The matter was finally settled. After all that distress, I managed to buy just one or two absolutely essential items and made my way out.

After wandering about, watching the festivities, I went to a hotel for some refreshments. But as it turned out, that place catered only to non-vegetarians. Realizing this, I immediately stepped out and this time went to a vegetarian hotel. There, I managed to put something in my stomach and set off again. Deciding there was nothing more to see here, I resolved to return home that very night and hurried back to my lodging.

That night, I calmly arrived at Victoria Terminus in good time. I asked for a ticket to Nidadavolu.

He asked, “Which country is Nidadavolu in?”

“It’s in our own country, on the eastern coast, in the Madras State. It’s a small station about three hundred miles north of Madras, on the M.S.M. railway line. I don’t have a map with me, otherwise I’d show you,” I replied.

“Oh, I see. No problem. But we don’t have tickets to Nidadavolu. If you want, I can give you one to Madras,” he said.

“I don’t want to travel all the way to Madras and then go back north again. That would be both troublesome and a waste for me. So, please write the ticket to Nidadavolu. Or perhaps you’ve heard of a place called Bezwada? If you can give me a ticket there, that’s fine too,” I said.

“In that case, I can give you a ticket to Bezwada,” he said, and began writing it out. Looking at the ticket, I politely asked, “Could you please make it second class for me?” He glanced at me, a bit flustered, and said, “Excuse me, sir, which place did you want again?”

“Nidadavolu,” I repeated. Immediately, he pulled out the India Guide, looked up the town, calculated how far it was, how much the fare would be, and quickly wrote out the ticket for me. “Why didn’t you mention this at the start, sir? Forgive me for putting you through this trouble,” he said, standing up respectfully to hand me the ticket.

I handed my luggage to a porter and boarded the train. There was still quite a bit of time before departure, so I took out a book and sat reading in the compartment. I had to wait there for nearly an hour.

Gradually, the compartment filled up with people. In my carriage, two Anglo-Indian young women, a couple of Parsis, and a Maharashtrian husband and wife boarded and took their seats. Seeing me sitting all by myself, sprawled comfortably, the Maharashtrian couple came over without hesitation and settled themselves cozily on my berth. The station was bustling with all the usual commotion. The train set off. “Ah, life is moving forward,” I thought.

I was happy, thinking, “In two days, I’ll be home safe and sound.” I wondered what the Mughalpura station would look like now, how eagerly my family must be waiting