‘Panda? Would you like a panda?’ ‘May I have your name, babu? Where are you from?’ ‘This way, babu. Which dharamshala are you booked at?’ ‘You will go to the temple of Baba Daksheshwar, won’t you?’ I had no idea the group of pandas waiting on the platform would surround us like this, even though Feluda had warned me of the possibility. These pandas apparently kept huge ledgers that held records of one’s ancestors—those who had visited Haridwar, that is—going back several hundred years. My great-great-grandfather was supposed to have left home to become a sannyasi. He had spent a long time in Haridwar. Perhaps one of those ledgers contained his name and address, or maybe even his handwriting? Who could tell? ‘There is no need for a panda,’ said Bonobihari Babu, ‘that would only add to the confusion. Let’s go to Sheetal Das’s dharamshala. I know the place. We could be together, and the food’s not too bad. It’s just a matter of one night, anyway. Tomorrow we leave for Hrishikesh and Laxmanjhoola.’ A coolie picked up our luggage. We came out of the station and hired three tongas. Feluda and I got into one, Baba and Dr Srivastava got into another and Bonobihari Babu took the third. It was still dark. ‘A holy place,’ said Feluda, ‘is always dirty. But once you’re by the river, it feels quite pleasant.’ Our tonga rattled along the lanes of Haridwar. Not a single shop was open yet. There were men sleeping on string beds by the roadside wrapped in blankets. Kerosene lamps flickered here and there. A few old men went past, metal pots in hand. They were going to the river, Feluda explained. They would stand immersed in waist-deep water and wait for sunrise, chanting hymns to welcome a new day. The rest of the town was still asleep. Bonobihari Babu’s tonga was leading us. It stopped in front of a white single-storeyed house, with large pillars. This clearly, was Sheetal Das’s dharamshala. There was a courtyard as we went in through the gate. Corridors ran round its sides and the rooms stood in neat rows. A man from the dharamshala came out and took our luggage in. We were about to follow him through a door when another tonga came and stopped at the front gate. The sadhu who had travelled with us up to Bareilly climbed down from it. I tugged at Feluda’s sleeve. ‘Look, it’s the same man! The one in the train . . .’ Feluda gave the man a sidelong glance and said, ‘Do you mean to say even this man is a suspect?’ ‘Well, this is the second time . . .’ ‘Sh-h-h. Not a word. Let’s go in.’

Baba, Feluda and I were given one room. There were four beds in it. The occupant of the fourth bed was fast asleep. Bonobihari Babu and Dr Srivastava were given the room next to ours. The sadhu joined them. By the time all of us