Mumbai

Grandfather Patil stood in the doorway, his cane planted in front of him, watching the three of them.

"We're off, Grandpa," Aditya said.

His grandfather nodded, then glanced at Madan and warned, "Don't cause trouble. Keep an eye on Aditya."

Madan lowered his head and replied, "Mm."

Raju stood behind them. On occasions like this, all he needed to do was stand with his head lowered.

Aditya turned and caught a flash of red through the crack in the door. He rubbed his fingers together and laughed.

"Let's go." "Off we go!"

The three left the village, caught an ox cart to the county town, then transferred to a long-distance bus to the railway station.

Varanasi Railway Station was small. The waiting hall was packed shoulder to shoulder, luggage piled on the floor, children darting between the bags.

The air was thick with the mingled smells of fried flatbread, sweat, and curry.

There was no such thing as checking tickets at an Indian railway station. Anyone could walk straight onto the platforms beside the tracks.

As for inspecting tickets, that was the conductor's job once everyone had boarded.

Aditya bought three tickets: first-class hard seats, twenty-six hours to Mumbai. Each ticket was a thin slip of paper printed with a seat number and departure time.

Madan took his ticket and studied it for a while, then asked with a dark face, "Twenty-six hours?"

Aditya was suffering inside. His face was even darker than his uncle Madan's as he said weakly, "If that's too long for you, you can stay here."

Madan folded the ticket, slipped it into his pocket, and said nothing more.

The train was scheduled to leave at three in the afternoon. They found their carriage, squeezed past the people standing, squatting, and lying in the aisle, and found their seats.

The seats were wooden benches coated in green paint, worn and patchy enough to expose the grayish-white wood beneath.

The three sat side by side, Aditya by the window, Raju in the middle, and Madan on the aisle.

The window was open, and cool air poured in, carrying the smell of coal ash from the platform.

After sitting down, Raju placed his hands on his knees and stared straight ahead, looking as lost as someone riding a train for the first time.

"Have you ever taken a train before?" Aditya asked Raju.

"No."

"Don't be nervous. Relax a little."

"Yes, young master."

Raju nodded and pressed his knees closer together, still sitting perfectly upright.

Aditya was utterly speechless and left him alone.

They waited more than another hour past the departure time, until half past four.

The train finally started. The locomotive sounded a long whistle, the carriages jolted, and then it slowly moved forward.

The platform outside slowly receded. Vendors, people holding up their luggage, and passengers squatting beneath pillars as they waited for trains all slid backward little by little.

Then houses appeared on either side of the tracks, low and dusty gray, their walls plastered with movie posters featuring smiling, fair-skinned actresses.

Madan leaned back against the seat and gazed out the window, saying nothing for a long while.

Aditya was also silently working through his plans.

Although none of the three spoke, the carriage was still noisy.

A woman carrying a child sat nearby. The child was still of nursing age and wailed loudly.

Now and then, vendors carrying bags passed through the aisle, selling milk tea, fried peanuts, and newspapers, their cries rising one after another.

Aditya bought three cups of tea, one for each of them.

Madan looked at his nephew, puzzled as to why he had been so considerate toward a servant lately. Still, he guessed his nephew must have been contaminated by those heretics at university.

Raju accepted his cup and held it without drinking.

"Drink," Aditya said.

Raju raised it, took a sip, and smiled.

The train rattled and clattered along, falling another hour behind schedule at every station.

Aditya had actually lost patience long ago, but there was nothing he could do except endure it.

This is India. This is India. This is India, Aditya reminded himself, and the nameless fire in his belly slowly subsided.

Only after nightfall did the carriage quiet down a little. The windows were mostly shut, leaving only narrow gaps for ventilation.

The air grew stuffy and stale, thick with the smells of sweat, milk, tobacco, and grease from fried dough.

The woman holding the child leaned against her seat with her eyes closed. The child lay asleep against her chest, one small hand clutching her collar.

Aditya also leaned by the window with his eyes closed, but he could not sleep at all.

Outside, the fields were grayish-white beneath the moonlight. Occasionally, they passed a small station with only a handful of people on the platform and a solitary lamp swaying in the wind. Even there, the train insisted on stopping for half an hour before setting off again.

Aditya kept thinking, Once I get to Mumbai, I'll find Nayak. Once I find Nayak, I'll inspect the goods. After inspecting the goods, I'll still have to negotiate the price with their owner. What if we can't reach an agreement? What if the quality isn't good enough? What if I can't get the price down?

He came up with no answers, but he knew there would be a way when the time came. Even if there wasn't, there would have to be.

That night, Aditya slept and woke, woke and slept. It was really no different from not sleeping at all.

And so the three of them numbly endured two days and two nights.

At noon on the third day, the train arrived in Mumbai. Why three days, you ask? Don't ask. If you do, the answer is Indian speed.

As the train pulled into the station, the crowd suddenly stirred.

People grabbed their luggage, led their goats, and searched for their children. The scene, peaceful just moments before, instantly dissolved into chaos.

The train had barely stopped, and before the passengers could get off, those below swarmed aboard.

Curses, sobs, and screams made enough noise to make anyone's head ache.

One impatient Indian guy started climbing through a window, only for several fists to meet him head-on and immediately send him howling.

Even then, he refused to let go, taking punches while shoving his luggage inside.

Aditya and Madan were almost dumbstruck. Fortunately, Raju swung his fists and cleared a path ahead, and the two followed closely behind him.

When the three emerged from the station, sunlight and heat surged over them together.

Mumbai was much hotter than Varanasi. The August sun was unleashing its power, beating down on the concrete square in front of Victoria Railway Station, which reflected a dazzling white glare.

There were dozens of times more people in the square than at Varanasi Railway Station, and all sorts of accents buzzed in their ears.

But when Aditya looked up at the magnificent, imposing Gothic building before him, he was startled.

Was this a railway station? Calling it a church or a museum wouldn't be far off, would it?

So lavish, so beautiful.

What troubled Aditya even more was that it stood on a street in India.

No wonder people said Mumbai both belonged to India and did not. It was closer to Europe.

Madan stood behind him, holding that old canvas bag. Raju looked around and asked, "This is Mumbai?"

"No kidding. If it isn't Mumbai, where else would it be?" Madan snapped.

The three left the square and walked along a narrow road.

Amid the rolling waves of heat, there was not only the salty, fishy tang of the sea breeze, but all sorts of mingled odors.

Aditya had miscalculated. Five minutes after carelessly exposing himself to Mumbai's air, he began to dry-heave.

Once Aditya started retching, Madan and Raju began dry-heaving too. None of the three could stand the smell.

This was not the countryside of Uttar Pradesh. This was Mumbai. There were more people here, and even more garbage.

The various odors, a hundred times stronger than those in Aditya's hometown, lingered endlessly throughout the city.

How to put it? As expected of the Indians. That smell was utterly authentic.