I opened my eyes the next morning to find Feluda doing yoga. This meant the sun wasn’t yet up. He had been awake when I went to sleep the previous night, and had worked in the light of a table lamp until quite late. How he had managed to get up at the crack of dawn was a mystery. A slight noise from the veranda made me glance in that direction. To my amazement, I saw Lalmohan Babu standing there, just outside his room, idly putting his favourite red-and-white Signal toothpaste on his toothbrush. Obviously, like us, he was too worked up to sleep peacefully. Feluda finished his yoga and said, ‘I’ll have a cup of tea now, and then go out.’ ‘Where to?’ ‘Nowhere in particular. Just out. I need to clear my brain. Sometimes looking at something enormous and colossal helps get things into perspective. I must stand before the sea and watch the sun rise. It may act like a tonic.’ By the time we finished our tea, many other guests in the hotel were awake, including Mr Barik. Feluda went to see him before going out. ‘Will you book another call to Nepal, please? Here’s the number,’ he said, ‘and if Mahapatra calls, please tell him to leave a message. And—oh—are there good doctors here?’ ‘How many would you like? Of course we have good doctors here, Mr Mitter, you haven’t come to a little village!’ ‘No, no, I know I haven’t. But you see, I need a young and efficient doctor. Not someone doddering with age.’ ‘That’s not a problem. Go to Utkal Chemist in Grand Road after ten o’clock. You’ll find Dr Senapati in his chamber.’ Lalmohan Babu and I decided to go out with Feluda. The beach was deserted except for a few Nulias. The eastern sky glowed red. Grey clouds floated about, their edges a pale pink. The sea was blue-black; only the tops of the waves that crashed on the shore were a bright white. The three Nulia children we had seen on the first day were back on the beach, looking for crabs. ‘The only minus point of this beautiful beach is those crabs,’ Lalmohan Babu remarked, wrinkling his nose in disgust. ‘What’s your name?’ Feluda asked one of the boys. He had a red scarf wound around his head. ‘Ramai,’ he replied, grinning. We walked on. Lalmohan Babu suddenly turned poetic. ‘Look at the sea . . . so wide, so big, so . . . so liberating . . . it’s hard to imagine there’s been bloodshed in a place like this!’ ‘Hm . . . blunt instrument . . .’ Feluda said absently. I knew murder weapons were usually of three kinds: fire arms such as revolvers or pistols; sharp instruments like knives and daggers; or blunt

instruments such as heavy rods or sticks. Feluda was clearly thinking of the attack on him last night. Thank God it was nothing serious. ‘Footprints . . . look!’ Feluda