eluda had been quiet and withdrawn for many days. Well, I say he was withdrawn. Lalmohan Babu had used at least ten different adjectives for him, including distressed, depressed, lifeless, listless, dull, morose and apathetic. One day he even called him moribund. Needless to say, he didn’t dare address his remarks directly to Feluda. He confided in me, but like him, I had no idea why Feluda was behaving so strangely. Today, quite unable to take it any longer, Lalmohan Babu looked straight at Feluda and asked, ‘Why do you seem so preoccupied, Felu Babu? What’s wrong?’ Feluda was leaning against a sofa, his feet resting on a small coffee table. He was staring at the floor, his face grim. He said nothing in reply to Lalmohan Babu’s question. ‘This is most unfair!’ Lalmohan Babu complained, a trifle loudly. ‘I come here only to have a good chat, to laugh and to spend a few pleasant moments with you both. If you keep behaving like this, I’ll have to stop coming. Do give us at least a hint of what’s on your mind. Who knows, maybe I can help find a remedy? You used to look pleased to see me every day. Now you just look away each time I enter your house.’ ‘Sorry,’ said Feluda softly, still staring at the floor. ‘No, no, there’s no need to apologize. I am concerned about you, that’s all. I really want to know why you’re so upset. Will you tell me, please?’ ‘Letters,’ said Feluda, at last. ‘Letters?’ ‘Yes, letters.’ ‘What letters? What was written in them that made you so unhappy? Who wrote them?’ ‘Readers.’ ‘Whose readers?’ ‘Topshe’s. Readers who read the stories Topshe writes, all based on the cases I handle. There were fifty-six letters. Each one said more or less the same thing.’ ‘And what was that?’ ‘Feluda’s stories do not sound as interesting as before, they said. Jatayu can no longer make people laugh. Topshe’s narrative has lost its appeal, etc. etc.’ I knew nothing about this. Feluda received at least six letters every day. But I had never bothered to ask what they said. His words surprised me. Lalmohan Babu got extremely cross. ‘What do they mean? I can’t make people laugh? Why, am I a clown or what?’ ‘No, no. That’s not what they mean. No one tried to insult you. They just . . .’ Lalmohan Babu refused to be pacified. ‘Shame on you, Felu Babu!’ he said, standing with his back to Feluda. ‘I am really disappointed. You read all these stupid letters, you stored them away, and you

let them disturb you so profoundly. Why? Why didn’t you just throw them away?’ ‘Because,’ Feluda replied slowly, ‘these readers have given us their support in the past. Now if they tell me the Three Musketeers have grown old much before their time, I cannot ignore their words.’ ‘Grown old?’ Lalmohan Babu wheeled around, his eyes wide with anger and amazement. ‘Tapesh is only a young boy, you are as fit as ever. I know you both do yoga regularly. And I . . . why, I managed to defeat my neighbour in an arm wrestle only the other day! He is seventeen years my junior. Now is that a sign of old age? Doesn’t everyone grow older with time? And doesn’t age add to one’s experience, improve one’s judgement, sharpen one’s intelligence, and . . . and . . . things like that?’ ‘Yes, Lalmohan Babu, but obviously the readers haven’t found any evidence of all this in the recent stories.’ ‘Then that itself is a mystery, isn’t it? Do you think you can find an answer to that?’ Feluda put his feet down on the floor and sat up straight. ‘It’s a wonderful thing to be popular among readers. But such popularity and fame often demand a price. You know that, don’t you? Don’t your publishers put pressure on you?’ ‘Oh, yes. Tremendous pressure.’ ‘Then you should understand. But at least your stories and your characters are entirely fictitious. You can create events and people to satisfy your readers. Topshe cannot do that. He has to rely on what really happens in a case. Now, although I admit truth can sometimes be stranger than fiction, where is the guarantee that all my cases would make good stories? Besides, you mustn’t forget that Topshe’s readers are mainly children between ten and fifteen. I have handled so many cases that may well have had the necessary ingredients for a spicy novel, but in no way were they suitable for children of that age.’ ‘You mean something like that double murder?’ ‘Yes. That one was so messy that I didn’t let Topshe anywhere near it, although he is no longer a small child and is, in fact, quite mature for his age.’ ‘Does that mean Tapesh hasn’t been choosing the right and relevant cases to write about?’ ‘Perhaps, but he is not to be blamed at all. The poor boy has to deal with impatient and unreasonable publishers. He doesn’t get time to think. But even that is not the real problem. The real problem is that it is not just children who read his stories. What he writes is read by parents, uncles, aunts, grandparents, and dozens of other adults in a child’s family. Each one of them has a particular taste, and a particular requirement. How on earth can all of them be satisfied?’ ‘Then why don’t you give Tapesh a little guidance? Tell him which cases he should write about?’ ‘Yes, I will. But before I do that, I’ll have to have a word with the publishers. They ought to be told that a Feluda story will be ready for publication only if a suitable case comes my way. If it doesn’t, too bad. They’ll just have to give the whole thing a miss occasionally, and hold their horses. They’re hardcore businessmen, Lalmohan Babu. Their only concern is sales figures. Why should they