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 for me, how they managed all these days alone, and whether any other relatives might have come upon hearing of my arrival. Such thoughts flitted through my mind, making me chuckle to myself, though now and then a shadow of melancholy would creep in, only to be quickly pushed aside. Like a madman, I sat there, forgetting entirely where I was.

The rest of the passengers were conversing in their own languages. The two Anglo-Indian ladies were loudly chattering away, talking nonsense that made little sense, bursting into peals of wild, shrill laughter, and generally creating a ruckus. Through their words, their laughter, and the way they tossed their heads, they made it clear that they considered themselves very clever, as if they had been born and raised only in England and had, by some misfortune, ended up in this wretched country.

Their manner of speaking grated on me. No matter how little our people are educated—even the rickshaw pullers in Bombay or Madras—I’ve heard them speak better English than this. Across from me, the Parsi brothers were deep in some business dispute. The Maharashtrian couple beside me, from the moment they boarded, hadn’t stopped bickering in Marathi for even a second. Suddenly, as if reminded of something, they began rummaging through their bags, pulling out every item as if undergoing a customs inspection, tossing everything onto the seat. The husband would try to repack things, only for the wife to open another bag and dump its contents out again. He would get exasperated, and I found the whole scene thoroughly entertaining.

For over an hour, they turned their luggage upside down, but whatever they were searching for remained elusive. Though I couldn’t understand their language, it was clear that each blamed the other—“You must have put it somewhere!” “No, you did!” “No, you must have put it somewhere!” “Somewhere, you must have put it!” Still, I wondered, how could a woman be so scatterbrained when traveling?

Barrister Parvateesam

The husband expressed his feelings with a touch of fear. “Enough now. You and your endless chatter! That thing is in such-and-such a place. I’ve told you a thousand times to get up and take care of it. If only you’d listen to me! And on top of that, you yell at me. All men have the same disease,” she declared, in a booming voice, with exaggerated gestures.

As I mentioned before, though I did not know their language, from their facial expressions and dramatic gestures, I felt as if I understood their entire conversation, and I was greatly amused. On this lonely journey, I found this way of passing the time quite enjoyable. If only I knew their language, I would have joined in their conversation, perhaps stirred up their quarrel a bit more, or helped to settle it. That would have been even more entertaining.

In any case, by the time it was past midnight, one by one, they reluctantly drifted off to sleep, still muttering half-formed words for