We didn’t spend very long in the snake park, but even a short visit showed us what a unique place it was. It seemed incredible that a single individual had planned the whole thing. I saw every species of snake that I had read about, and many that I didn’t know existed. The park itself was beautifully designed, so walking in it was a pleasure. No untoward incident took place during our outing on the first day. The only thing I noticed was that Lalmohan Babu tightened his hold on Nayan’s hand each time he saw a man with a beard. ‘Hodgson has gone back to Calcutta, I’m sure,’ I said to him. ‘So what?’ he shot back. ‘How can you tell Basak won’t try to appear in a disguise?’ We were strolling along a path that led to an open marshy area. To our surprise, we discovered that this area was surrounded by a sturdy iron railing, behind which lay five alligators, sleeping in the sun. We were watching them closely and Lalmohan Babu had just started to tell Nayan, ‘When you’re a bit older, my boy, I’ll give you a copy of my book The Crocodile’s Crunch,’ when a man wearing a sleeveless vest and shorts turned up, carrying a bucket in one hand. He stood about twenty yards away from the railing and began taking out frogs from the bucket. He threw these at the alligators one by one, which they caught very neatly between their jaws. I watched this scene, quite fascinated, for I had never seen anything like it before. We returned to our hotel in the evening, all safe and sound. None of us knew what lay in store the next day. Even now, as I write about it, a strange mixture of amazement, fear and disbelief gives me goose-pimples. The guidebook had told me Mahabalipuram was eighty miles from Madras. The roads were good, so we expected to get there in two hours. Shankar Babu had arranged two taxis for us. Nayan insisted on joining us instead of Mr Tarafdar as Jatayu had started telling him the story of his latest book. The Astounding Atlantic. I sat in the front seat of the car, Nayan sat between Jatayu and Feluda in the back. It soon became clear that we were travelling towards the sea. Although the city of Madras stood by the sea, we hadn’t yet seen it. Two hours and fifteen minutes later, the sea came into view. A wide empty expanse stretched before us, and on the horizon shimmered the dark blue ocean. The tall structures that stood out on the sand were temples. Our taxi stopped next to a huge van and a luxury coach. A large number of tourists—most of them Americans—were getting into the coach, clad in an interesting assortment of clothes, wearing different caps, sporting sunglasses in different designs, and carrying bags of every possible shape and size. We stopped and stared at them for a minute. ‘Big business, tourism!’ proclaimed Lalmohan Babu and got out of the car with Nayan. Feluda had never visited Mahabalipuram before, but knew what there was to see. He had already told me everything was spread over a vast area. ‘We cannot see it all in a day, at least not when there’s

a small child with us. But you, Topshe, must see four things—the shore temple, Gangavataran, the Mahishasurmardini Mandap and the Pancha Pandava caves. Lalmohan Babu and Nayan can go where they like. I have no idea what Shankar and Sunil wish to do. They don’t seem at all interested in temples or sculpture.’ We began walking together. ‘All this was built by the Ballabhas, wasn’t it?’ asked Lalmohan Babu. ‘Not Ballabhas, Mr Ganguli,’ Feluda replied solemnly. ‘They were Pallavas.’ ‘Which century would that be?’ ‘Ask your young friend. He’ll tell you.’ Lalmohan Babu looked faintly annoyed at this, but did not say anything. I knew Mahabalipuram had been built in the seventh century. We went to take a look at the shore temple first. Noisy waves lashed against its rear walls. ‘They certainly knew how to select a good spot,’ Lalmohan Babu remarked, raising his voice to make himself heard. On our right was a statue of an elephant and a bull. Next to these were what looked like small temples. ‘Those are the Pandava’s chariots,’ Feluda said. ‘You’ll find one that looks a bit like a hut from a village in Bengal. That’s Draupadi’s chariot.’ Gangavataran made my head reel. Carved in relief on the face of a huge rock was the story of the emergence of Ganges from the Himalayas. There were animals and scores of human figures, exquisite in every detail. ‘All this was done by hand, simply with a chisel and hammer, wasn’t it?’ Lalmohan Babu asked in wonder. ‘Yes. Just think, Lalmohan Babu. There are millions of carved figures like these, to be found in temples all over our country. It took hundreds of years to finish building these temples; dozens and dozens of craftsmen worked on them. Yet, nowhere will you find a single stroke of the hammer that’s out of place, or a mark made by the chisel that doesn’t fit in. If something goes wrong with a figure of clay, the artist may be able to correct his mistake. But a single mark on a piece of rock would be permanent, absolutely indelible. That is why it always takes my breath away when I think of how totally perfect these ancient artists’ skill had been. God knows why modern artists have lost that sense of perfection.’ Mr Tarafdar and Shankar Babu had gone ahead. ‘You may as well go and see the two caves I told you about,’ Feluda said to me. ‘I am going to look at these carvings more closely, so I’m going to take a while.’ I took the guidebook from Feluda and looked at the map to see where the caves were located. ‘Look, Lalmohan Babu,’