story (without saying a word to Feluda). The telegram he just showed us was in response to his letter. Perhaps he had realized that twenty-five thousand was a bit excessive.
‘Aaah!’ said Lalmohan babu, sipping hot tea, his eyes half closed. ‘Pulak told me they haven't changed the original story. Most of the details that I—sorry, we— wrote …’
Feluda raised a hand and stopped him. ‘I'd feel happier if you didn't say “we”. You wrote that story.’
‘But …’
‘No buts. Even Shakespeare took ideas from other people. But did anyone ever hear him say “our Hamlet ”? Never. I may have suggested some of the ingredients, but you were the cook. I cannot cook like you. I simply haven't got your touch!’
Lalmohan babu grinned from ear to ear in gratitude. ‘Thank you, sir. Anyway, he said there were no major changes made to the story. Only a minor one.’
‘Oh? And what's that?’
‘It's the funniest thing. You’ll call it telepathy, I'm sure. You see, I'd mentioned a high-rise building with forty-three floors. My smuggler, Dhundiram Dhurandhar, lives in a flat in that building. You always tell me to pay attention to detail, so I found a name for that building—Shivaji Castle. I thought the name of a Maharashtrian hero would be most appropriate, since all the action took place in Bombay. Pulak wrote saying there really is a tall building in Bombay with the same name. And guess what? The producer of the film lives there! What can you call it but telepathy?’
‘Hm. What about the kung-fu? Are they keeping it or not?’ Feluda asked.
We three had gone to see Enter the Dragon . Lalmohan babu had instantly decided that his story must have kung-fu in it. In reply to Feluda's question, he said, ‘Of course they are. I asked them specially. Pulak says they are getting a fight-master from Madras to handle the kung-fu scenes. I believe he was trained in Hong Kong!’
‘When does the shooting start?’
‘I don't know. I'm going to write again to Pulak and get the date. Then I’ll arrange our travel. How can we stay here in Calcutta when they start shooting our—I mean my—story?’
I bit into a ‘diamonda’. I had had it before, but it had never tasted as delicious as it did that day.
C HAPTER 2
L almohan babu returned the following Sunday. Feluda had decided, in the meantime, that he'd offer to meet half the expenses for our travel to Bombay. He had made a little money recently—not only from the cases he'd handled, but also from writing. In the last three months he had translated two books written in English (both were travelogues written by famous travellers in the nineteenth century) and been paid an advance. I had seen him write before in his free time. This was the first time he had done it seriously.
Lalmohan babu rejected his offer outright. ‘Are you mad?’ he asked. ‘In the matter of writing, sir, you are my god and godfather. If I am willing to meet your expenses, it is only out of gratitude. Treat it as your fee!’
So saying, he took out two aeroplane tickets from his pocket and placed them on the table. ‘The flight is at 10.45 on Tuesday morning. We have to check in an hour before that. I will meet you at the airport.’
‘When is the shooting going to start?’
‘Thursday. They're starting with the climax—that scene with the horse, a car and a train.’
Lalmohan babu had another piece of news for us. ‘Yesterday, Feluda babu, something interesting happened in the evening. A film producer here in Calcutta turned up at my house. He has an office in Dharamtala, he said. He'd got my address from the publishers. Said he wanted to make a film from my Bandits ! It seems no Bengali film has a chance, unless it shows the same things you see in Hindi films. I had to tell him my story was already sold, which seemed to disappoint him no end. Mind you, he hadn't read the book himself, but had heard about it from a nephew. He was surprised to hear I'd written it
‘Aaah!’ said Lalmohan babu, sipping hot tea, his eyes half closed. ‘Pulak told me they haven't changed the original story. Most of the details that I—sorry, we— wrote …’
Feluda raised a hand and stopped him. ‘I'd feel happier if you didn't say “we”. You wrote that story.’
‘But …’
‘No buts. Even Shakespeare took ideas from other people. But did anyone ever hear him say “our Hamlet ”? Never. I may have suggested some of the ingredients, but you were the cook. I cannot cook like you. I simply haven't got your touch!’
Lalmohan babu grinned from ear to ear in gratitude. ‘Thank you, sir. Anyway, he said there were no major changes made to the story. Only a minor one.’
‘Oh? And what's that?’
‘It's the funniest thing. You’ll call it telepathy, I'm sure. You see, I'd mentioned a high-rise building with forty-three floors. My smuggler, Dhundiram Dhurandhar, lives in a flat in that building. You always tell me to pay attention to detail, so I found a name for that building—Shivaji Castle. I thought the name of a Maharashtrian hero would be most appropriate, since all the action took place in Bombay. Pulak wrote saying there really is a tall building in Bombay with the same name. And guess what? The producer of the film lives there! What can you call it but telepathy?’
‘Hm. What about the kung-fu? Are they keeping it or not?’ Feluda asked.
We three had gone to see Enter the Dragon . Lalmohan babu had instantly decided that his story must have kung-fu in it. In reply to Feluda's question, he said, ‘Of course they are. I asked them specially. Pulak says they are getting a fight-master from Madras to handle the kung-fu scenes. I believe he was trained in Hong Kong!’
‘When does the shooting start?’
‘I don't know. I'm going to write again to Pulak and get the date. Then I’ll arrange our travel. How can we stay here in Calcutta when they start shooting our—I mean my—story?’
I bit into a ‘diamonda’. I had had it before, but it had never tasted as delicious as it did that day.
C HAPTER 2
L almohan babu returned the following Sunday. Feluda had decided, in the meantime, that he'd offer to meet half the expenses for our travel to Bombay. He had made a little money recently—not only from the cases he'd handled, but also from writing. In the last three months he had translated two books written in English (both were travelogues written by famous travellers in the nineteenth century) and been paid an advance. I had seen him write before in his free time. This was the first time he had done it seriously.
Lalmohan babu rejected his offer outright. ‘Are you mad?’ he asked. ‘In the matter of writing, sir, you are my god and godfather. If I am willing to meet your expenses, it is only out of gratitude. Treat it as your fee!’
So saying, he took out two aeroplane tickets from his pocket and placed them on the table. ‘The flight is at 10.45 on Tuesday morning. We have to check in an hour before that. I will meet you at the airport.’
‘When is the shooting going to start?’
‘Thursday. They're starting with the climax—that scene with the horse, a car and a train.’
Lalmohan babu had another piece of news for us. ‘Yesterday, Feluda babu, something interesting happened in the evening. A film producer here in Calcutta turned up at my house. He has an office in Dharamtala, he said. He'd got my address from the publishers. Said he wanted to make a film from my Bandits ! It seems no Bengali film has a chance, unless it shows the same things you see in Hindi films. I had to tell him my story was already sold, which seemed to disappoint him no end. Mind you, he hadn't read the book himself, but had heard about it from a nephew. He was surprised to hear I'd written it
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