Lalmohan babu—alias Jatayu—arrived one day, clutching a box of sweets. That surprised me, since all he ever carried when he came to our house was an umbrella. Whenever he published a new book, he would carry it as a parcel—but that happened twice a year, no more. That day, what he held in his hand was a box from a new sweet shop in Mirzapur Street, called Kallol. It was a white cardboard box tied with a golden ribbon, priced at Rs 25. On two sides of the box, printed in blue, were the words ‘Kallol’s Five-mix Sweetmeats’. Inside, I knew, there were five compartments, each holding a different kind of sweet. In its centre was Kallol’s own special creation—the ‘diamonda’. It was a sandesh filled with syrup, shaped like a diamond and covered with silver foil. Why was Lalmohan babu carrying such a box? And why was there such a triumphant smile on his face? Feluda spoke as soon as Lalmohan babu placed the box on a table and took a seat. ‘Good news from Bombay, I take it? Did you hear from them this morning?’ Lalmohan babu was taken aback by these questions, but the smile did not leave his face. Only his eyebrows rose higher. ‘How did you guess, heh heh?’ ‘The siren at 9 o’clock rang an hour ago. Yet your watch is showing 3.15. It can only mean that when you wore it this morning, you were so excited that you didn’t even glance at it. Did you forget to wind it? Or has the spring gone?’ Lalmohan babu said nothing about his watch. He simply tossed one end of his blue shawl over his shoulder, like an ancient Roman, and said, ‘I’d asked for twenty-five. This morning my servant woke me with a telegram. Here it is.’ He took out a pink telegram from his pocket and read it out: ‘“Producer willing offer ten for bandits please cable consent.” I sent my reply, “happily selling bandits for ten take blessings.”’ ‘Ten thousand?’ Even Feluda, who hardly ever loses his cool, was round-eyed. ‘Your story sold for ten thousand ?’ Lalmohan babu gave a smooth, velvety smile. ‘I haven’t actually got the money. I mean, not yet. I’ll be paid only when I go to Bombay.’ ‘You are going to Bombay?’ Feluda still sounded amazed. ‘Yes, and so are you two. At my expense. I couldn’t have written that story without your help.’ What he said was perfectly true. Perhaps I should explain. It was Jatayu’s long-cherished dream that a film be made from one of his stories. He was naturally keen on a Hindi film, as that was far more likely to make money. So he had started writing a story that he thought might be suitable for a Hindi film. He knew a man called Pulak Ghoshal who worked in the Bombay film world. He was once Lalmohan babu’s neighbour in Gorpar. Having worked as an

assistant director in Tollygunj in Calcutta, he