The sun, pushing away the clouds, threw its light upon Naxal park, painting its smooth lawns, cobbled pavements, dark trees with delight and fizzing them with kindly warmth. The older people, with drooping necks, felt the heat press their napes and saw the light pour into the ground. The tides of light gently rolled upon the smooth lawns, cobbled pavements, thronging trees. Widening their eyes, the old peers craned their necks, and looked how far the light would reach, until their necks cracked and an injured look appeared on their faces. They drooped back, clutching their strained necks.

The great detective, his hands clasped behind the back, stepped into the premises of Naxal park. He wore a large fedora hat and had a pipe sticking from the corner of his mouth. He scanned the park thoroughly and then unclasped his hands, pulled out his cigar, and took a drag. He then exhaled billows of smoke. His eyes wandered again, and when they spotted the group of older men, his eyes lost their spark. The expression on his face changed, his shoulders stooped. When the older men saw him, he forced a weak smile and made his way out of the park to Nagpokhari. Just as he reached the park’s exit, someone called his name, “Prakash”.

The detective winced, the way criminals wince when they think that they have managed to escape from the authorities only to learn that they were so wrong. He recognised the voice. It was Gyanshyam Manandhar’s. He had seen Manadhar sitting with Hosh Prasad Sharma and Tanka Bahadur Pun. He was trying to avoid any interactions with the trio, but it wasn’t to be.

The detective let out a long breath and his shoulders stooped. He turned slowly and gave the trio a look that said ‘I am so not up for this’. The trio asked him to come sit with them on the bench. Manandhar even gave him a rib-cracking hug. “So, what the Dickens is the matter with you, old top? Still looking after the lost hen?” said Manandhar, and the trio roared into a peal of thundering laughter meant to humiliate the detective.

The detective’s lips trembled, and the cigar clenched between his lips began to wobble nervously. “I saw him, crouched on the corner, studying the marble floor with a magnifying glass, looking for the hen’s footprints,” said Sharma mockingly, and the trio once gains burst into laughter. “You call yourself a detective, but you can’t even find a missing hen,” added Pun. The great detective’s cigar fell and plopped down on the floor. Manandhar kicked it into the clump of moist grass.

The great detective’s eyes moistened. His old, tactless ‘peers’ pouring sacks of salt in his old wounds touched him in the tender spot. What had happened to him, was as the poet Samuel Butler put it “…a kick in that part more hurts honour than deep wounds before.” The great detective’s head began to spin; he gripped Manandhar’s shoulder like a sinking man clutching a floating log. Manandhar stayed still with an evil look on his face. The detective’s world began to spin, and he could no longer hold on to Manandhar’s shoulders, and his legs gave out. He lay sprawled on the floor with his face on the sweet morning grass.

“He shouldn’t have joined detective work if he couldn’t handle the truth. What a weakling,” said Manandhar. The three old peers left his sprawled body and sauntered towards Nagpokhari.