Mahitosh Sinha-Roy turned out to be a little different from his photograph. The photo had not done justice to his complexion. He was remarkably fair. His height seemed nearly the same as Feluda’s, and he had put on a little weight since the photo had been taken. His voice was deep and strong. Enough to frighten a tiger if he simply spoke to it, I thought. He met us at the front door and ushered us into a huge drawing room. ‘Please sit down,’ he invited warmly. Feluda mentioned his writing as soon as we had all been introduced. ‘The events you describe are amazing enough. But even apart from those, your language and style are so good that from the literary point of view as well, I think you have made a remarkable contribution.’ A bearer had come in and placed glasses of mango sherbet on a low table. Mahitosh Babu gestured at these and said, ‘Please help yourselves.’ Then he smiled and added, ‘You are very kind, Mr Mitter. It may be that writing was in my blood, but I didn’t know it until four years ago when I first started to write. My grandfather and father were both writers. Mind you, I don’t think their forefathers had anything to do with literature. We were originally Kshatriyas from Rajputana. Oh, you knew that, did you? So, once we were in the business of fighting with other men. Then we left the men and turned to animals. Now I’ve been more or less forced to abandon my gun and pick up a pen.’ ‘Is that your grandfather?’ Feluda asked, looking at an oil painting on the wall. ‘Yes. That is Adityanarayan Sinha-Roy.’ It was an impressive figure. His eyes glinted, in his left hand was a rifle, and the right one was placed lightly on a table. He looked directly at us, holding himself erect, his head tilted proudly. His beard and moustache reminded me of King George V. ‘My grandfather exchanged letters with Bankim Chandra Chatterjee. He was in college at the time Devi Chowdhurani was published. He wrote to Bankim after reading the book.’ ‘The novel was set in these parts, wasn’t it?’ ‘Yes,’ Mahitosh Babu replied with enthusiasm, ‘The Teesta you crossed today was the Trisrota river described in the book. Devi’s barge used to float on this river. But the jungles Bankim described have now become tea estates.’ ‘When did your grandfather become a shikari?’ Lalmohan Babu asked suddenly. Mahitosh Babu smiled. ‘Oh, that’s quite a story,’ he replied, ‘My grandfather was very fond of dogs. He used to go and buy pups from all over this region. There was a time when there must have been at least fifty dogs in this house, of all possible lineages, shapes, sizes and temperament. Among these, his favourite was a Bhutanese dog. There is a Shiva temple near here called the temple of Jalpeshwar. The local people hold a big fair every year during Shivaratri. A lot