‘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