Rajrappa was eighty kilometres from Hazaribagh. We had to take a left turn when we reached Ramgarh, which took us through a place called Gola. Beyond Gola was the Bhera river. All cars had to be left here, and the river had to be crossed on foot. Rajrappa lay on the other side, only a short walk away. Shankarlal Misra did not have a car, so he travelled with us. Two bearers had also joined the group. One of them was the old Noor Muhammad, who had been with Mr Chowdhury since he started working as a lawyer. The other was the tall and hefty Jagat Singh, who was carrying Arun Chowdhury’s rifle and cartridges. Mr Misra proved to be very friendly and easy to talk to. From what he told us about himself, it seemed there was a mystery in his life as well. His father, Deendayal Misra, used to work as Mahesh Chowdhury’s chowkidar. Thirty-five years ago, when Shankar was only four, Deendayal suddenly went missing one day. Two days later, a woodcutter found his body in a forest nearly eight miles away. He had been killed by a wild animal. No one knew why he had gone to the forest. There was an old Shiva temple there, but Deendayal had never been known to visit it. Mahesh Chowdhury took pity on Deendayal’s child. He brought him to his house, and began to bring him up like his own son. In time, Shankar proved to be a very bright student. He won scholarships and finished his graduation from Ranchi University. Then he opened a bookshop called Shankar Book Store in Ranchi. Recently, he had opened a branch in Hazaribagh. He travelled frequently between the two cities. This mention of books prompted Lalmohan Babu to ask, ‘What kind of books do you keep in your shop?’ ‘All kinds,’ Mr Misra replied, smiling, ‘including crime thrillers. We have often sold your books.’ After a few moments, Feluda asked, ‘Mahesh Chowdhury’s second son must have been the same age as yourself. Is that right?’ ‘Who, Biren? He was younger than me, but only by a few months. We went to school together, and were in the same class. All three brothers went to Calcutta for higher studies, but Biren was never really interested in them. He was always restless, fond of adventures. I was not surprised when he left home at nineteen.’ ‘Does his father believe in tantrics and holy men?’ ‘He didn’t earlier. But he has changed a lot over the years. I didn’t see it myself, but I’ve heard that he used to have an extremely violent temper. He may not actually visit holy men, but today . . . I believe the reason for going to Rajrappa is that temple of Chhinnamasta.’ ‘Why do you say that?’

‘He doesn’t talk about it, but I have gone to Rajrappa with him before, more than once. I’ve seen how the look on his face changes when he visits the temple.’ ‘Could this be linked to something in his past?’ ‘I don’t know. I know very little about his past. Don’t forget I was only his chowkidar’s son, never really one of the family.’ At around ten-thirty, three cars stopped by the side of the Bhera river. Ours was the last, just behind Pritin Chowdhury’s car. We saw him get out, tape recorder in hand, and disappear among the trees on our left. Mahesh Chowdhury was in the first car. He got out, and came towards us. ‘Let’s have a cup of coffee before going across,’ he said. ‘Rajrappa isn’t far from here. There’s no point in hurrying.’ We walked towards the river. There wasn’t much water in it now, but after the monsoon it often became knee-deep, which made it difficult to cross. Even now, it was flowing with considerable force, rushing over a great many rocks of various sizes and different colours, polishing and smoothing their surface, as if it was in a great hurry to jump into the great Damodar. Rajrappa stood at the point where the Bhera met the Damodar. Neelima Devi opened a flask and began pouring coffee into paper cups. We went and helped ourselves. Pritin Babu was the only one missing. Perhaps he had had to go deeper into the wood to record bird calls. A variety of birds were chirping in the trees. I looked at and tried to make a study of every new character I had met since my arrival. Feluda had taught me to do this, although his own eyes caught details that I inevitably missed. The youngest in our group had placed her doll on a flat stone and was talking to it: ‘Sit quietly, or I’ll throw you into the river. You wouldn’t like that, would you?’ Arun Babu finished his coffee, threw the cup away, then disappeared behind a bush. The faint smoke that rose a little later told me that he didn’t smoke in his father’s presence. Mahesh Chowdhury was standing quietly by the river, staring at its gushing water. His hands were clasped behind his back. Feluda had picked up two small stones and was striking one against the other to see if they were flint, when Akhil Chakravarty walked up to him and said, ‘Do you know what sign you were born under?’ ‘Yes, sir. Aquarius. Is that good or bad for a detective?’ Neelima Devi picked up a wild yellow flower and stuck it into her hair. Then she looked at Lalmohan Babu and said something which made him throw back his head and laugh. But, only a second later, he stopped abruptly, gasped and jumped aside. Neelima Devi’s laughter broke out this time. ‘That was only a harmless chameleon!’ she said. ‘Don’t tell me you are afraid of them?’ I looked around for Shankarlal, but saw that he had already crossed the river and was talking to a man in saffron clothes, on the other side. A busload of visitors had crossed