Half an hour later, we had had a shower and were down at the hotel’s restaurant, Nirvana, to have lunch. I had not expected things to move quite so quickly so soon after our arrival. Mr Som’s murder in Calcutta, Himadri Chakravarty’s death in Kathmandu, the fake Mr Batra—all these were undoubtedly linked together. Had Mr Som wanted Feluda to investigate the death of his friend ? Did he really die because he was injected with a spurious drug? A waiter arrived to take our order. Lalmohan Babu peered at the menu and asked, ‘What is mo- mo?’ ‘It’s meat balls in sauce, sir,’ the waiter replied. ‘It’s a Tibetan dish,’ Feluda told him. ‘Try it, Lalmohan Babu. When you go back to Calcutta, you can tell your friends you ate the same thing as the Dalai Lama.’ ‘OK, one mo-mo for me, please.’ The waiter finished taking our order and left. Lalmohan Babu now produced a light green card. ‘A man at the counter handed this to me,’ he said, ‘but, for the life of me, I can’t figure out what to do with it. I can recognize the word “casino”, but what’s all this? Jackpot, pontoon, roulette, blackjack . . . and, look, it says its value is five dollars. What does it mean?’ Feluda explained, ‘There is a very famous hotel here, which has a big casino for gambling. Those words that you read out are names of various types of gambling. Gambling in public isn’t permitted in our country, so you won’t find a casino in any Indian hotel. What you can do with that card is show it at the casino and try your hand at any game. You can spend up to five dollars without paying anything from your own pocket.’ ‘Hey, that sounds interesting! Why don’t we . . . ?’ ‘I don’t mind!’ I said. ‘Yes. How can a horse resist a carrot if it dangles right before its nose? What do you say, Felu Babu?’ ‘Horse? You may well feel like an ass when you’ve finished. But then, if you’re lucky enough, who knows what might happen?’ We decided to spend an evening at the casino. Our hotel would arrange transport, at no extra cost. Our food arrived. ‘Delicious!’ said Lalmohan Babu, tasting his mo-mo. ‘I must get the recipe from somewhere. I have an excellent cook back home who, I’m sure, could make it for me. Six months of consuming this stuff and one is bound to start looking distinguished.’ We went out after lunch. ‘Let’s go to Darbar Square,’ said Feluda. ‘That is where the main police station is. I must go there. The two of you can look around, then meet me somewhere.’ Darbar Square startled us all. It reminded me of a chessboard, when a game is well under way. Just as the board is littered with chessmen in various positions, the square was strewn with palaces,

temples, statues and pillars. Amidst these, hundreds of people went about their business, and traffic flowed endlessly. In a distant way, it was a bit like Varanasi. But in Varanasi, all famous temples were hidden in narrow lanes. Here, the roads were so much wider. The old royal palace had a huge open space in front of it. It must have held a vast number of people when the king used to stand on a balcony to grant an audience. Feluda consulted a map. ‘If you go straight, you’ll soon find the statue of Kaal Bhairav. I’ll meet you there in half an hour.’ He strode away. Lalmohan Babu and I began walking. I was struck by the amazing carvings on the wooden doors, windows and even roofs of old buildings. I had heard Nepal was famous for its woodwork. Now I could see why. There were a few Hindu temples, built in a style similar to those in India. And there were pagodas, built in several layers, each layer getting narrower as one moved to the top. However, Darbar Square wasn’t just a place for religion. There was a large market, spread all over. Every imaginable object from vegetables to garments was being sold on pavements, corridors and stairs. Lalmohan Babu and I stopped at a small stall selling rather attractive Nepali caps. He brought out his little red notebook again. I found a nice cap for myself, and had just started bargaining over its price, when Lalmohan Babu nudged me. ‘Tapesh!’ he whispered. I turned around and found him staring at something, transfixed. A few yards away stood one of the two Batras. He was in the process of lighting a cigarette. Then he walked away, without looking at us. ‘Have you ever seen your cousin use a lighter with his left hand?’ ‘No.’ ‘This man did.’ ‘Yes, I saw him. Then he put it in his left pocket.’ ‘Should we follow him?’ ‘Do you think he saw you?’ ‘No.’ ‘OK, let’s go.’ We didn’t have to meet Feluda for another twenty minutes. The two of us leapt forward. There was a temple in front of us. The man seemed to have disappeared in the crowd. But we saw him again once we had left the temple behind us. He was going into a lane. We followed, keeping a distance of about twenty yards between us. There were small shops and restaurants on both sides of the lane. Many had ‘Pie Shop’ written on their signboards. I could smell food everywhere. A group of hippies came strolling by. As they walked past us, the smell of food was momentarily drowned by that of ganja, sweat and unwashed clothes. ‘Oh no!’ said Lalmohan Babu. The man had gone into a shop to our right. What should we do now? Should we wait for him to come out? What if he took a long time? We had only fifteen minutes to spare. ‘Let’s go into the shop,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t know us. We’re quite safe.’ ‘Yes, you’re right.’

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