The train was slow, but at least it wasn’t running significantly late. When one has to take connecting trains, it can cause great problems if the first train is delayed. We saw the first peacocks on reaching Bharatpur. Opposite our platform, there were three of them roaming freely on the tracks. Feluda said to me, ‘You will find that peacocks and parrots are as common here as crows and sparrows in Calcutta.’ All the men we saw had turbans on their heads and sideburns on their cheeks—the size of which seemed to be getting larger as we travelled. They were all Rajasthanis, wearing short dhotis which reached their knees, and shirts with buttons on one side. On their feet were heavy naagras. Most men were carrying stout sticks in their hands. We went to the refreshment room in the station in Bandikui to have dinner. Tucking into his roti and meat curry, Lalmohan Babu remarked, ‘See all these men? There’s a high probability that some of them are bandits. The Aravalli Hills act as a den for bandits—you know that, don’t you? And I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how powerful they are. When they are thrown into prison, they can push apart the iron bars on their windows with their bare hands, and escape through the gap!’ ‘Yes, I know,’ Feluda replied. ‘And do you know how they punish those who cross them?’ ‘They’re killed, surely?’ ‘No. That’s the beauty of it. If a bandit is annoyed with someone, he will hunt him down—no matter where that person is hiding— and then chop his nose off with a sword. That’s all.’ Lalmohan Babu had just picked up a piece of meat. He forgot to put it in his mouth. ‘Chop off his nose?’ he asked. ‘Yes, so I’ve heard.’ ‘It sounds most barbaric! Like something straight out of the dark ages. How terrible!’ We caught a train to Marwar in the middle of the night. It did involve scrambling in the dark, but we found enough room for ourselves and slept well. In the morning, when I woke up, I glanced out of the window and saw an old fort in the distance, on top of a hill. Only a minute later, the train pulled into a station called Kisangarh. ‘If you see the word “garh” attached to the name of a place, you may assume that somewhere in that area there is a fort on a hilltop,’ Feluda said. We got down on the platform and had tea. The earthen pots in which the tea was served were much larger and stronger than the pots used in Bengal. Even the tea tasted different. Feluda thought camel’s milk had been used. Perhaps that was why Lalmohan Babu ordered a second pot when he finished the first. When I’d finished mine, I found a tap on the platform and quickly brushed my teeth. Then I splashed cold water on my face and returned to our compartment.

There was a Rajasthani man sitting at one end of Lalmohan Babu’s bench. On his head was a huge turban. One leg was folded up on the bench, and he was resting his chin on his raised knee. He had wrapped a shawl around himself, hiding most of his face. But I could see the colour of his shirt through the shawl. It was bright red. Lalmohan Babu saw the man and promptly abandoned his bench and moved to ours. He tried to huddle in one corner. Feluda said, ‘Why don’t you two sit more comfortably?’ He moved across to the other bench and sat down beside the Rajasthani. I began to peer more closely at the man’s turban. Heaven knew how many twists and turns the fabric had made before it was finally wound so tightly round his head. Lalmohan Babu addressed Feluda and said softly, ‘Powerfully suspicious. He is dressed as an ordinary villager, but how come he is in a first-class compartment? Look at that bundle. God knows if it’s packed with diamonds and other precious stones.’ The bundle was placed next to the man. Lalmohan Babu’s comment made Feluda smile, but he said nothing. The train started. Feluda took out the book on Rajasthan from his shoulder bag. I took out Newman’s Bradshaw timetable and began looking up the stations we would stop at. Each place had a strange name: Galota, Tilonia, Makrera, Vesana, Sendra. Where had these names come from? Feluda had told me once that a lot of local history was always hidden in the name given to a place. But who was going to look for the history behind these names? The train continued to chug on its way. Suddenly, I could feel someone tugging at my shirt. I turned to find that Lalmohan Babu had gone visibly pale. When he caught my eye, he swallowed and whispered, ‘Blood!’ Blood? What was the man talking about? Lalmohan Babu’s eyes turned to the Rajasthani. The latter was fast asleep. His head was flung back, his mouth slightly open. My eyes fell on the foot on the bench. The skin around the big toe was badly grazed. It had obviously been bleeding, but now the blood had dried. Then I realized something else. The dark stains on his clothes, which appeared to be mud stains, were, in fact, patches of dried blood. I looked quickly at Feluda. He was reading his book, quite unconcerned. Lalmohan Babu found his nonchalance too much to bear. He spoke again, in the same choked voice, ‘Mr Mitter, suspicious blood marks on our new co-passenger!’ Feluda looked up, glanced once at the Rajasthani and said, ‘Probably caused by bugs.’ The thought that the blood was simply the result of bites from bed bugs made Lalmohan Babu look like a pricked balloon. Even so, he could not relax. He continued to sit stiffly and frown and cast the Rajasthani sidelong glances from time to time. The train reached Marwar Junction at half past