“What happened to the yellow comb you had?” asked Ishvar.

“Broke in two.”

“How?”

“It was in my back pocket. I sat on it.”

“That’s the wrong place for a comb. It’s meant for your head, Om, not your bottom.” He always called his nephew Om, using Omprakash only when he was upset with him.

“If it was your bottom, the comb would have smashed into a hundred pieces,” returned his nephew, and Ishvar laughed. His disfigured left cheek was no hindrance, standing firm like a mooring around which his smiles could safely ripple.

He chucked Omprakash under the chin. Most of the time their ages — forty-six and seventeen — were a misleading indicator of their actual relationship. “Smile, Om. Your angry mouth does not suit your hero hairstyle.” He winked at Maneck to include him in the fun. “With a puff like that, lots of girls will be after you. But don’t worry, Om, I’ll select a nice wife for you. A woman big and strong, with flesh enough for two.”

Omprakash grinned and administered a flourish to his hair with the new comb. The train still showed no sign of moving. The men who had wandered outside came back with news that yet another body had been found by the tracks, near the level-crossing. Maneck edged towards the door to listen. A nice, quick way to go, he thought, as long as the train had struck the person squarely.

“Maybe it has to do with the Emergency,” said someone.

“What emergency?”

“Prime Minister made a speech on the radio early this morning. Something about country being threatened from inside.”

“Sounds like one more government tamasha.”

“Why does everybody have to choose the railway tracks only for dying?” grumbled another. “No consideration for people like us. Murder, suicide, Naxalite-terrorist killing, police-custody death — everything ends up delaying the trains. What is wrong with poison or tall buildings or knives?”