B yomkesh folded the morning’s newspaper neatly and put it aside. Then he leaned back in his chair and looked out of the window abstractedly.

The sun was shining brightly outside. It was a fogless February morning. There wasn’t even a cloud in the sky. We had the second floor of the house all to ourselves. The window in the drawing room provided a nice view of a part of the city and the sky. Down below, the sounds of the city coming awake had already begun; there was no end to the rush of traffic and activity on Harrison Road. Some of this bustle seemed to have carried over to the sky. Sparrows were flying around, filling the air with their uncalled-for chirps; way above them, a flock of pigeons were soaring, as if hoping to circle the sun. It was nearly eight o’clock. The two of us had just finished breakfast and were lazily turning the pages of the newspaper, looking for interesting news from the world outside.

Byomkesh turned away from the window and said, ‘Have you noticed that a strange advertisement has been appearing in the newspaper for the last few days?’

I said, ‘No. I do not read advertisements.’

Raising an incredulous eyebrow, Byomkesh said, ‘You don’t read advertisements? Then what do you read?’

‘Just what everyone reads in a newspaper—news.’

‘In other words, stories about someone in Manchuria who has a bleeding finger, or somebody who has had triplets in Brazil—that’s what you read! What’s the point of reading that? If you are looking for genuine, relevant news, look to the advertisements.’

Byomkesh was a strange man, as will soon be evident. On the surface, from his looks or even his conversation, one wouldn’t judge him to be extraordinary in any way. But if he was confronted or taunted into a state of agitation, his real self emerged from within its shell. In general he was a reserved person. But once he was jeered or ridiculed and lost his cool, his inherent razor-sharp intelligence ripped apart all modicum of uncertainty or restraint and then his conversation was truly something worth listening to.

I could not resist the temptation to needle him a little. ‘Oh, is that so?’ I said. ‘But then these newspapermen are real scoundrels, aren’t they? Instead of filling the newspapers with lots of advertisements, they waste the space by printing pages of meaningless news.’

Byomkesh’s eyes grew sharp. ‘They are not to blame, ‘ he replied. ‘Since their newspapers would not sell unless people like you are entertained, the poor souls have to come up with all that rubbish. But the real meaty news lies in the personals. If you want to know all kinds of important things like what is happening around you, who is using what ruse to rob whom in broad daylight, what new schemes are being hatched to smuggle contraband goods etc., you have to read the personal columns. Reuters’ telegrams do not carry that stuff.’

I