Gradually our train rolls to a never-ending stop, out of diesel at some Suicide Junction with a time-bending solitude warding off the Intercitys and undead coal trucks which, theoretically, are coursing past us on either side. Midwinter and not a frost-burnt twig is stirring in the gale surely hurling the world outside our coccoon round and round in its great elemental spin-cycle. Even the pigeons, turgid to breaking point like raindrops falling to the jungle floor, are held, frozen between heaven and earth. There is no way forwards or back for us. There are leaves on the line. Will the Indians swoop from the hills and take back what we owe? Stewards bustle nervously from carriage to silent carriage, grateful for the stony faces of their charges hiding the underlying grime. Everyone tries to avoid looking at their fellow passengers reflected in the window, all hoping they will be spared and the others taken. One thing is for sure - someone must pay the price for our actions.
