It turned out that the station was in the process of being built. All it had at the moment was a platform and that structure, which was really a ticket window. Heaven knew when the building work would be completed. We selected a spot close to the ticket window and sat on our holdalls, preparing ourselves for a long wait. A kerosene lamp hung from a wooden post nearby, so when it got dark, we would at least be able to see one another. There appeared to be signs of habitation not all that far from the station. Feluda went to have a look, then returned and said that although he had seen houses, there were no shops and nowhere to eat. All we had with us was a little water in our flasks, and Lalmohan Babu had a tin of goja (deep-fried pastry dipped in syrup). Perhaps we would have to spend the whole night on the strength of those. The sun had set about ten minutes ago. It would soon be dark. Gurbachan Singh’s arrival did not seem likely, as in the last three hours, we had not seen a single car go past, either towards Jodhpur or Jaisalmer. There was nothing to do but wait on the platform until the next train came at three o’clock. Feluda was sitting on his suitcase and gazing steadily at the track. I watched him cracking the fingers of his right hand with his left. Obviously, he was anxious or agitated about something, which was why he wasn’t saying much. Lalmohan Babu opened his tin, bit into a goja and said, ‘Who knew this would happen? If I didn’t travel with you in the same compartment on the way from Agra, the entire nature of my holiday would not have changed like this, would it?’ ‘Why, do you mind?’ Feluda asked. ‘No, of course not!’ Lalmohan Babu laughed. ‘But it would certainly help if a few things were a bit clearer.’ ‘Which things in particular?’ ‘I don’t really know what’s going on, do I? I feel a bit like a shuttlecock—slapped from one side to the other, and back again. I mean, I don’t even know who you are. Are you the hero, or the villain? Ha ha!’ ‘Why do you want to know? What would you do, anyway, if you knew?’ Feluda asked with a smile. ‘When you write a novel, do you reveal everything at the outset? Why don’t you treat this entire Rajasthani experience as a novel? When it comes to an end, every mystery will be cleared up.’ ‘And I? Will I still be alive, and in one piece?’ ‘Well, you’ve already proved that you can run faster than a rabbit, if you have to. Isn’t that reassuring enough?’ I hadn’t realized it before, but someone had come and lit the kerosene lamp while we were talking. In its light, I suddenly saw two men, clad in local Rajasthani garb with turbans on their heads, making their way towards us. In their hands were stout sticks, which they were tapping on the ground. They

stopped a few feet away, squatted and began a conversation in a completely incomprehensible language. One thing about those men made my jaw fall open. Both were sporting huge moustaches. They didn’t just turn upward, but had, in fact, coiled at least four times on either side of the men’s faces. The final effect was like the spring fitted inside a clock. If they were pulled straight, each side would probably measure eighteen inches. Lalmohan Babu, too, seemed totally dumbstruck by the sight. ‘Bandits!’ muttered Feluda under his breath. ‘Really?’ Lalmohan Babu quickly poured himself some water from the flask and gulped it down. ‘Undoubtedly.’ Lalmohan Babu tried to replace the lid on his tin, but dropped it on the platform with a loud clang. The noise made him jump, and he became more nervous. I looked at the two men closely. Their skin was as dark and shiny as a freshly polished shoe. One of them took out a cigarette, placed it between his lips, and slapped all his pockets until he found a matchbox in one of them. But it turned out to be empty, so he threw it away on the track. A sudden noise made me glance at Feluda. He had flicked his lighter on and was offering it to the man. The man looked taken aback at first, then leant forward to light his cigarette. After that, he took the lighter from Feluda and examined it closely, pressing it here and there before finding the right spot and lighting it once more. Lalmohan Babu tried to speak, but his voice sounded choked. The man switched the lighter on and off a few times, before returning it to Feluda. Lalmohan Babu began stuffing his tin back into his suitcase, but it slipped from his hand and, this time, the whole tin fell on the ground, making a racket that was ten times worse than the previous one. Feluda paid him no attention. He simply took out his blue notebook from his shoulder bag and began leafing through its pages in the dim light from the kerosene lamp. Suddenly, my eyes fell on a thorny bush a little way beyond the ticket window. A light was falling on it. Where was it coming from? It was growing brighter. Then I heard a car. It was coming from the direction of Jaisalmer. Oh good. Perhaps Gurbachan Singh would now be able to borrow a spare tyre. The car came into view, then whooshed past the little station and vanished towards Jodhpur. My watch showed half past seven. Feluda raised his eyes from his notebook and looked at Lalmohan Babu. ‘Lalmohan Babu,’ he said, ‘you write novels, don’t you? You must know a lot of things. Can you tell me what a blister is, and what causes it?’ ‘Blister? . . . Blister?’ Lalmohan Babu sounded completely taken aback. ‘Why does one