivaji Castle.’ A mention of Shivaji Castle made Lalmohan babu shiver once more. However, around ten o’clock he mustered enough courage to wish us good-night and return to his room. I went to bed soon after he left. Pulak Ghoshal’s film had caused me a great deal of strain—much more than travelling all over the city. Feluda, I knew, would remain awake. His notebook was lying on a bedside table. He had made several entries throughout the day. Perhaps now he’d make some more. In the past, I had tried, at times, to make a note of the exact moment when I fell asleep. But I had failed every time. Tonight was no different. I have no idea when I fell asleep, but do remember the moment when I woke. Someone was banging on the door, and pressing the buzzer repeatedly. I sat up in bed. Feluda’s bedside lamp was still on; my watch showed quarter to one. Feluda rose and opened the door. Lalmohan babu tumbled into the room. He was panting, but did not appear to be frightened. When he spoke, his words were curious, but nothing that might cause alarm. ‘A scandal!’ he exclaimed. ‘This is a positive scandal, I tell you!’ ‘Come in and sit down,’ Feluda said. ‘No, no, I’m too excited to sit down. Look, here’s the famous necklace, the valuable jewels I was supposed to have handed over!’ What Lalmohan babu then held under Feluda’s nose was a book. A famous book, written in English. I had seen a copy of it only recently, displayed in a shop window in Lansdowne Road. It was Life Divine by Sri Aurobindo.

Even Feluda could only gape. ‘And look,’ Lalmohan babu went on, ‘the binding is faulty. After the first thirty pages, the next few pages are stuck together. If someone paid good money for this book, every penny has been wasted. How could a binder in Pondicherry do such a shoddy job?’ ‘But . . . if this is the original packet, what did you pass on to Mr Red Shirt the other day?’ ‘You’re not going to believe this. Can you imagine what I did? I passed on one of my own books! Yes, The Bandits of Bombay ! You see, what I had sent Pulak was a copy of my manuscript. So I thought I’d now give him a copy of the book, with my blessings and autograph. In fact, I have three more copies in my bag, each wrapped with brown paper. I know I have fans all over the country . . . thought I might meet a few in Bombay, so I brought extra copies. And it was one of those that I . . . ha ha ha!’ I had not seen Lalmohan babu so cheerful in a long time. Feluda took the book from him, looked at it briefly and asked, ‘But what about the threat from Sanyal? Didn’t he threaten you on the phone? How does that fit in with this Life Divine ?’ Lalmohan babu refused to be daunted. ‘Well, who knows if it was Sanyal in person? It isn’t always possible to identify a voice on the telephone, is it? It could well have been some crackpot, trying to be funny. Anything is possible in Bombay. I mean, if a film like Teerandaj could run for more than twenty-five weeks . . . need I say more?’ ‘All right, but what about that perfume in the car?’ ‘That? I bet our driver was wearing it. He’s a fashionable young man. Didn’t you see his hairstyle? But when we began asking questions, he was embarrassed and wouldn’t admit to using the scent.’ ‘Well then, every mystery is solved. You may relax now, and have a good night’s sleep.’ ‘Yes, I certainly will. I had a headache when I went to bed, so I opened my bag to take out a pain killer. That’s how I made this amazing discovery. Anyway, now that everything’s cleared up, I am going to leave that book with you. Perhaps you should read up on spiritual matters, it can’t do you any harm. Good night!’ Lalmohan babu left, and I went back to my own bed. ‘Imagine being handed a copy of a book by Jatayu, when one was expecting Life Divine. Feluda, how do you suppose the fellow felt?’ ‘Furious,’ Feluda replied, resting his head on his pillow. But he did not switch the light off. I felt quite amused to see that he put his blue notebook away, and began turning the pages of Sri Aurobindo’s book. It was at this moment,