At the ticket booth he was informed that all the first and second class accommodations had been reserved for the officers and soldiers. In the inter and the third class there were no reservations—nor any privacy. Madan bought two seconds despite the clerk’s warning that he would find no berths on the train. He went to the platform on which his train was standing. A group of Indian ticket collectors were busy checking reservations. Madan took the youngest by the hand, put his arm round his shoulders, and drew him away to a quiet spot.

‘Brother, I have to have a second class coupé at any cost and you have to find it for me.’ He slipped a ten-rupee note into the collector’s hand.

The collector gave the note a quick glance and thrust it into his pocket. A ten rupee tip for a man whose monthly salary was 50 rupees was nothing to scoff at. Madan also looked familiar and important; he spoke with the tone of confidence which goes with authority. ‘It is going to be extremely difficult,’ replied the collector. ‘The whole train is packed with British tommies; their reservations were made two days ago. But I’ll try.’ After a pause he asked. ‘Are you by any chance Mr Madan, the famous cricketer?’

‘The same, your humble servant,’ replied Madan with a bow.

They shook hands.

The collector took out the ten rupee note and put it back in Madan’s hand. ‘Keep this. Put your luggage in this second class coupé and I will put a reservation slip in your name.’

Madan forced the note back into the collector’s pocket. ‘What I give once I never take back. After all, getting British soldiers out of a train in these times is not easy. It needs a man of courage to do that.’

The flattery worked. ‘Mr Madan, if you can hit them for sixers, I can write them down on my penis. You will say one day that you met Mussadi Lal, the ticket collector of Kalka. My name is Mussadi Lal.’ He slapped his chest in a gesture of of defiance. They shook hands once more.

Mussadi Lal took out a key from his pocket and unlocked the glass frame alongside the door of the compartment. He took out the card marked ‘Reserved for B.O.R.s No. 171/172,’ tore it up and flung the bits in the air with contempt. He wrote out another one in the name of Mr and Mrs Madan and put it in its place.

‘Here!’ he said slapping his chest again. ‘What will you say!’

They shook hands a third time.

‘Mr Mussadi Lalji, I’ll sing your praises. If there were a few more brave people like you, India would have been free many years ago.’

The collector accepted the compliment; they shook hands for the fourth time and said goodbye.