'Coke, Fanta, Thums Up, Limca, 7 Up,' he shouts in a high-pitched voice. The bottles are chilled, we can see tiny droplets of moisture beading their surface. Salim looks at the soft drinks and passes his tongue over his parched lips. He feels his front pocket and pats it reassuringly. The vendor looks at him hopefully. Salim shakes his head and the man moves on.
Soon another pedlar enters the compartment, a bearded old man wearing round glasses. There is a large tray hanging from his neck, filled with a plethora of rusty tins, cloudy glass bottles and small plastic packets containing an assortment of gnarled roots, dry leaves, powders and seeds.
'Yusuf Fahim, Travelling Hakim,' he announces. 'I have a treatment for every ailment. From cancer to constipation, just name your condition.' Unfortunately for him, there are no sick persons in the compartment, and he departs shortly, leaving behind a pungent smell of turmeric and ginger.
We watch the flickering lights of the city as the train rushes past housing colonies and sports stadiums. We catch fleeting glimpses of people sitting in their drawing rooms, watching TV, eating dinner, making beds. When our destination is only two stops away, we hear shuffling footsteps from the far side of the compartment.
A small, undernourished boy of about seven or eight appears. He is wearing a blue top and dusty shorts. He walks with the help of a stick and holds an ektara in his hands. We do not recognize him: he is not one of Maman's boys.
He stops no more than fifteen feet from us and breaks into a full-throated rendition of 'Sunire Maine Nirbal Ke Balaram – I have heard that Krishna comes to the aid of the weak', one of Surdas's most famous poems.
We cringe as the singer's melodious voice cascades over the compartment. Images of Maman's boys come flooding back to us. Raju and Radhey and Ashok and Moolay. Salim squeezes up to me and I shift deeper into the corner of my seat. But like a radar the singer's head tracks us. He seems to look at us accusingly through unseeing eyes. For five tortuous minutes we listen to him complete his song. Then he takes out a begging bowl and asks for alms. Only a handful of passengers are left in the compartment and nobody even bothers to hunt for change.
As the empty-handed singer is about to pass our side, Salim takes something from his front pocket. He holds it in a clenched fist and looks guiltily at me. I nod silently. With a pained expression, Salim opens his fist over the singer's outstretched hand. A crumpled, hundred-rupee note drifts into the beggar's bowl.
* * *
Smita shivers involuntarily. 'I cannot imagine there are still people in this day and age who can inflict such cruelty on innocent children.'
'It is sad, but true. If Salim and I had not escaped that night, perhaps we would still be singing songs on local trains, like that blind singer,' I reply.
'So did you finally land that job with Neelima Kumari?'
'Yes, I did.'
'And what happened to Salim?'
'Neelima Kumari arranged a room for him in a chawl in Ghatkopar.'
'But in the last story, weren't you working in a foundry and living in the chawl?'
'That was after I had left Neelima Kumari – or rather, after she had left me.'
'Meaning?'
'You will soon find out.'
Smita shakes her head, and presses 'Play' on the DVD remote.
* * *
Prem Kumar faces the camera. 'We now move on to question number four for ten thousand rupees. This one is also straightforward, but only if you know your devotional singers. Mr Thomas has told us he believes in all the religions. Let's hope he knows his bhajans.' He turns to me. 'Are you ready?'
'Ready,' I reply.
'OK. Question number four. Surdas, the blind poet, was a devotee of which god: a) Ram, b) Krishna, c) Shiva or d) Brahma?'
The music commences.
'B. Krishna.'
'Are you absolutely, one hundred per cent sure?'
'Yes.'
There is a crescendo of drums. The correct answer flashes.
'Absolutely, one hundred per cent correct! You have just won ten thousand rupees!' declares Prem Kumar. The audience claps. Prem Kumar grins. I don't.
HOW TO SPEAK AUSTRALIAN
'Name, sex and age, please, Sir,' says the timid-looking census man standing in the porch wearing thick, black-rimmed glasses. He carries a sheaf of forms with him and fiddles with a blue felt pen.
Colonel Taylor has an irritated expression on his face as he begins the introductions. He is dressed in a cream-coloured linen suit. He wears suits all the time, in summer and in winter.
