‘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 had had a wash and tea had been ordered, it was fairly bright. A number of people were now awake and the whole place had become quite noisy. I now realized what a wide variety of people were staying at the dharamshala. There were Bengalis, Marwaris, people from Uttar Pradesh, Gujaratis, Maharashtrians—all contributing equally to the general cacophony. ‘Are you thinking of going out?’ asked Baba. ‘Yes, I’d like to go to the river,’ Feluda said. ‘All right. I’m going with Bonobihari Babu to arrange two taxis for tomorrow. And if you’re going anywhere near a market, get an Eveready torch. After all, this is not a place like Lucknow. A torch may come in handy.’ We left. Feluda said the place was too small for a tonga ride. It was better to walk. I soon began to feel the difference in temperature. Haridwar was definitely cooler than Lucknow and, possibly because it was so close to a river, covered by a misty haze. ‘It’s more smoke than mist,’ Feluda said, ‘the smoke comes from angeethees.’ We stopped to ask our way a little later. ‘Half a mile from here,’ we were told. A different cacophony greeted us from a distance even before we reached the river. It turned out to be groups of bathers. Besides, hawkers and beggars lined the path running to the river bank, and they were no less noisy. We pushed through the crowd and made our way to the steps that led to the edge of the water. The scene that met my eyes was one I have never witnessed since. It was as though a carnival was being held by the riverside. Bells pealed within a temple that stood by the steps. A Vaishnav sat singing a bhajan near the temple, surrounded by a group of old men and women. Cows, goats, dogs and cats moved about freely, in happy conjuction with the humans. Feluda found a relatively quiet spot on the steps and we sat down. ‘If you want a glimpse of ancient India,’ he said, ‘just watch the scene below.’ The whole thing was so different from Lucknow that I nearly forgot the stolen ring. Did Feluda feel the same way, or was his mind still working on the case? I looked at Feluda, but didn’t dare ask him. He was taking out his cigarettes and a matchbox from his pocket with a contented air. This was clearly good opportunity to have a smoke since he couldn’t when Baba was present. He put a cigarette between his lips and pushed open the matchbox. Something flashed brightly. Startled, I asked, ‘What was that, Feluda?’ By then, he had shut the box again. ‘What was what?’ he asked, apparently taken aback. ‘That . . . object that’s in your matchbox. I saw it flash.’ Feluda cupped his mouth with both hands to light his cigarette and inhaled. Then he blew the smoke out and said, ‘Matchsticks have phosphorus in them, don’t you know? That’s