The following day we were supposed to travel down the road to Pune to a level-crossing between Khandala and Lonavala. That was the spot where the final climactic scene was going to be shot. All told, there were eleven ‘action’ scenes in the film. Pulak Ghoshal was going to start with the last one. The complete scene could not be shot in a single day. The whole thing would take as many as five days. We had decided to watch the shooting every day—that is, if we enjoyed the first day’s experience. The train would be available on all five days, for an hour between one and two o’clock. But the horses meant for the group of bandits, and a Lincoln Convertible meant for the hero, could be used any time. The scene in question went like this: The villain had replaced the real engine driver and was driving the train. In one of its compartments the heroine and her uncle were being held, their hands and feet tied. The hero was chasing the train in a motor car. At the same time, the hero’s twin—who had been kidnapped by bandits when he was a baby, and had now become a bandit himself—was riding with his entire gang to attack the train. He would get close enough to the train to jump into it straight from his horse. About the same time, the hero in his car would also catch up with the train, and he would arrive on the scene to see the bandit and the villain (pretending to be the engine driver) having a fight. The villain would be killed. What would happen next? . . . All would be revealed on the silver screen! Apparently, three different versions of the final scene were going to be shot. Then the director would decide which appeared the best on the screen, and retain it, discarding the other two. Mr Ghoshal dropped in briefly quite early in the morning. We told him we were ready to go, and all arrangements were in hand. ‘Laluda,’ he said, ‘I can tell just by looking at you that you really enjoyed watching Teerandaj !’ Lalmohan babu could be seen smiling to himself from time to time, as he recalled the previous night’s events. Mr Ghoshal had noticed that smile and misunderstood the reason for it. Lalmohan babu laughed loudly and said, ‘Bravo, my boy—to think that a boy from our Gorpar in Calcutta could achieve so much! You have shown them all. . . ha ha!’ Since we were going to be out all day, Feluda told me to take all the edible stuff in our hand luggage. We packed the oranges, biscuits and sweets that Lalmohan babu had bought the day before and put them in the car. Then Lalmohan babu deposited all his cash with the hotel manager and took a receipt from him. ‘Who knows,’ he told us, ‘whether a real bandit or two won’t get mixed up with the actors?’ Feluda went out for a while—to buy cigarettes, he said. He had run out completely, and the place where we were going might not have a shop within miles. We left shortly after he got back. The car was still smelling of Gulbahar.

Thane station was about twenty-five kilometers from Bombay. The road made a right curve there, joined the national highway and went towards Pune. Khandala was eighty kilometers down that same road. The weather that morning was quite good. Broken clouds were flitting across the sky, driven by a strong breeze—and the sun was peering frequently through them, bathing the city with its light. Mr Ghoshal had already remarked on the weather. It was said to be ‘ideal’ for shooting outdoors. Lalmohan babu was pleased, not just with the weather, but with everything he could see. ‘Now I needn’t worry about going abroad!’ he announced. ‘Bombay is such a wonderful place, who wants to go to England? Have you seen the buses? Not one is overcrowded, not one has people hanging out of it. Oh, what tremendous civic sense these people have!’ It took us nearly an hour to reach Thane, at around a quarter past nine. As we had plenty of time on our hands we stopped at a tea stall and had masala tea. Our driver, Swaruplal, joined us. Only a few minutes after we left Thane, I realized we were travelling alongside the hills of the Western Ghats. The railway track I had noticed before had disappeared. It had gone towards Kalyan to the north. From Kalyan, it would turn back and go south again, passing through Matheran before going to Pune. Our level crossing was situated somewhere in the middle of that particular stretch. Our journey was eventless, except for Lalmohan babu choking on some orange pips at one point. Feluda remained silent throughout— it was impossible to tell from his face what he was thinking. I knew from experience that even when he lapsed into silence, it did not necessarily mean that he was worried about anything. At around half past twelve, we passed through Khandala. Only a mile later, a large number of people came into view. It seemed as if a fair had sprung up by the roadside. As we got closer, I was struck by the number of vehicles I could see. Why should there be so many of them at a fair? Then I noticed something else—horses! Now I realized that the ‘fair’ was Mr Ghoshal’s unit, gathered here to start shooting Jet Bahadur. There were at least a hundred people milling about; and there was a lot of equipment and other material . . . cameras, reflectors, lights, large durries . . . it was a huge affair. Our driver slipped into a gap between an Ambassador and a bus, and parked the car there. Mr Ghoshal came forward to greet us as soon as we emerged. He was wearing a white cap, and from his neck