We left for Rumtek as planned, taking the road to Siliguri. The same road turned right to join a new road that went straight up to Rumtek. Both roads passed through picturesque villages and green and gold maize fields. I found the ride thoroughly enjoyable, despite the fact that the sun had disappeared and the sky had started to turn grey. Our driver was driving very cautiously. Feluda and I sat with him in the front. Helmut and Mr Sarkar sat at the back, facing each other. Helmut’s foot, he said, was now a lot better. The pain had gone, thanks to a German pain balm he had used. Mr Sarkar seemed much more cheerful. I Could hear him humming a Hindi song. Only Feluda was totally silent and withdrawn. I knew he was trying very hard to find answers to those six questions. If we hadn’t already planned this trip, he would have spent the afternoon scribbling in his notebook. Our jeep turned right, bringing into view new houses and buildings, and rows of what looked like bunting. I learnt later that Tibetans hung square pieces of cloth from ropes outside their houses in the belief that they ward off evil spirits. A few minutes later, a faint noise that had already reached my ears grew louder. It was a mixture of the deep and sombre sound of a horn, clanking of cymbals and a shrill note from a flute. This must be the music for the Lama dance, I thought, as our jeep pulled up outside the huge gate of the monastery. ‘The Lamas are dan-dancing,’ informed Mr Sarkar, possibly for Helmut’s benefit. All of us climbed out. Passing through the gate, we found ourselves in a large open courtyard. A beautiful blue and white embroidered shamiana stood over it. The audience sat under the shamiana. About ten men, wearing bright costumes and rather grotesque masks, were dancing before this audience, jumping and swaying to the music. The musicians were all dressed in red. Small boys—barely ten years old—were blowing the horns, each one of which was several feet long. I had never seen anything like it. Helmut started taking photos. He was carrying three cameras today. ‘Would you like to sit down?’ asked Mr Sarkar. ‘What do you want to do?’ Feluda said. ‘I have seen this kind of thing before, in Kalimpong. I’m going to have a look at the temple behind this courtyard. Its inside walls are supposed to be beautifully carved.’ Mr Sarkar left. Feluda and I sat down on the floor. ‘Tradition is a strange thing,’ remarked Feluda. ‘A traditional dance like this can make you forget you’re living in the twentieth century. I don’t think this form of dance has changed at all in the last thousand years.’ ‘Why is this place called a gumpha?’ ‘No, this isn’t a gumpha. A gumpha is a cave. This is a monastery. See those little rooms on the other side? That’s where the monks stay. All these little boys with shaved heads, wearing long Tibetan

robes are being trained to become monks. In a monas—’ Feluda broke off. I looked at him quickly to find him frowning, his mouth hanging open. Now what was the matter? What had he suddenly thought of? ‘It’s this mountain air,’ he said finally, shaking his head. ‘It’s affecting my brain. I’ve stopped thinking. Why did it take me so long to work out what that telegram meant? It’s so simple!’ ‘How is it simple? I still can’t—’ ‘Look, it said “sick”. That means Sikkim. And “monster” is monastery.’ ‘Hey, that makes sense! What does the whole thing say?’ ‘YOUR SON MAY BE IS A SICK MONSTER. If you read “IN” for “IS”, it says YOUR SON MAY BE IN A SIKKIM MONASTERY.’ ‘Does that mean Mr Shelvankar’s son, who left home fifteen years ago, is here right now?’ ‘That’s what Pritex said. If Shelvankar had managed to figure out the meaning of this telegram, he might well have started to feel hopeful. From what I’ve heard, he loved his son and wanted him back.’ ‘Perhaps he was going to that gumpha the day he died only to look for his son.’ ‘That’s entirely possible. And if his son was really somewhere in Sikkim, the chances of . . .’ Feluda broke off again. Then I heard him mutter under his breath, ‘Will . . . will . . . if Shelvankar made a will leaving everything to his son, he stood to gain a lot.’ Feluda rose and made his way out of the crowd. I followed quickly. He was obviously feeling restless, having just discovered what the telegram had really meant. I saw him look around. Was he looking for an Indian among the Tibetans? We began walking in the direction of the temple, where Mr Sarkar had disappeared a few minutes ago. There were fewer people on the other side of the courtyard. As we passed the rooms in which the monks lived, we saw a couple of very old monks sitting outside in the corridor, turning a prayer wheel silently, their eyes closed. If their heavily wrinkled faces were anything to go by, they must have been a hundred years old. Behind the rooms was a long veranda. Its walls were covered with pictures depicting scenes from the Buddha’s life. The veranda led to a dark hall. Inside it, flickering oil lamps stood in rows. A huge wooden door, painted red, had been thrown open, but there was no one at the door. Feluda and I stepped in quietly. The dark, damp hall was filled with a strange scent of incense. Incredibly long lengths of bright silk, heavily embroidered, hung from the high ceiling. Benches, draped in colourful fabrics, stood in corners, as did what looked like very large drums. These were supported by bamboo rods. Behind these, in the darkest corner of the hall, were a number of tall statues, chiefly of the Buddha. Flowers