bought a new television, but it didn’t do me any good,’ Lalmohan Babu complained. ‘There’s really nothing worth seeing. I tried watching the Mahabharata, but had to switch it off after just five minutes.’ ‘It’s a pity you’re not interested in sports,’ Feluda said. ‘If you were, you could have watched some good programmes. Tennis, cricket, football . . . everything’s covered, games played both here and abroad.’ ‘Doordarshan had written to me recently, saying they’d like to make a TV serial from one of my stories.’ ‘That’s good news, isn’t it?’ ‘Yes, I suppose so, though I cannot imagine who might play Prakhar Rudra, my hero. Can you think of an actor in Bengal who might suit the part? I mean, it’s not like America, is it? They even found someone to play Superman! He looks as though he’s climbed out of the pages of the comic!’ Durga Puja had started. A song from a Hindi film was being played on a loudspeaker. We could hear it clearly from our living room. When he had finished complaining against Doordarshan, Lalmohan Babu tried singing the same song, but had to give up soon. His grandfather was supposed to have been a classical singer, but he himself could not sing even a single note without going out of tune. We had already had tea, but were wondering whether to have a second round, when a car stopped outside our house. The door bell rang a moment later. I opened the door to find a tall and handsome gentleman. His complexion was as fair as a European’s. ‘Is this where Pradosh Mitter lives?’ he asked. ‘Yes, please come in.’ I showed him into our living room. Dressed traditionally in a dhoti and kurta, he had a sophisticated air about him. ‘Please sit down,’ Feluda offered. ‘I am Pradosh Mitter.’ Our visitor took a sofa and looked enquiringly at Lalmohan Babu. ‘He is my friend, Lalmohan Ganguli,’ Feluda explained. Lalmohan Babu said ‘namaskar’, but our visitor did not respond. He appeared somewhat preoccupied. There was a few seconds’ silence. ‘I heard about you from one of your clients,’ he said finally. ‘Sadhan Chakravarty.’ ‘Yes, I worked for him last year. How can I help you? Is there a particular problem?’ ‘I don’t even know whether it merits being described as a problem. You must decide that. But yes, there is something bothering me.’

He took out an envelope from his pocket. In it was a photograph. He brought it out carefully and handed it to Feluda. I peered over Feluda’s shoulder and saw two young boys—seventeen or eighteen years old—standing together, smiling at the camera. Both were dressed in shirts and trousers. It was an old photo and its colour had faded considerably. ‘Can you recognize any of these boys?’ our visitor wanted to know. ‘The one on the left is you,’ Feluda replied. ‘Yes, that’s the one I can recognize too.’ ‘The other one must be your friend.’ ‘Presumably, but I have