ho was Jayadrath?’ ‘Duryodhan’s sister, Duhshala’s husband.’ ‘And Jarasandh?’ ‘King of Magadh.’ ‘Dhrishtadyumna?’ ‘Draupadi’s brother.’ ‘Arjun and Yudhisthir both owned conch shells. What were they called?’ ‘Arjun’s was called Devdatt, and Yudhisthir’s was Anantavijay.’ ‘Which missile causes such confusion in the enemy camp that they start killing their own men?’ ‘Twashtra.’ ‘Very good.’ Thank goodness. I had passed that little test. Of late, the Ramayan and Mahabharat had become staple reading for Feluda. I, too, had joined him and was thoroughly enjoying reading them. There was story, after story, after story. A new word has come into use these days—unputdownable. If you pick up a book to read, you cannot put it down till you’ve finished it. The Ramayan and the Mahabharat are like that—quite unputdownable. Feluda was reading the Mahabharat in Bengali, written by Kaliprasanna Sinha. Mine was a simplified version meant for youngsters. Lalmohan Babu says he can recite large chunks of the Bengali Ramayan by heart. His grandmother used to read aloud from it when he was a child, so he still remembers quite a lot of it. We haven’t got the Bengali version in our house, but I think I’ll get a copy and test Lalmohan Babu’s memory one day. At the moment he is busy writing a new novel, so he hasn’t been visiting us all that frequently. Feluda had to stop reading and glance at the front door, for someone had rung the bell. Feluda had returned only last Friday after solving a murder case in Hijli. He was in a relaxed mood, which was probably why he didn’t seem too keen to get up and find out who was at the door. As a matter of fact, he does not even need more than one case every month. His needs are so few that he can manage perfectly well on the fees he is paid for each case. Lalmohan Babu calls his lifestyle ‘totally unostentatious’. But he always finds it difficult to pronounce that word and ends up saying ‘unossenshus.’ Feluda therefore found a tongue-twister for him and told him to practise saying it several times, so that his tongue would stop getting stuck on long and difficult words. ‘Pick up these sixty-six thistle sticks’ was what he had suggested. Lalmohan Babu tried saying it once, and stumbled four times! I have often heard Feluda say, ‘When a new character appears in your tale, you must describe his looks and clothes in some detail. If you don’t, your reader may imagine certain things on his own,

which will probably not fit whatever you say later on.’ So here’s a description of the man who entered our living room: his height was probably 5’9”, age around fifty; the hair around his ears had turned grey; there was a mole on his chin, and he was wearing a grey safari suit. From the way he cleared his throat as he stepped into the room, he appeared to be feeling a little uneasy; and judging by the way his hand rose and covered his mouth when he cleared his throat, he was somewhat westernized in his behaviour. ‘Sorry I couldn’t ring you and make an appointment,’ he said. ‘All the roads are dug up in our area, so the phone lines are dead.’ Feluda nodded. We all knew about the dug up roads in Calcutta, and the effects they had had on the city. ‘My name is Subir Datta,’ our visitor went on. His voice was good enough for him to have been a television newsreader. ‘Er . . . you are the private inves-?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I am here to talk about my brother.’ Feluda looked on in silence. The Mahabharat was lying closed on his lap, but he had placed a finger in it to mark his page. ‘But I must tell you something about myself. I am a sales executive in Corbett & Norris. You know Dinesh Choudhury in Camac Street, don’t you? We were in college together.’ Dinesh Choudhury was one of Feluda’s clients. ‘I see,’ said Feluda. Mr Datta began talking about his brother. ‘My brother was a biochemist. He had once made quite a name for himself, not here but in America. He was studying viruses, in the University of Michigan. His name is Nihar Datta. One day, there was an explosion in his laboratory. He was badly injured, and for a while it looked as if he wouldn’t survive. But a doctor in a local hospital saved his life. What he couldn’t save were his eyes.’ ‘Your brother became blind?’ ‘Yes. He then returned home. At the time of the accident, he was married to an American woman. She left him after a while. He did not marry again.’ ‘So it means his research remained incomplete?’ ‘Yes. That depressed him so much that for six months, he did not speak to anyone. We thought he was having a nervous breakdown. But, gradually, he recovered and became normal again.’ ‘How is he now?’ ‘He is still interested in science. That much is clear. He has employed a young man—something like a secretary, you might say— who was a student of biochemistry. One of his tasks is to read aloud from scientific journals. On the whole, though, my brother isn’t entirely helpless. In the evenings, he goes up to the roof for a stroll, all by himself. All he has to guide him is his stick. Sometimes, he even goes out of the house and walks up to the main crossing. Inside the house, he is quite independent. He doesn’t need any help to go from one room to another.’ ‘Does he have an income?’ ‘He had written a book on biochemistry before he left America. He still gets royalties from its sale, so he has an income.’ ‘What went wrong?’

‘Sorry?’ ‘I mean, what happened that made you come to me?’ ‘Yes, I am coming to that.’ Subir Datta took out a cigar from his pocket, lit it, and blew out