There was something just a little eerie and menacing about that strange outline, imprinted on the yellowing rush. He rolled the mat up and put it away, out of sight. He went back in, heaved the hold-all up to the bare strings of the charpoy and made a comfortable bed for himself. Then he put out his nightclothes and laid his shaving things in a neat row on the alcove, beside the signal lantern, in preparation for the morning. Standing back he looked around the room: everything was in order now, but somehow he still had a bad taste in his mouth. He decided to go for a walk.
It was late afternoon now. The clouds had parted and the sun was shining brightly through the rain-washed skies, touching everything in sight with an iridescent brilliance. Phulboni walked along the tracks, hopping from sleeper to sleeper, watching the parallel rails shoot away towards the horizon, slicing through the flooded, shimmering fields that flanked the tall embankment.
When he came to the point where the tracks separated he turned to look at the overgrown siding. He noticed fleetingly that the steel point-tongues that joined the siding to the main tracks were stiff and rusty with disuse. Then his eyes fell on a family of egrets that were using the weedcovered rails of the siding as a perch, to hunt from. Captivated, he walked stealthily towards the birds and seated himself on a rail, at a safe distance. A mound of raised earth – possibly once a platform – ran between the parallel rail tracks. The writer sat lounging, with his back against the mound, and spent the better part of an hour watching the egrets as they foraged amongst the frogs that were skimming the surface of the flooded fields below.
At last, filled with a sense of peace and well-being, he stood up and stretched. He was doubly glad now that he had decided to stay in the signal-room instead of going to the stationmaster's house: this was the kind of place in which solitude was its own reward.
He got up and walked on, balancing on a rail. It was almost sunset now, and the scudding flat-bottomed clouds above were shot through with streaks of scarlet and magenta. When he came to the points switch that joined the siding and the main line into a single track, Phulboni decided to turn back. He stopped to cast one last glance over the spectacular sight of the flooded fields glowing in the sunset. Inadvertently his eyes fell upon the red handle of the switching lever. He noticed, to his surprise, that the mechanism looked well cared for. There was no trace of rust on the lever and nor were the wires that connected it to the point-rails at all overgrown, even though they ran very close to the ground. On the contrary, the deep grooves in the grass under them suggested regular maintenance and use.
Phulboni had an instinctive interest in machinery. He liked the feel of cold metal, took pleasure in a good, wellcrafted piece of iron or steel. He crossed the rails and went over to cast an appreciative eye at the gleaming iron lever: it gave him an obscure sense of satisfaction to see a wellcared for piece of machinery in these unlikely surroundings.
As he leaned over, arm extended, he heard a shout. Straightening up, he saw the stationmaster struggling up the embankment. He was waving frantically, making signs to Phulboni to step back from the switching lever. He had a cloth bundle in one hand and an earthen pitcher in the other. Phulboni realized suddenly that he was ravenously hungry. He waved and went hurrying back along the tracks.
The stationmaster was waiting for him a hundred yards down the track. He had an angry frown on his forehead. 'Look,' he said to the writer. 'You may be a big sahib and all that but if you know what's good for you, you won't meddle with anything around here.'
He added, as an afterthought: 'This is government property, it belongs to the railways.'
Phulboni had been intending to compliment the stationmaster on his maintenance of the station's switching gear. He listened now in abashed silence, unable to think of an appropriate response.
The stationmaster thrust the cloth bundle and the earthen pitcher into his hands. 'Just put them in a corner after you've finished,' he said abruptly. 'I'll take care of them in the morning.' He shuffled quickly to the embankment and went scrambling down the side, towards the water-logged field below.
Recovering himself, Phulboni shouted: 'Why don't you stay a minute? Eat something with me before you go.'
'I'll be back in the morning,' the stationmaster answered, over his shoulder.
There was something about this hurried departure that disquieted Phulboni. Going to the edge of the embankment, he called out: 'Masterji, is there something you have not told me?'
'Tomorrow,' called back the stationmaster. 'Tomorrow… everything… it's getting dark… ' Hurried splashes drowned out the sound of his voice.
Phulboni felt oddly forlorn now, standing by the deserted rail tracks in the dying daylight. He made his way slowly back to the signal-room and pushed the door open. It was dark inside, but a metallic glint led his eyes to the floor. It was the curved blade of his razor: lying beside it were the pot of shaving soap, the brush and the lump of clear alum that he had placed in the alcove before leaving for his walk.
Phulboni placed the food and water on the desk and looked around to see if the window had blown open to let a draught or a gust of wind into the room. But the window was still firmly shut. For want of a better explanation, he decided that the objects must have been blown off when he opened the door. He picked them off the floor and arranged them neatly in the alcove once again, next to the signal lantern.
He decided to eat outside while there was still some light. Carrying the food and water to the door, he sat crosslegged on the ground and opened the cloth bundle. He found a stack of parathas, a generous helping of mango achar and a heap of golden-yellow potatoes thickly encrusted in masala. The food smelt better than anything he could ever remember and he fell upon it with gusto.
He was halfway through his third paratha when he heard something fall in the room behind him. He looked over his shoulder, startled. Through the open door, he spotted his razor and shaving things lying on the floor. Nothing had gone into the room and the wind had died down. He had a moment of unease but then his hunger reclaimed him and he went on with his meal.
After he had eaten he washed his hands, drank a copious draught of water and sat back, picking his teeth contentedly with a twig. His sense of well-being returned now, as he sat in the gentle breeze, listening to the chorus of frogs and crickets that came welling up from the flooded fields below. It was so restful, so tranquil, that something special was called for, he decided: it was an occasion that demanded one of his rare cheroots.
Phulboni was not much of a smoker, but once or twice a week after a good meal he took pleasure in lighting up a good cheroot or cigar. He remembered packing some for the trip, but he wasn't sure exactly where he had put them.
The signal-room was pitch dark now, but he had kept a matchbox handy. He struck a match and at once his eyes fell on the signal lantern, gleaming in its alcove. An idea flashed into his mind. He picked up the lantern and shook it. The sound of sloshing oil told him that the tank was full. He flipped back the glass window and fumbled for the screw that operated the wick. Giving it a couple of turns, he raised the wick an inch or so and lit it. When he snapped the window back into place a bright red light filled the room.
Pleased with himself, he went over to his hold-all and began to rifle through its pockets, looking for his tin of cheroots. He had just found it when there was a metallic snap behind him and the light went out. Phulboni clicked his tongue, irritated with himself for not having shut the door before lighting the lantern. He made his way over to the desk and lit another match. But then he took a closer look and discovered that he had been mistaken: the flame had not been extinguished by a gust of wind. Rather, the wick had been lowered back into its socket with a turn of the screw. He fiddled with the screw, frowning, wondering whether it had come loose. It was hard to be sure, and in the end he just turned the wick up and lit it again. This time he made sure to put it in a corner that was well sheltered from the wind.