‘Do you know what these columns are called in English? Each is an obelisk,’ Feluda told me. Lalmohan Babu repeated the word to himself about five times. I was darting quick looks at the plaques as I passed them by, reading aloud the names written on them: Jackson, Watts, Wells, Larkin, Gibbons, Oldham ...! Some tombs bore the same family name—obviously the people were all related to one another. The earliest date I had noticed so far was 28 July 1779, twelve years before the French Revolution.

When we reached the far end of the path, I realized how large the cemetery was. The sound of traffic going down Park Street had become quite faint. Feluda told me later that there were more than two thousand graves in that cemetery. Lalmohan Babu pointed at a block of apartments on Lower Circular Road, close to the cemetery, and declared that he would never live there, even if someone paid him a hundred thousand rupees to do so.

The uprooted ‘tree’ turned out to be a large, leafy branch from a huge mango tree. It had crashed to the ground, destroying a large part of a tomb in the process. Several smaller branches were also strewn about.

We walked towards the damaged tomb.

The column rising from it was shorter than the others, barely reaching Lalmohan Babu’s shoulders. It was obvious that even before it was hit by the tree, it had been in a state of disrepair. The portion that had escaped being struck by the falling branch was cracked in several places. The plaster had worn off to expose the bricks within. The branch had also broken certain portions of the marble plaque. The broken pieces were scattered on the grass. The recent rains had turned the whole area wet and muddy, but the slush near this particular grave seemed worse than elsewhere in the cemetery. ‘That’s remarkable!’ exclaimed Lalmohan Babu. ‘The word “God” is still there on the plaque—I mean the portion that’s still intact. Look!’

‘Yes, and you can see the year under that line, can’t you?’ Feluda said.

‘Oh yes. 185—the last digit is broken. That “God” must be to do with the master of all things.’

‘You think so?’ Feluda’s question made me glance at him. He was frowning. ‘You haven’t looked carefully at the other plaques. Look at the next one.’

There was a large plaque on the next tomb. It said:

To the memory of

Capt P. O’Reilly, H. M. 44th Regt.

who died 25th May, 1823 aged 38 years

‘The date appears just below the name, see? Most of the plaques follow the same pattern. Besides, did you see the word “God” on any other plaque?’

Feluda was right. I had already read the inscription on at least thirty different plaques, but not one mentioned God.

‘You mean to say “God” was the dead man’s name?’ Lalmohan Babu wanted to know.