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 of people from Bhutan come down for that fair, bringing dogs and pups for sale. My grandfather bought one of these

—a large, hairy animal, very cuddly—and brought it home. When the dog was three and a half years old, he was attacked and killed by a cheetah. Grandfather was then a young man. He decided he would settle scores by killing all the cheetahs and any other big cats he could find. He got himself rifles and guns, learnt to shoot and then . . . that was it. He must have killed around one hundred and fifty tigers in twenty-two years. I couldn’t tell you how many other animals he killed—they were endless.’ ‘And you?’ ‘I?’ Mahitosh Babu grinned, then turned to his right. ‘Go on, Shashanka, tell them.’ I noticed with a start that while we were all listening to Mahitosh Babu’s story, another gentleman had quietly entered the room and taken the chair to our left. ‘Tigers? Why, you have written so many books, you tell them!’ Shashanka Babu replied with a smile. Mahitosh Babu turned back to us. ‘I haven’t been able to reach three figures, I must admit. I killed seventy-one tigers and over fifty leopards. Meet my friend, Shashanka Sanyal. We’ve known each other since we were small children. He looks after my timber business.’ There seemed to be a world of difference between Mahitosh Babu and his friend. The latter was barely five feet eight inches tall, his complexion was dark, his voice quiet, and he spoke very gently. Yet, there had to be some common interest to hold them together as friends. ‘Mr Sengupta mentioned something about a man-eater. Has there been any further news?’ Feluda asked. Mahitosh Babu moved in his chair. ‘A tiger doesn’t become a man-eater just because a few people choose to call it so. I would have known, if I had been here and could have seen the body. However, the good news is that whatever animal attacked that poor boy has not yet shown further interest in human flesh.’ Feluda smiled. ‘If indeed it was a man-eater, I am sure you would have dropped your pen and picked up your gun, at least temporarily,’ he remarked. ‘Oh yes. If a tiger went about eating men in my own area, most certainly I would consider it my duty to destroy it.’ We had finished our drinks. Mahitosh Babu said, ‘You must be tired after your journey. Why don’t you go to your room and have a little rest? I’ll get someone in the evening to take you around in my jeep. A road goes through the forest. You may see deer, or even elephants, if you are lucky. Torit, please show them the trophy room and then take them to their own.’ The trophy room turned out to be a hall stashed with the heads of tigers, bears, wild buffalo and deer. Crocodile skins hung on a wall. There was hardly enough room for us all.