Bhowani Junction Read Free

driver had got a signal, and he was whistling because they’d left him standing there among the back walls of the city, half a mile out. It is dirty, squalid out there, and the heat always shimmers above the rooftops like a kind of mirage. That driver was in a bad temper.
    At last I took her elbow and said, ‘Now let’s go up to my office and see what the bloody hell has been happening.’
    She followed me as I shoved through the crowd. Several Wogs turned and glared at me, and one or two muttered abuse under their breaths, but they didn’t dare speak aloud. Victoria must have heard what they were saying, and that made me angry. They’d all got quite out of hand during the war.
    One of the people I pushed out of the way was Surabhai,the local Congress boss. He always wore a collar and tie, a European coat, a white Gandhi cap, and a white dhoti. That day he was wearing green socks and violet sock-suspenders. I heard Victoria, behind me, say, ‘I’m sorry.’
    Surabhai said, ‘ You are sorry? He pushed me, the haughty fellow!’ but he smiled at her. He had a rubbery round face and huge eyes, rather like Eddie Cantor’s. She squeezed past him and came on with me. I wanted to say something—but what?
    The crowd on the platform had heard that something was wrong. You can’t keep secrets in Bhowani even if you want to, and a derailment isn’t a secret. I heard them asking each other, ‘What has happened? … What do you know? … What do you hear?’ A toothless old woman with her lips cracked and reddened from betel chewing reached out a hand like a vulture’s claw and grabbed at me as I passed. ‘Brother, brother, what’s happened?’ she whined.
    I didn’t answer. I could have sworn at her in Hindustani, which I speak very well, but that would have justified her calling me ‘brother’. Besides, although she certainly meant to insult me by suggesting that I was an Indian like her, can you really insult anyone by calling him your brother? I feel you can’t, and yet I don’t want people to think I’m an Indian.
    The stairs to the second storey went up just beyond the Purdah Room. The platform storey all belonged to the stationmaster, but the upper storey was a subdivision of the Delhi Deccan Railway. (Don’t mix it up with the Bhowani Civil District, which was a subdivision of the province—in other words, a part of the government.)
    The railway district had 222¾ running miles of line and thirty-four stations, including Bhowani Junction. Up on the second storey there, on either side of a broad middle corridor, were the offices of people like the District Engineer, who looked after the permanent way, and the Assistant Superintendent of Railway Police, and lots of others you don’t need to know about. Except you have to know that the District Traffic Superintendent’s office was there, at the end of the corridor on the right, facing out over the city. The District Traffic Superintendent was the most important man in theplace, and his name at that time was Mr Patrick Taylor—in other words, me.
    I pushed into my office. The coolie-messenger was squatting in the doorway, and I kicked him on to his feet as I went by. There were more people crowded inside than I could count. The door was marked clearly: No ADMITTANCE EXCEPT ON DUTY , but that wouldn’t make any difference to an Indian, not even a fellow like my new assistant, Kasel, who was supposed to be so efficient.
    The short trip on the motor-bike had dried our clothes on us—Victoria and me—but hadn’t cooled us. Now the perspiration broke out again all over me. The electric punkah whirred on the ceiling, its big arms slowly turning round like a windmill. The air was thick as soup, and all the punkah did was turn over the dust and that filthy bitter bidi smoke and the smell of too many Wogs. There were betel-juice stains all over the floorboards, and I noticed how ragged and splintery the boards were. I was imagining how it all would strike Victoria