We chatted in Niranjan Babu’s room for a while, then went for a walk. Niranjan Babu came with us. We came out of the hotel and began walking towards the river. The road turned right and a slope began, to join the steps of the ghat. Beggars lined the steps and amidst them, a large number of goats roamed freely. ‘What a nose you must have, Felu Babu!’ exclaimed Jatayu. ‘I recognize the smell now, but how could I have forgotten it?’ A strange noise rose above the general noise of the traffic. It was simply the din that came from Dashashwamedh Ghat. Hundreds of people milled around, doing hundreds of different things. ‘Spectacular’ was the word that automatically came to my mind, but I didn’t dare mention it. I could see the railway bridge from the steps of the ghat. Across the river lay Ram Nagar, where the Maharajah had his palace. We walked over to Man Mandir Ghat, which was adjacent to Dashashwamedh. There was a building here that contained some astronomical instruments designed nearly three hundred years ago. It was a mini ‘Jantar Mantar’, like the one in Delhi. Feluda began walking towards this building, possibly with a view to looking at these instruments, when something happened. It was much more quiet here. All that could be heard were strains of a Hindi song being played somewhere on a loudspeaker, and the noise of people washing clothes at the ghat, a few feet below. On our right was a banyan tree. Its top branches leant towards the roof of a yellow two-storey house. A shout from the roof made us all glance up quickly. A boy was standing on the parapet on top of the roof, facing a red house just opposite. There was obviously someone on the roof of the red house as well, though he was hidden from sight. It was this unseen figure the boy was shouting at. ‘Shaitan Singh!’ he shouted again, like a film hero. ‘That child’s from the Ghoshal family,’ whispered Niranjan Babu. ‘A reckless devil!’ My stomach began to churn. If the boy lost his balance just once, he’d drop straight to the concrete pavement. No one could save him. ‘There is no point in hiding any more!’ he yelled. ‘I know where you are!’ Lalmohan Babu spoke this time. His voice sounded hoarse. ‘Shaitan Singh is a creation of my rival writer Akrur Nandi.’ ‘I am coming to get you!’ said the boy. ‘Get ready to surrender.’ The boy disappeared. An instant later, a long bamboo pole appeared from one corner of the roof of the yellow house, stretching to that of the red one, making a bridge between the two. ‘What is he trying to do?’ Feluda said softly.

‘Shaitan Singh, I’ll grab you before you can finish counting up to ten!’ What followed made us break into a cold sweat. The boy climbed over the railing, and began swinging from the bamboo pole. ‘One . . . two . . . three . . . four. . .’ Shaitan Singh was counting from the red house. The boy started making his way to his adversary, still hanging from the pole. ‘Do something!’ urged Niranjan Babu. ‘My colic pain’s coming back!’ ‘Sh-h-h,’ hissed Feluda. There was nothing we could do, except watch breathlessly what happened next. ‘ . . . six . . . seven . . . eight. . . nine . . .’ The boy had reached the opposite house. Now he swung himself over the wall and dropped on to the roof. This was followed by a piercing scream from Shaitan Singh and gleeful laughter from our hero. ‘Did he actually kill him, do you think?’ Lalmohan Babu asked anxiously. ‘I thought I saw something like a dagger hanging from his waist.’ Feluda began striding towards the red house. ‘God knows what the villain is like, but the hero is clearly remarkably brave,’ he said. ‘We must tell the child’s father,’ observed Niranjan Babu. We didn’t actually have to enter the red house. Just as we reached its front door, we heard footsteps coming down a flight of stairs, and the voice of the first boy. ‘. . . Then he’ll fall into the river with a loud splash, and the river will carry him straight to the sea. Then a shark will come and swallow him. But when this shark charges at Captain Spark, Captain Spark will strike it with a harpoon, and . . .’ He couldn’t finish, for the two boys had come out of the door and seen us. They stopped abruptly, staring. The first one was a very good-looking child, about ten years old. The other seemed a bit older, and clearly not from a Bengali family. Both had chewing gum in their mouth. Feluda said to the first boy, ‘I can see that your friend is Shaitan Singh. Who are you?’ ‘Captain Spark,’ said the boy sharply. ‘Don’t you have another name? What does your father call you?’ ‘My name is Captain Spark. Shaitan Singh killed my father in the jungles of Africa with a poisoned arrow. I was seven then. My eyes sparkle with the light of revenge. That’s why I am called Captain Spark.’ ‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Lalmohan Babu. ‘This boy seems to have memorized every word Akrur Nandi ever wrote!’ The boy glared at him, then walked away with his friend with infinite dignity. Soon they were both out of sight. ‘A born actor,’ remarked Lalmohan Babu. ‘Do you happen to know the Ghoshals?’ Feluda asked Niranjan Babu. ‘Of course. Everyone in Kashi knows them. They have been living here for nearly a hundred years. That little boy’s grandfather, Ambika Ghoshal, lives here permanently. He used to be a solicitor, but has retired now. The boy’s father, Umanath Ghoshal, lives in Calcutta. He runs a business of his own.

He comes here with his family every year before Durga Puja. They have the puja in their