The building had two storeys. It must have been built about twenty years ago. Outside the front gate, a black Ambassador was parked. The nameplate bore two names: N. Biswas and G. Biswas. We rang the bell. A servant opened the door.

‘Is Naren Biswas at home?’

‘He is unwell.’

‘Isn’t he up to receiving visitors at all? I need to see him. There’s a little ... ‘

‘Who are you looking for?’

Someone standing behind the servant had asked the question. A man in his mid-forties stepped forward. He was clean shaven, his eyes were hazel. He was wearing a bush shirt over pyjamas, and a cotton shawl was wrapped around his shoulders.

‘I’d like to return something that belongs to Mr Naren Biswas. It’s his wallet. He dropped it in the Park Street cemetery.’

‘Oh, I see. I am his brother. Please come in. Dada is in bed. He’s still covered in bandages. He can talk, but an accident like that ... I mean, it’s a big shock, after all ...!’

There was a bedroom behind the staircase going up to the first floor. Mr Biswas was in that room, lying in his bed. He appeared darker than his brother and sported a thick moustache. His head was covered by a bandage, but one didn’t have to be told that, underneath the bandage, his head was quite bald.

He lowered the newspaper he was holding in his left hand, and bowed his head in greeting. A bandage was wrapped around his right wrist, so perhaps it was difficult for him to raise both hands in a proper namaskar. His brother left the room. I heard him call out to the servant and ask him to bring two more chairs. Naren Biswas’s room had only one chair, placed in front of a desk, not far from the bed.

Feluda took out Mr Biswas’s wallet and handed it to him.

‘Oh. Thank you. Thank you very much. You went to so much trouble ...!’ he said.

‘No, it was no trouble, I assure you,’ Feluda said most politely. ‘We just happened to be there, and this friend of mine found it, so ...’

Mr Biswas opened the wallet with his left hand and briefly glanced into its compartments. Then he looked enquiringly at Feluda. ‘Happened to be ... in the cemetery?’

Feluda laughed. ‘I was going to ask you the same thing. You are doing some work on Calcutta’s history, aren’t you?’

Mr Biswas sighed. ‘Yes, so I was. But I’ve been adequately punished. I don’t think the wind-god wants me to continue.’

‘The article in Vichitrapatra ...?’