Trying to ignore his splitting headache and stiffening knee, he pulled himself together. They had to leave for the bus stand in less than an hour. He couldn’t risk his mother calling off the plan. He made the journey back to his room, the nausea slightly better after he had expelled the contents of his stomach.

‘Up early? You’re awfully excited.’ His mother was folding up his rug as he entered.

‘Hmm.’ Aman slipped his phone into his pocket. He tried his best not to limp.

‘Don’t carry anything unnecessary, Aman,’ she said. ‘Take only the cardboard box. Uncle Deepak will explain the palm leaves.’

Half an hour later, through torturous pain and with a spinning head, Aman followed his mother outside. He held the box and walked cautiously down the paan-stained staircase. They were greeted by a red-black sky, the horizon almost completely hidden behind smog, and were soon on a bumpy autorickshaw ride to Kashmere Gate bus station.

The morning traffic made the ride seem endless. For over fifteen minutes, they waited 500 metres from the bus station in a traffic jam, surrounded by cars that honked for no reason other than to assert their presence. The nausea had returned, and Aman was drowsy. He had almost fallen asleep with his head on the cardboard box in his lap.

When they reached, Upasna paid the autorickshaw driver, and they went into the bus terminal. Aman struggled to keep up with her. His head, ears and injured knee were throbbing. His vision was blurry.

‘Wait right here,’ she told him. ‘I’ll go buy the tickets.’

Aman was relieved for the break. His knee had been stinging, and he felt as if an odd bone was boring a hole in his skin. He had to make it to the bus somehow. Then he could sleep till they arrived in Agra.

The air was humid, and the announcements overhead were loud but unclear. When Upasna returned with the tickets, they walked towards the buses, zigzagging between people sleeping on the floor.

‘Seats seventeen and eighteen!’ she said as they entered their bus, which was almost full.

Aman felt like he was dangerously close to blacking out. He moved as fast as his knee would allow towards his seat, which was by the window, and sat down. He could still hear his heart pounding in his head and feel a pulse on his frontal lobe. Aman tucked the box into the space between his feet and the seat in front.

‘You didn’t sleep on time, did you?’ Upasna asked.

‘I did! But . . .’ Aman yawned. What’s happening to me?

‘Anyway, I have a Disprin here somewhere,’ she said, unzipping her handbag. Then she paused. ‘We don’t have any water. I’ll go buy some from one of the stalls.’ She got up. ‘Be strong, beta.’ She looked at him and smiled.

Aman saw his mother go to the bus exit and have a quick word with the driver before getting out. Aman tried to sit up straight, but his head was heavy, so he rested it against the window. He could see his mother. She stood at the bus stand, far away from any refreshment stall—the only stationary person in a place teeming with people. She was looking at him intently. Her face was red, and she covered it with her hands.