We knew Dashashwamedh would be crowded as it was Bijaya Dashami. So we decided to take a different route, past Abhay Chakravarty’s house, to reach Kedar Ghat. Raja Ghat wasn’t far from Kedar. While we were waiting for Feluda’s call, Lalmohan Babu had stepped out for a minute and bought a few ayurvedic pills. ‘To calm my nerves,’ he explained. I noticed now that the pills had had the desired effect. The first lane we turned into had a huge bull standing diagonally across, blocking our way completely. Lalmohan Babu, instead of getting nervous, walked boldly up to it and said, ‘Get out of the way, you!’ The bull stepped aside. Lalmohan Babu passed through. I lingered deliberately, simply to see what he would do next. To my amusement, he turned around, beckoned to me, and said, ‘Come along, Tapesh. Don’t be afraid.’ The number of people gathered both in and outside Abhay Chakravarty’s house seemed much larger than usual. Then I remembered that this was the day Machchli Baba was supposed to leave Varanasi. This meant that there was going to be another big event, in addition to the immersion of Durga. I saw a man from our hotel standing outside. ‘Do you know which ghat Machchli Baba will go from?’ I asked him. ‘Would it be Kedar?’ ‘No, I think it’s going to be Dashashwamedh.’ ‘We’ll have to witness the event from a distance,’ I said to Lalmohan Babu. ‘Good,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘At least we won’t get trampled in the rush!’ It took us five minutes to reach Raja Ghat from Kedar. A number of tall buildings on one side blocked out the sunlight. The river had risen considerably after the rains. The buildings cast long shadows up to the edge of the water. It was only a matter of minutes before the sun would disappear altogether. A row of boats stood by the side of the ghat. From Dashashwamedh came a constant cacophony. It included the sound of drums and bursting of crackers. The immersion of Durga had started. We had crossed Raja Ghat and were walking towards Munshi. I saw the hand-painted poster on the wall a minute later. The spot Feluda had chosen was really very quiet. Besides, we could see Dashashwamedh fairly clearly, although we were not very close. ‘Durga Mai ki jai!’ shouted the crowd. A figure of Durga was raised on top of a barge and lowered into the water. The sun had gone. But the crowd at Dashashwamedh seemed to have swollen further. Lalmohan Babu looked at his watch. ‘Twenty to six,’ he said. ‘If only your cousin was here with his telefocus—’ he couldn’t finish. A fresh shout had risen from the crowd. ‘Guruji ki jai! Machchli Baba ki jai!’

At one end of Dashashwamedh, about twenty-five yards from where we were standing, facing us was a platform. A few people were standing on it. Now they suddenly grew a bit restless. Each one of them was craning his neck and staring at the steps of the ghat. The reason soon became clear. A large group was coming down the steps, making its way to the platform. Its leader was none other than Machchli Baba. He was still clad in bright red, except for a yellow patch round his throat. Clearly, his followers had heaped garlands on him. Most of the people got down from the platform. Only a couple of them remained, to help the baba climb up. He raised his arms and faced the crowd. We couldn’t hear what he said. Then he turned around and began walking towards the edge of the platform, his arms raised high. He stood still for a moment, facing the river. ‘Machchli Baba ki jai!’ shouted his devotees. The baba dived into the water. A strange noise rose from the crowd. Lalmohan Babu called it ‘mass wailing’. Machchli Baba could be seen swimming for a few minutes. Then he disappeared. ‘He’ll swim all the way to Patna, not stopping anywhere, not seen by anyone . . . thrilling, isn’t it?’ said Lalmohan Babu. I turned my head to answer him, but froze at what I saw. While we were both taking in the events at Dashashwamedh Ghat, a figure had stolen up silently in the fading light, and was standing next to us. His face was hidden behind a thick beard and moustache. He wore a turban, a long shirt, a waistcoat, loose pyjamas and Afghani shoes. An Afghan? Here? Then it dawned upon me. Kabuliwala! The figure raised a reassuring hand. Feluda! He had come dressed as a Kabuliwala. Why, wasn’t this the costume an actor at the Bengali Club was wearing the other day? ‘Wonder—’ began Lalmohan Babu. Feluda put a finger against his lips and stopped him. Neither of us knew what was about to happen, or why Feluda had found it necessary to put on a disguise What we did know—very well—was that if Feluda asked us to keep our mouths shut, we would have to. I glanced at him. He was looking straight at Dashashwamedh Ghat. My eyes automatically followed his gaze. There were two barges on the river. One was waiting near the steps. The other was at some distance, slowly making its way to the ghat. Five or six men were sitting on its roof. It was impossible to see them clearly. ‘Durga Mai ki jai! Jai Durga Mai ki!’ began the crowd once more. Another figure of Durga was being brought down the steps. It glittered as it caught the light from the gas lamps. I could recognize it easily even from afar. It was the one from Mr Ghoshal’s house. The three of us stood like statues, watching the process of immersion. The idol was carried to the top of the barge, which began to move slowly towards the centre of the river, where the water was deeper. Then, with a sudden movement, the idol rose high into the air, tilted to