Even a little while ago it had been possible to stare out of the window and look at the yellow earth, criss-crossed with rivers that looked like silk ribbons and sweet little villages with tiny little houses in them. But now grey puffs of cloud had blocked out that scene totally. So I turned away from the window and began looking at my co-passengers in the plane. Next to me sat Feluda, immersed in a book on space travel. He always read a lot, but I had never seen him read two books—one straight after the other—that were written on the same subject. Only yesterday, back at home, he had been reading something about the Takla Makan desert. Before that, he had finished a book on international cuisine, and another of short stories. It was imperative, he’d always maintained, for a detective to gain as much general knowledge as possible. Who knew what might come in handy one day? There were two men sitting diagonally opposite me. One of them was barely visible. All I could see was his right hand and a portion of his blue trousers. He was beating one of his fingers on his knee. Perhaps he was singing quietly. The other gentleman sitting closer to us had a bright and polished look about him. His greying hair suggested he might be in his mid-forties, but apart from that he seemed pretty well-preserved. He was reading the Statesman with great concentration. Feluda might have been able to guess a lot of things about the man, but I couldn’t think of anything at all although I tried very hard. ‘What are you gaping at?’ Feluda asked under his breath, thereby startling me considerably. Then he cast a sidelong glance at the man and said, ‘He’s not as flabby as he might have been. After all, he does eat a lot, doesn’t he?’ Yes, indeed. Now I remembered having seen him ask the air hostess for two cups of tea in the past hour, with which he had eaten half-a-dozen biscuits. ‘What else can you tell me about him?’ I asked curiously. ‘He’s used to travelling by air.’ ‘How do you know that?’ ‘Our plane had slipped into an air pocket a few minutes ago, remember?’ ‘Oh yes. I felt so strange! My stomach began to churn.’ ‘Yes, and it wasn’t just you. Many other people around us had grown restless, but that gentleman didn’t even lift his eyes from his paper.’ ‘Anything else?’ ‘His hair at the back is tousled.’ ‘So?’

‘He has not once leant back in his seat in the plane. He’s sat up straight throughout, either reading or having tea. So obviously at Dum Dum—’ ‘Oh, I get it! He must have had some time to spare at Dum Dum airport, at least time enough to sit back against a sofa and relax for a while. That’s how his hair got tousled.’ ‘Very good. Now you tell me which part of India he comes from.’ ‘That’s very difficult, Feluda. He’s wearing a suit and he’s reading an English newspaper. He could be a Bengali, a Punjabi, a Gujarati or a Maharashtrian, anything!’ Feluda clicked his tongue disapprovingly. ‘You’ll never learn to observe properly, will you? What’s he got on his right hand?’ ‘A news—no, no, I see what you mean. He’s wearing a ring.’ ‘And what does the ring say?’ I had to screw up my eyes to peer closely. Then I saw that in the middle of the golden ring was inscribed a single word: ‘Ma’. The man had to be a Bengali. I wanted to ask Feluda about other passengers, but at this moment there was an announcement to say that we were about to reach Bagdogra. ‘Please fasten your seat-belts and observe the no-smoking sign.’ We were on our way to Gangtok, the capital of Sikkim. We might have gone to Darjeeling again, where we had been twice already to spend our summer holidays. But at the last minute Feluda suggested a visit to Gangtok, which sounded quite interesting. Baba had to go away to Bangalore on tour, so he couldn’t come with us. ‘You and Felu could go on your own,’ Baba told me. ‘I’m sure Felu could take a couple of weeks off. Don’t waste your holiday in the sweltering heat of Calcutta.’ Feluda had suggested Gangtok possibly because he had recently read a lot about Tibet (I, too, had read a travelogue by Sven Hedin). Sikkim had a strong Tibetan influence. The King of Sikkim was a Tibetan, Tibetan monks were often seen in the gumphas in Sikkim, many Tibetan refugees lived in Sikkimese villages. Besides, many aspects of Tibetan culture—their music, dances, costumes and food—were all in evidence in Sikkim. I jumped at the chance to go to Gangtok. But then, I would have gone anywhere on earth, quite happily, if I could be with Feluda. Our plane landed at Bagdogra at 7.30 a.m. Baba had arranged a jeep to meet us here. But before climbing into it, we went to the restaurant at the airport to have breakfast. It would take us at least six hours to reach Gangtok. If the roads were bad, it might take even longer. However, since it was only mid-April, hopefully heavy rains hadn’t yet started. So the roads ought to be in good shape. I had finished an omelette and just started on a fish-fry, when I saw the same gentleman from the plane rise from the next table and walk over to ours, grinning broadly. ‘Are you Kang, or Dang, or Gang?’ he asked, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. I stared, holding a piece of fish-fry a few inches from my mouth. What on earth did this man mean? What language was he speaking in? Or was it some sort of a code? But Feluda smiled in return and replied immediately, ‘We’re Gang.’ ‘Oh good. Do you have a jeep? I mean, if you do, can I come with