In the streets, Lalita stares in wonder at the items displayed outside the shop fronts, each more extraordinary than the last. A vacuum cleaner here, a lemon squeezer there, an entire bathroom, a washbasin, a toilet. Lalita has never seen one before. Smita sighs – she wants to move on, get further, faster! But the child’s curiosity slows them down. They come across a procession of schoolchildren in brown uniforms, all holding hands. Smita catches her daughter staring at them enviously.

At last, Varanasi Cantt Station appears, its concourse packed with a frenetic crowd. This is one of the busiest stations in the country. Inside the main hall, a tide of humanity presses towards the ticket offices. Everywhere there are men, women and children standing, sitting or lying down to wait for hours, and sometimes days at a time.

Smita tries to make her way through, avoiding the ticket touts who take advantage of the chaos and the innocence of tourists to extort a few rupees in exchange for dubious information and advice. Smita takes her place in one of the four ticket lines, each numbering at least a hundred people. They must be patient. Lalita is showing signs of fatigue, they have travelled all day on empty stomachs, and have covered barely a hundred kilometres. And the worst is yet to come, as Smita knows.

It is dark when she finally reaches the ticket office. The attendant looks surprised when she asks for tickets to Chennai that same day. The tickets must be booked several days in advance, he tells her. The trains are always full at the last minute. Hasn’t she made a reservation? Smita’s courage fails her as she contemplates spending the night here, in the holy city, where she knows no one. The Brahmin’s coins are just enough for their third-class tickets and something to eat – a room for the night is impossible, even a dormitory. Smita insists. They must leave now, as soon as possible. Without hesitation she adds almost all the coins she had set aside for their meal. The employee peers at her, hesitates, mutters something between his yellow teeth. He disappears and returns a few minutes later with two tickets for sleeper class, the cheapest there is, on the next day’s train. The best he can do. Afterwards, Smita learns that these tickets are sold to anyone who asks – there is no limit to the number of passengers in sleeper class. The carriages are permanently overcrowded. The employee has taken advantage of her credulity to relieve her of a few rupees. But by the time she understands what has happened, it is too late.