Those passports and visas had cost us thousands, no, lakhs and lakhs of rupees. Well, they seem to have served their purpose. We don’t need them anymore. I begin to tear up everything meticulously. It’s my past life I’m tearing up. I am aware of that.

‘From now on, no identity. No identity. You understand that? From now on, no names. Nothing.’

No names. No identities. On no man’s land. In a sense the load grows lighter. I begin to experience a new kind of freedom. Heady. Yes, its heady as if I’ve drunk a lot—champagne, now that I’m in Europe—for celebration. Celebration of some kind of victory. I look at the woman, the child. It’s so cold. Freezing. She keeps the boy close to her all the time. There is a deep, wordless communion between them. A bonding that no one can share. She smooths the thickly knitted pullover on his chest. It’s grey in colour. Drab. The clothes we wear are all drab and anonymous. His eyes look trustingly into his mother’s. She will protect him with her life. She is strong. Asks for no special treatment at any time. Eats what is given her. Drinks what is given her. But first sees that her son is fed and his thirst quenched. She walks the long distances without complaint. The boy too. His body still trembles, perhaps more with the tension and exhaustion than with the cold. I have one jerkin too many. I hold it out to him.

‘Malli,’ I say hesitantly. ‘Take. Méka gandé. For you.’

He looks at me. Points to my shoulders, my chest.

‘No, no. It’s OK. I’m fine. Not cold. Not cold.’

He reminds me so much of my malli. Malli must be playing cricket with his friends at this moment. Waiting for a letter from his loku aiya. From me. Waiting to show off the stamps and boast about me.

‘Loku aiya is in Germany. He’ll send me a new video camera soon.’

The boy’s thin shoulders are covered with my jerkin. They stop shaking. He looks at me as if at an elder brother. What is there to divide us at this moment? Nothing. Even lack of a shared language is no barrier to our communication.

‘Now we go. To Border.’

Very little is spoken. We conserve our energy. Our voices will give us away if there are any guards searching the forest for people like us. The polizei are on the alert constantly. All of us begin walking together, shambling along. Our names, our identities relinquished. I can take on any name now. Gerhard. Or Pieter. Or Samson. No, no; Dollar—that’s my new name. Dollar. The agents never have names. The guides never have names. And we are thought of only in terms of dollars. The counting begins again—one … five … eight … ten … fourteen … sixteen …