Train journeys are all about possibilities. But a hole in the heart has a certain finality to it. There is no more travelling for a dead body. Perhaps to a funeral pyre, but it will definitely not meet any more hawkers or ticket examiners. I, however, am likely to encounter not just hawkers and ticket examiners, but also the police. How will they treat me? As a hero who protected the modesty of a girl and rid the world of a notorious dacoit, or as a cold-blooded killer who shot dead a man without even knowing his name? I know only one thing: I cannot gamble on finding out. And then Colonel Taylor's words crash into my consciousness like a bolt from the sky.
'CYTLYT, Confuse Your Trail, Lose Your Tail.' I know exactly what I have to do.
Just as the train is about to pull into the next station, where, without doubt, a posse of policemen will be waiting for me, I leap out of the door with the gun still in my hand. I race across the track and jump into another train which is about to steam away from the platform. I don't sit in any compartment; just hang out at the door. As the train passes over a cantilever bridge, I send the gun spinning into the dark river. Then, as the train comes to a stop at the next station, I hop out and find another train going somewhere else. I do this the entire night, moving from station to station, train to train.
Cities go by in a blur. I don't know whether I am travelling north or south, east or west. I don't even know the names of the trains. I just keep changing them. The only thing I know for certain is that I cannot go to Mumbai. Akshay might have told the police about Salim and they could arrest me in Ghatkopar. I also don't want to get off at a dingy, deserted station and attract needless attention. I wait for a station with plenty of light, sound and people.
At nine o'clock in the morning, the train I am travelling in steams on to a bustling, crowded platform. I alight wearing a hundred-per-cent-cotton bush shirt which is torn and has three buttons missing, Levi jeans which are caked with soot and grime, and a fake digital watch. This city seems like a good place to hole up for a while. I see a big yellow board at the edge of the platform bearing its name. It proclaims in bold black letters: 'AGRA. Height above mean sea level 169 metres.'
* * *
Smita holds her hand over her mouth. 'Oh, my God,' she says. 'So all these years you have been living with the guilt of having killed a man?'
'Two men. Don't forget how I pushed Shantaram,' I reply.
'But what happened in the train was an accident. And you could even justify it on the grounds of self-defence. Anyway, I'll first find out whether a case was even registered. I don't think the other passengers would have wanted to implicate you. You rescued them, after all. By the way, what happened to that girl, Meenakshi? Did you see her again?'
'No. Never. Now let's return to the show.'
* * *
In the studio, the lights have been dimmed again.
Prem Kumar turns to me. 'We now move on to question number seven for two hundred thousand rupees. Are you ready?'
'Ready,' I reply.
'OK. Here is question number seven. Who invented the revolver? Was it a) Samuel Colt, b)
Bruce Browning, c) Dan Wesson, or d) James Revolver?'
The music commences. I go into deep thought.
'Have you heard any of these names?' Prem asks me.
'One of them sounds familiar.'
'So do you want to withdraw or would you like to take a chance?'
'I think I will take a chance.'
'Think again. You might lose the one lakh rupees you have won up to now.'
'I have nothing to lose. I am ready to play.'
'OK. So what is your final answer?'
'A. Colt.'
'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! It was indeed Samuel Colt who invented the revolver in 1835. You have just doubled your winnings to two lakh rupees!'
I can't believe it. I have won back my fifty thousand rupees with three times interest. Thanks to a swarthy dacoit, whose name I didn't know.
There are 'oohs' and 'aahs' from the audience. The signature tune is repeated, but the only sound reverberating in my ears is the relentless piston movement of a train travelling from Delhi to Mumbai, via Agra.
Prem Kumar suddenly leaps out of his chair to shake my hand, but finds it limp and unresponsive. If you are taken by surprise in the middle of a game show, the brain takes some time to respond.
A SOLDIER'S TALE
Like clockwork, the air-raid warning siren wails at precisely eight-thirty in the evening, leading to frenzied activity in the chawl. Residents follow the instructions which were announced by loudspeaker the whole of last week in anticipation of an outbreak of hostilities. Switch off all the lights, disconnect all gadgets, turn off the gas, close the house, make an orderly file and proceed to the bunker.
