Kim moved unerringly through Chandini Chowk to the railway station. The dust of Delhi settled on his shoulders. He passed men squatting in the sunlight with the tools of their trade wrapped in bits of gunny: carpenters, bricklayers, iron workers, carvers. They waited to be hired, patiently, quietly. Each skill had is own lane in the chowk. And what could one not purchase from this ancient market? Anything and everything was to be had, a catalogue of which would fill tomes. The city was full of vitality and fluid movement. Camel caravans came and went, following the old silk routes which neither time nor the changing of empires could erase. They existed not on maps hut in the memories of these traders.
      Delhi was now only a backwater but Kim had heard rumours that the sarkar intended to move the capital from Calcutta to Delhi. Lord Curzon had already approved plans for the building of a new Delhi some distance from this old one. Kim was certain that this new city would outshine the glory of the previous empire and last for a thousand years of British rule. It was to be a milestone in the continuity of Delhi. But he also remembered the legend of Delhi—or was it a curse?—every ‘new’ Delhi marked the end of a dynasty. He wondered whether an Indian curse would work with the Angrezi.
      The entrance to the railway station was crowded with rickshaws and tongas. The building was also of red sandstone, with a great clock tower in the centre. Kim pushed his way through the crowds and queued up at the third-class ticket window. The waiting hail was cavernous and cool. High on one wall a blackboard showed the train schedules. The Frontier Mail was due to arrive from ‘Pindi on its way to Bombay at eight o’clock.
      He bought a modest meal from one of the station vendors, and wandered curiously about the platforms. Blue-shirted coolies with red turbans carried trunks, holdalls, baskets of fruit. Monkeys scavenged the platforms, pi-dogs the tracks. Kim enjoyed the expectancy and chaos of the station and squatted against a wall to wait. The whole country was distilled here, unlike Simla railway station. Pathans, Sikhs, Jats, British soldiers, Indian jawans, Tamils, Europeans, Gujaratis, all swirled together like dyes in a cauldron. He heard strange tongues and gazed at outlandish costumes, but saw them all as one people. They had an indefinable harmony, a strange composition beneath which ran a familiar chord. If a mirror had been shattered, each fragment was separate, yet it still belonged to the whole.
      Suddenly, through the ebb and flow of people, he caught a glimpse of furtive movement. A youth moved, crouching behind a mail trolley to hide beneath the stairs. He wore baggy pyjamas and a kurta, and his turban was badly tied. It looked too large for his head.
      Kim stood up, and a moment later the head poked out to watch the platform hastily before ducking back down. Kim too now gazed over the platform, looking for anyone else doing the same. The youth’s furtiveness had not been criminal. Kim sensed the fear, he’d seen it in the jungle as a sambar picked its way through the undergrowth, all eyes, ears and nose. Km saw no searchers in the cheerful chaos.
      A few minutes after eight o’clock a ripple ran over the platform and the Frontier Mail, a drab red train pulled by a gleaming black engine, came round the curve. The great engine bathed people in steam as it passed and exhaustedly came to halt, belching and wheezing. Coolies leapt into the carriages, soliciting the travellers, and before anyone could even disembark the waiting passengers were pushing themselves in. Kim was convinced that Indians were the most impatient travellers in the world. They seemed to think the train would fly away without them. Many doors were jammed with this impatience except, of course, for the first class, which was reserved for Europeans. They were orderly in their coming and going, aloof from the frenzy.
      Kim strolled by the stairwell and peeped in. There was no sign of the youth now. In the distraction he had probably slipped into a carriage. Kim pushed his way into a third-class compartment and found a window seat. A fat Marwari and his thin writer squeezed in beside him. Their girths reflected their positions.
      The Marwari opened the Statesman, spreading it right across Kim’s face. It was a sign of importance to read in English, and the Marwari wanted his fellow-passengers to know that he was no ordinary man.
      ‘Disgraceful,’ he said in English, and then continued in Hindustani, ‘the British murdered Subhash Ray in Simla. A fine man, a gentleman. Very learned and an excellent cricketer. They have imprisoned his nephew, Anil Ray. A terrorist, they say.’ In English he added, ‘Nonsense.’
      The writer, crushed against his employer, crushed too with worry, murmured assent. He would have agreed if the Marwari had said the opposite. His sole intent was to echo his employer. The Marwari looked at Kim for agreement as well.
      ‘Sahib, they could have been. The Bengalis are a very excitable people.’
      ‘Some, but not Subhash. I saw him playing once in Calcutta. An excellent batsman. Beautiful strokes. A man like that would not turn to violence.’
      ‘Then the British have made a terrible mistake.’
      Kim looked closely at the Marwari. His cheeks wore the sheen of rich food and shone with a fresh shave. His moustache was oiled and curled. He smelled of talcum powder.
      ‘Yes, they have gone too far. This DI Goode will no doubt be promoted. He should be tried or murder, but because he’s British he will get away scot-free. W should demand an enquiry.’
      ‘I believe you should, sahib. You must call for one immediately, start a petition.’
      ‘I was speaking figuratively. I’m a businessman and cannot be involved in politics. If they had passed the Ilbert Bill, why, this Goode would have been tried by one of us.’
      The Ilbert Bill had been an attempt by a past Viceroy, Lord Ripon, to allow Indian judges to try Europeans. The bill had caused such an uproar in the European community that it had been abandoned. Europeans could still only be tried by Europeans, whatever the offence.
      The train’s whistle interrupted the discourse. Kim looked out and saw the youth dart through the crowd as the train began to move. Far behind he saw his pursuers. The two in front looked like chaprassis, dressed in grubby clothing and brandishing lathis. The third man moved sedately, confident that his men would catch the youth. He seemed to be their employer, for he was dressed in an elegant cream suit and carried a malacca cane.
      The train gathered speed and the youth ran faster, stumbling with panic. Kim had never before seen such fear in so young a face. Behind, the two men were gaining on him. Kim pushed his way quickly to the open carriage door.
      ‘Hai ladkha, give me your hand. Quickly.’
      The youth stretched out his hand and Kim caught hold of it grimly, swung the youth off his feet and into the carriage. He wrenched himself free of Kim’s grip, scurried into the latrine, and locked himself in. Kim looked back at the receding platform and saw the three men, together now, staring intently at him. He was glad of the distance, for they couldn’t distinguish his features.