‘This is a six-star hotel,’ Lalmohan Babu declared, nodding with approval after checking in at Neelachal. ‘No hotel can claim to be five-star unless it has a swimming pool; and five-star is the maximum rating a hotel can get. Can you spot a swimming pool anywhere, Lalmohan Babu? Or are you counting the sea as this hotel’s very own, private pool? If so, your rating is fully justified.’ We went in to have lunch, after which Lalmohan Babu continued the argument with fresh vigour. ‘What lovely food, Felu Babu! Their cook is absolutely brilliant. I had no idea koftas made of green banana could be so delicious. Besides, see how clean everything is, such beautiful carpets and furnishings, and a totally uninterrupted power supply, not to mention the sea breeze . . . why shouldn’t I call it a six-star hotel?’ Feluda laughed in agreement. What might happen to the hotel in a few years was impossible to tell, but right now it was certainly in very good condition. Feluda and I were sharing a double room. Lalmohan Babu had the next room, which he was sharing with a businessman from Calcutta. We had briefly met Shyamlal Barik, the manager. He had promised to come and have a chat with us in the evening. The hotel was really very close to the sea. The sandy beach was only a minute’s walk from the main gate. The last time I visited Puri, I was only five years old. Feluda had come here many times, but, to our surprise, we learnt that this was Lalmohan Babu’s first visit. ‘What’s there to be so surprised about?’ he asked, a little annoyed. There are so many things in Calcutta I haven’t yet seen. Would you believe it, there’s that famous Jain temple only three miles from my house, but I have never been there!’ Now, standing before the sea, he suddenly remembered a poem written by his favourite poet, Baikuntha Mallik. ‘When I was twelve,’ he told me, ‘I recited this poem in a competition and won a prize. Listen to it carefully, Tapesh, and note how beautiful even modern free verse can be: In these roaring waves, I hear the call of infinity; when on these sandy beaches, stand I, so eagerly, on one leg.’ ‘One leg? Why one leg?’ Feluda sounded puzzled. ‘Was the poet identifying himself with a crane? That must be it, for it would be quite difficult for a man to stand on one leg on the sand, hour after

hour, in this strong wind. But never mind your poet. Look at the sand over there. See those prints? Do you think that might have any significance?’ The footprints had come from the east, and made their way to the western side. A smaller mark by the side of these indicated a stick. Lalmohan Babu stared at these for a few seconds and said, ‘Well, shoes and perhaps a walking stick . . . that much is clear, but what special significance could it have?’ ‘Topshe, what do you think?’ ‘Usually, people hold a stick in their right hand. These marks are on the left.’ Feluda thumped my shoulder. ‘Good! The man is probably left-handed.’ There weren’t many people about. Three small Nulia children were busy collecting crabs and seashells. There were other hotels a little way ahead, where no doubt we’d find many more visitors. Just as we began walking in that direction, someone called, ‘Mr Ganguli!’ We turned to find it was Mr Srinivas Som, Lalmohan Babu’s plump and cheerful roommate. We had already met him. He owned a saree shop in Calcutta. ‘Aren’t you coming?’ he asked Lalmohan Babu. ‘He said to be there by six o’clock sharp.’ Lalmohan Babu gave Feluda a sidelong glance. ‘I didn’t tell you, Felu Babu,’ he said hesitantly, ‘because I thought you might not be interested.’ ‘Didn’t tell me what?’ ‘Er . . . Mr Som told me about a man who lives here. He has an extraordinary power. He can place a finger on the forehead and talk about one’s future.’ ‘Whose forehead?’ ‘The person who goes to him, naturally.’ ‘You mean he can actually read what’s written in one’s destiny?’ ‘Yes, supposedly.’ ‘Very well. I have no wish to have my future read, but let’s all go and see where he lives.’ Mr Som led the way. We followed him, walking towards the east, past a colony of Nulias and groups of visitors, and up a sandy slope. Then we saw an abandoned house, partially submerged in the sand. Mr Som walked past it, but stopped before another house only a few yards away. This house had three storeys and was obviously in a far better condition. The astrologer, it turned out, occupied two rooms on the ground floor. There was a big gate. On one side was written, ‘Sagarika’. A marble slab on the other side said, ‘D.G. Sen’. It was an old-fashioned house, but whoever had had it built had good taste. There was a garden, a portion of which was visible from the gate. ‘The owner lives on the second floor,’ said Mr Som. ‘Ah, here we are . . . this is Laxman Bhattacharya’s room.’ There were nearly a dozen people waiting outside on the veranda. No doubt they were all Mr Bhattacharya’s clients. Lalmohan Babu said, ‘Jai Guru!’ and walked in with Mr Som. We came away. ‘What did your forehead reveal?’ asked Feluda about an hour later, as Lalmohan Babu swept into our room in great excitement. ‘Incredible, extraordinary, absolutely uncanny!’ Lalmohan Babu replied. ‘He told me everything about my past—whooping cough at the age of seven, an accident when I was eighteen, which left me with a dislocated kneecap, then the publication of my first novel, my spectacular popularity, and he even told my how many editions my next book will have.’

‘And the skylab? Did he tell you whether or not it’s going to fall on your head?’ ‘You can