“Hope we reach in time,” said Omprakash. “If someone gets there before us, we’re finished for sure.”

Maneck Kohlah asked if they had far to go. Ishvar named the station. “Oh, that’s the same one I want,” said Maneck, fingering his sparse moustache.

Hoping to spot a watch dial, Ishvar looked up into a thicket of wrists growing ceilingward. “Time, please?” he asked someone over his shoulder. The man shot his cuff stylishly and revealed his watch: a quarter to nine.

“Come on, yaar, move!” said Omprakash, slapping the seat between his thighs.

“Not as obedient as the bullocks in our village, is it?” said his uncle, and Maneck laughed. Ishvar added it was true — ever since he was a child, their village had never lost a bullock-cart race when there were competitions on festival days.

“Give the train a dose of opium and it will run like the bullocks,” said Omprakash.

A combseller, twanging the plastic teeth of a large comb, pushed his way through the crowded compartment. People grumbled and snarled at him, resenting the bothersome presence.

“Oi!” said Omprakash to get his attention.

“Plastic hairband, unbreakable, plastic hairclip, flower shape, butterfly shape, colourful comb, unbreakable.” The combseller recited in a halfhearted monotone, uncertain whether this was a real customer or just a joker passing the time. “Big comb and small comb, pink, orange, maroon, green, blue, yellow comb — unbreakable.”

Omprakash gave them a test run through his hair before selecting a red specimen, pocket-sized. He dug into his trousers and extracted a coin. The combseller suffered hostile elbows and shoulders while searching for change. He used his shirtsleeve to wipe hair oil off the rejected combs, then returned them to his satchel, keeping in his hand the big dual-toothed one to resume his soft twanging through the compartment.