Lalmohan Babu—alias Jatayu—broke open a groundnut carefully, and promptly transferred its contents into his mouth. Then he dropped the shell into an ashtray, rubbed his hands and asked, ‘Have you ever seen the Vijaya Dashami celebrations in Varanasi? You know, when Durga Puja ends and all the idols are immersed in the river at Dashashwamedh Ghat?’ Feluda was sitting with a chessboard in front of him, and a book called Great Games of Chess by his side. He had recently started playing chess by himself. Jatayu had arrived when he was almost halfway through the game. He told Srinath, our cook, to bring a fresh pot of tea and began answering Jatayu’s questions between moves. ‘No,’ he replied briefly. ‘Oh, it’s . . . it’s really a spectacular affair! You can’t imagine what it’s like!’ Feluda made the last move, stared for a second at the board and asked, ‘Are you trying to . . . tempt me?’ ‘Well, yes, you’ve guessed it. Heh heh!’ ‘In that case, Lalmohan Babu, you’ll have to describe the scene much better than that. What you just said won’t do at all.’ ‘Why?’ Lalmohan Babu raised his eyebrows. Feluda began putting the chessmen away. ‘Because,’ he said, ‘the word “spectacular” does not, by itself, evoke an image. It doesn’t explain why Vijaya Dashami is special. You are a writer, Lalmohan Babu. You should be able to be a bit more graphic.’ ‘Yes, you’re right, of course,’ said Lalmohan Babu quickly. ‘It was nearly twenty-five years ago, you see, when I saw the celebrations. So the details are a little hazy in my mind. But I still remember both my eyes and ears being dazzled by what I saw.’ ‘There you are! You said it. Eyes and ears. Your description should have something that appeals to one’s senses.’ ‘What?’ ‘Yes. Try to think of exactly what you saw or heard or even smelt! Don’t look so surprised. A particular place has a particular smell, haven’t you noticed? The little alley that leads to the Vishwanath temple in Varanasi smells of incense, flowers, cow dung, dust and sweat. If you came out of the alley and began walking towards the river, you’d pass through a relatively smell-free zone, until you came face to face with a herd of goats. The smell would then be most unpleasant, I can tell you. But then you’d walk on and would soon be greeted with another scent which would be a mixture of the scent of the earth, water, oil, sandalwood, flowers and more incense.’ ‘Hey, that means you’ve been to Banaras!’

‘Yes, when I was in college. I’d gone to play in a cricket match with the Hindu University.’ Lalmohan Babu began fishing in his pocket. ‘The paper cutting you’re looking for,’ said Feluda, ‘slipped out of your pocket and fell on the floor as soon as you walked in. There it is, near that stool.’ ‘Eh heh . . . when I took my handkerchief out, it must have . . .’ I picked it up and handed it to Lalmohan Babu. ‘Is it that story about the sadhubaba in Banaras?’ asked Feluda. ‘You knew!’ Lalmohan Babu complained. ‘Why didn’t you say something? Isn’t it a strange story? All very mysterious.’ I took the cutting back from him and read it. It said: Machchli Baba in Varanasi The arrival of a certain holy man in Varanasi last Thursday has created quite a stir. A senior resident of the city, Abhaycharan Chakravarty, was the first to meet this sadhu at Kedar Ghat and discover that he possessed very special supernatural powers. The sadhu has since been staying in Abhaycharan’s house. His devotees call him ‘Machchli Baba’. According to them, he arrived in Varanasi from Prayag, floating on the river. Yet another Wonder Man. The report did not strike me as anything extraordinary, but Lalmohan Babu was clearly very excited about it. ‘Just imagine!’ he said. ‘Maybe he began his journey from Tibet, right from the source of the Ganges. Oooh, the very thought gives me goosepimples!’ ‘Who told you the source of the Ganges was in Tibet?’ ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Do I mean the Brahmaputra? But never mind. The Ganges starts from the Himalayas, doesn’t it? Isn’t that good enough?’ ‘Would you like to meet this man?’ ‘Wouldn’t you? I mean, can’t you smell a mystery in all this? Machchli Baba—even the name is unique!’ ‘Yes, the name is somewhat unusual, I admit,’ said Feluda, ‘but that’s about the only thing in that story that makes an impression. If one must go to Banaras, why should it be because of a certain sadhu? I would go back just to taste the rabri you can get in Kachauri Gali.’ ‘And suppose you found that the man who makes the rabri was murdered by a person or persons unknown . . . and his blood had splashed on the white rabri and turned it pink—well, that would make your day, wouldn’t it? You’d have a case in Kashi, and earn some cash, ha ha! You haven’t been very busy lately, have you?’ This was true. For about three months Feluda had not accepted a single case, because none had been challenging enough. He had spent the time reading, doing yoga, trying to cut down on smoking, playing chess and seeing films. He even tried growing a beard for a week. On the eighth day, he had taken one look at himself in the mirror and reached for his razor. ‘Look,’ Lalmohan Babu continued, ‘you haven’t got a case, and I haven’t got a plot. For the first time, I couldn’t think up a plot good enough for the Puja sales. For the first time, there won’t be a new book by Jatayu for the pujas. I could have lifted ideas from foreign books and films and produced something anyhow, but I knew you would have caught me out. So I thought that if we could get out of Calcutta, maybe a