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“In that case, we’ll just have to run out in front of the train and signal the engine driver to stop,” declared Patel.

The idea appeared to stupefy his two elder colleagues. “And how are you going to signal the engineer to stop a train going at full speed in the middle of the night?” asked Sherma’s assistant.

“By waving a lamp about in the middle of the track!” Sherma nearly swallowed his quid of betel. The whole idea seemed outrageously dangerous. But after a few seconds he changed his mind.

“Yes, you’re right. We could stop the train with lanterns. Go and fetch some able-bodied coolies!”

“I’m volunteering,” announced Patel. “So am I,” Sherma’s assistant, Paridar, said. “Okay, but it will take at least four or five of you. Four or five lanterns will be easier to see in the dark.”

Patel rushed to the sink at the far end of the room to soak his gamcha. After wringing it out, he plastered it over his face and went out. Two minutes later he came back with Padmini’s father and Satish Lal who had escaped the gas by taking refuge in a first-class waiting room and shutting the windows. Sherma explained their mission to them, emphasizing how vital it was.

“If you can stop the Gorakhpur, you may save hundreds of lives,” he told them. Then he added, “You’ll be heroes and be decorated for it.”

The prospect brought only the faintest of smiles to the four men’s faces. Sherma pressed his hands together over his chest.

“May the god protect you,” he said, inclining his head. “You’ll find some lanterns in the maintenance store. Good luck!”

The deputy stationmaster was overcome with emotion. Those men, he thought, are real heroes.

Guided by Padmini’s father who knew every turn of the track by heart, the little procession moved off into a murky darkness filled with invisible dangers. Every five minutes Ratna Nadar would raise one arm to stop his comrades, kneel down between two sleepers and, for a long moment, press his ear to one of the rails. There was as yet no vibration from the approaching train.

Huddled with her two sons on the seat of one of the forty-four train cars, Sajda Bano was counting off the last minutes of her interminable journey back to the city where her husband had been Carbide’s first victim. When she felt the train slow down, she moved nearer to the window in order to gaze out at the illuminated outline of the factory that had put an end to her happiness. She had dreaded returning to Bhopal but she had little choice. Her in-laws were determined to get their hands on the fifty thousand rupees’ compensation the factory had given her. Sajda had experienced all the hardship of being an Indian widow. No sooner had her husband been buried than her father-in-law had thrown her out of the house, on the pretext that she was refusing to renounce her inheritance. Out of her mind with grief and despair, the young widow had responded with her first act as an independent woman. She had torn off the veil she had worn since she was nine years old and rushed to the bazaar to sell it. The one hundred and twenty rupees she received in return were the first money she had ever earned. Since then she had never again worn a veil. Overcoming the triple handicap of being a woman, a Muslim and a widow in a country where, despite all the progress, customs could still be medieval, she embarked on a struggle for justice. She knew that she could count on the support of the kindly H.S. Khan, a colleague of her husband’s, who had taken her and her children in after her in-laws had put her out on the street. She had stayed with him while she looked for lodgings and hired a lawyer. Now she very much hoped that Khan would be on the platform to greet her. Poor Sajda! Having killed her husband, Carbide’s gas had just struck down her benefactor on his way to the station.

Holding their lanterns at arms’ length, the four men progressed with difficulty. Without realizing it, they were passing through a multitude of small residual clouds that were still lurking between the rails and along the