Feluda stopped reading and shut his book with a bang. Then he snapped his fingers twice, yawned heavily and said, ‘Geometry.’ I asked, ‘Were you reading a book on geometry all this while?’ The book was covered with newspaper, so I could not see its title. All I knew was that Feluda had borrowed it from Uncle Sidhu, who was passionate about books. He bought quite a few, and took great care of them. In fact, he did not like lending his books to anyone, but Feluda was an exception. Feluda knew it, so he always put a protective cover on any book that he brought from Uncle Sidhu’s house. Feluda lit a Charminar and blew out two smoke rings, one after the other. ‘There is no such thing as a book on geometry,’ he told me. ‘Any book may be seen as one because everything around us is related to geometry. Did you see those smoke rings? When they left my mouth, they were perfect circles. Now just think. There are circles everywhere. Look at your own body. The iris in your eye is a circle. With the help of the iris, you can look at the sun and the moon. If you think of them as flat objects, they are circles, but of course they are actually spheres—each a solid bubble. That’s geometry. The planets in the solar system are orbiting the sun in elliptic curves. There’s geometry again. When you spat out of the window a little while ago—you shouldn’t have done that, it’s most unhygienic and if you do it again, you’ll get a sharp rap on the head, but anyway—that spit went out in a parabolic curve. Geometry, see? Have you ever looked at a spider’s web in any detail? It starts with a simple square. Then two diagonal lines run through it and the square is divided into four triangles. After that, the spider starts weaving a spiral web from the intersecting point of those diagonal lines. That keeps growing in size, until it covers the entire square. If you think about it, your head will start reeling . . . it’s something so amazing!’ It was a Sunday morning. The two of us were sitting in our living room on the ground floor. Baba had gone to visit his childhood friend, Subimal, as he did every Sunday. Feluda was seated on a sofa, his feet resting on a low table. I was on a divan, leaning on a cushion placed against the wall. In my hand was a game. It was a maze, made of plastic. Inside the maze were tiny metal balls. Over the last half hour, I had been trying to make those metal balls slip through the various lanes in the maze and go straight to its centre. Now I realized that the game was a matter of complex geometry, too. A Durga Puja was being held in Nihar and Pintu’s house, which was near ours. Someone was playing a song over a loudspeaker— Yeh jo muhabbat hai from the film Kati Patang. Fine spiral grooves on a circular record. More geometry! ‘Geometry applies not just to objects you can see,’ Feluda continued. ‘The human mind often follows geometric patterns. A simple man’s mind will run along a straight line. Others who are not so

simple may have minds that twist and wriggle like a snake. And the mind of a lunatic? No one can tell how that’s going to run. It’s a matter of the most convoluted geometry!’ Thanks to Feluda, I had come across plenty of people from every category. What kind of geometric pattern did he fall into? When I asked him, Feluda said, ‘You might call me a many-pointed star.’ ‘And I? Am I a satellite of that star?’ ‘You are merely a point, something that indicates a position, but has no significance of its own.’ I like to think of myself as a satellite. The only problem is that I cannot play that role all the time. I managed to be with Feluda when we had trouble in Gangtok because that was during school holidays. Two cases had followed—one was a murder in Dhalbhoomgarh, and the other was to do with a forged will in Patna—which I missed altogether. Now my school was closed once again for Puja. I was wondering if a new case would come along. Who knew whether it really would? But then, Feluda did tell me that if one badly wants something to happen, and if one’s will is strong enough, then a particular wish may well come true, more or less automatically. I quite like to think what happened that Sunday morning was simply a result of my willing it. A song from the film Johnny Mera Naam had just started on the loudspeaker; Feluda had flicked a quantity of ash into an ashtray and picked up the Hindustan Standard; I was toying with the idea of going out, when someone rattled the knocker on our door very loudly. Baba, I knew, would not be back before twelve o’clock. This had to be someone else. I opened the door and found a simple, mild looking man, wearing a dhoti and a blue shirt. ‘Does a Pradosh Mitter live in this house?’ he asked, raising his voice to make himself heard. The loudspeaker was making quite a racket. Feluda rose from the sofa and came to the door on hearing his name. ‘Where have you come from?’ he asked. ‘All the way from Shyambazar,’ the man replied. ‘Please come in.’ The man stepped into the living room. ‘Please sit down. I am Pradosh Mitter.’ ‘Oh. Oh, I see. I didn’t know . . . I mean, I didn’t realize you were so young!’ The man sat down on a chair next to the sofa, looking visibly impressed. But the smile on his face disappeared almost at once. ‘What can I do for you?’ Feluda asked. The man cleared his throat. ‘I