Thriller: When a photographer witnesses a murder, he turns to a detective to confess his own crimes

“Magic is dying, my friend,” said Janardan Maity.

It was just after nine in the night. We had walked out of the Mahajati Sadan Auditorium on Chittaranjan Avenue, flagged down a cab and settled down in our seats, the gentle night breeze from over the river in the west just managing to provide some much-needed relief from the sweltering heat of June. I was admiring the line of handcarts arranged neatly along the side of the footpath near Muhammad Ali Park, when Maity let out a sigh and uttered those dismal-sounding words.

“Right in front of our eyes,” Maity continued, “and we aren’t doing a thing about it.”

We had just come out after watching a magic show. The magician was a young up-and-coming illusionist whom the papers had given rave reviews. Good magic was a rarity in Kolkata these days – most of the performances were cheap parlour tricks that wouldn’t even impress children, and the rest depended so heavily on glamour and machinery that it sort of ruined the fun. At least that’s what Maity said. During tonight’s show, I had glanced at Maity a couple of times to find that he was not at all impressed by the quality of the tricks being...

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