And so I travel. The windows on this train fill the space between the bunks, big as flat-screen TVs. If I lie on my front I can look out at everything we’re passing, once it’s light enough. The man across from me is stretched out on his side like a prince, curvaceous and plump. He frowns and pouts and looks down at one of his three phones. In my head I list all the old-school stuff that used to fill the world with weight and object and now fits inside a phone instead. Barometer. Calculator. Camera. Notebook. Telescope. Newspaper. Calendar. Radio. Map and compass. Watch. Wallet. TV. Voice recorder. Heart-rate monitor. Bank. I’m not tired of it yet, and I’m not nearly done. “Unbelievable,” Novo said once. “What a compact time to be alive.”

When the boy comes through with the chai, the prince flicks at him with the back of his hand, curls his lip, and doesn’t speak, but the boy knows what it means and pours him some and takes the money in silence, eyes down. I have some too, half a tiny cup. I thank him and my voice is louder than I expected in the quiet train. Conspicuous.

I was lucky to get a bed. My ticket didn’t count, apparently, didn’t exist. I handed my booking in at the desk, once I’d found the right one (third time lucky, up a flight of stairs, foreign tourists only, who knew?). Behind me and below me, Mumbai Central Train Station swarmed and hollered and sprawled. The upstairs waiting area was quieter, hushed even, like a library. I waited my turn, melting already in the winter heat, pretty sure that the only people who actually wait in line for anything in Central Train Station are the foreign tourists, and that’s why we get a room of our own, because otherwise we are never, ever going to get it together to leave. I used to hate waiting in line. But these days, there are plenty of Nows in a wasted hour for me.

At the counter, I handed over the paper. An eye roll, a headshake, a sigh. The ticket man scratched his belly and didn’t bother looking up from his screen. He’d clearly had this conversation too many times already, with too many clueless travelers like me.

“Waiting list status,” he said. “No berth, no seat,” and he didn’t tell me why, because he didn’t have to.