It was getting dark. The lights in the train had just come on. We were speeding on our way to Bareilly. There were seven people in all. Feluda and I had one berth, Baba and Srivastava had another and on the third sat Bonobihari Babu and the sannyasi. Bonobihari Babu had placed a large trunk and a wooden packing crate on the bunk over the berth Baba and Srivastava were sharing. A stranger was sleeping in the berth over mine. He was all wrapped up in a sheet. All I could see were his toes. He had not stirred since we left Lucknow. I looked around. Bonobihari Babu was sitting crosslegged, smoking his pipe, Srivastava was reading the Gitanjali, and Baba looked as though he was trying very hard to keep awake. He kept rubbing his eyes as he tried to sit up straight. The sannyasi didn’t seem interested in us at all. He was turning the pages of a Hindi newspaper. Feluda was singing a song in Urdu, tapping his feet to the rhythm of the wheels: Jab chhor chaley Lucknow nagari Kahen haal ke hum par kya guzri. He hummed the rest of it. I could tell he didn’t know the words beyond the first two lines. Bonobihari Babu spoke unexpectedly. ‘How do you happen to know this song of Wajid Ali Shah?’ ‘An uncle of mine used to sing it,’ Feluda replied. ‘He was a very talented thumri singer.’ Bonobihari Babu inhaled deeply, stared out at the red western sky and said, ‘Nawab Wajid Ali Shah was an amazing man. He was both a singer and a composer. He composed the first Indian opera— very much in the style of Western operas. But he was not a warrior. So the British took Lucknow, and the Nawab left for Bengal. His last days were spent in Matiaburuz, where all the Muslim tailors of Calcutta now live. What was most interesting was that Wajid Ali got together with Rajen Mullik, who was well known for his wealth, and planned the first zoo in Calcutta.’ He rose to his feet and opened his trunk. Then he took out a tape-recorder. ‘Allow me to play some of my favourite music,’ he said. He lifted the top and pressed a key. Something inside the recorder began whirring. ‘If you really wish to enjoy this music, look out of the window.’ I did. In the quickly gathering dusk, I saw a whole jungle rush past our window, and from its depths came the harsh cry of a wild cat. Or so it seemed. ‘I have kept the volume low,’ said Bonobihari Babu, ‘so it would seem as though the sound was coming from afar.’ The cat was followed by the hyena. It was fascinating. The train was tearing through a jungle, and it seemed as though the hyena’s laugh was coming from outside, echoing through the trees. Then came

a different sound. ‘Kir-r-r-r-r-r-r kit kit! Kir-r-r-r-r-r-r kit kit!’ My heart beat faster. Even