Five Past Midnight in Bhopal Read Online Free PDF

Jahan had declared. In response, the envoy from London extolled the political and commercial advantages
     that the railway would bring, not only to the small kingdom of Bhopal, but to the whole of central India. Then he raised his
     glass in a solemn toast to the success of the modern convenience, for which the enlightened sovereign had provided the funds.
     A firework display crowned the occasion. That day a piece of ancestral India had espoused itself to progress.

    For a long moment the Nadars hesitated without daring to take a step, so overwhelmed were they by the scene that greeted them
     as they got out of the train car. The platform was packed with other dispossessed peasants who had come there, like them,
     in search of work. The Nadars found themselves trapped in a tide of people coming and going in all directions. Coolies trotted
     about with mountains of suitcases and parcels on their heads, vendors offered every conceivable merchandise for sale. Never
     before had they seen such sumptuousness: pyramids of oranges, sandals, combs, scissors, padlocks, glasses, bags; piles of
     shawls, saris,
dhotis;
* newspapers, all kinds of food and drink. Padmini and her family were bewildered, astounded, lost. Around them many of the
     other travelers appeared to be just as disoriented. Only Mangal the parrot seemed completely at ease. He never stopped warbling
     his joy and making the children laugh.
    “Daddy, what are we going to do now?” Padmini asked, visibly at a loss.
    “Where are we going to sleep tonight?” added her brother, Gopal, who was holding the parrot’s cage above his head so that
     his parents would see him in case they got separated.
    “We should look for a policeman,” advised the old man Prodip, who had been no more able than his son to decipher the contract
     the tharagar for the railway had given them.
    Outside the station, an officer in a white helmet was trying to channel the chaotic flow of traffic. Ratna cut a way through
     to him.
    “We’ve just arrived from Orissa,” he murmured tentatively. “Do you know if anyone from there lives around here?”
    The policeman signaled to him that he had not understood the question. It was hardly surprising; so many people speaking different
     languages got off the train at Bhopal.
    Suddenly Padmini spotted a man selling
samosas
, triangular fritters stuffed with vegetables or meat, on the far side of the square. With the sixth sense that Indians have
     for identifying a stranger’s origin and caste, the little girl was convinced she had found a compatriot. She was not wrong.
    “Don’t worry, friends,” declared the man, “there’s an area around here occupied exclusively by people from our province. It’s
     called the Orya Bustee * and the people who live there are all from Orissa like you and me, and speak Orya, our language.” He waved an arm in the
     direction of the minaret of a mosque opposite the station. “Skirt that mosque,” he explained, “and continue straight ahead.
     When you get to the railway line, turn right. You’ll see a load of huts and sheds. That’s Orya Bustee.”
    Ratna Nadar bowed down to the ground in thanks, touching the samosa seller’s sandals with his right hand, which he then placed
     on his head.
    Padmini rushed to the parrot’s cage. “We’re saved!” she cried. The bird responded with a triumphant squawk.

    As soon as he saw the little caravan approaching, the man seized his walking stick and went out to meet it. He was a hefty
     fellow of about fifty with a curly mop of hair and sideburns that joined the drooping ends of his mustache.
    “Welcome, friends!” His soft voice belied his imposing appearance. “I guess it’s a roof that you’re after here!”
    “A roof would be a lot to hope for,” stammered Ratna Nadar apologetically, “but perhaps just somewhere for me and my family
     to camp.”
    “My name is Belram Mukkadam,” the stranger announced, pressing his hands together in front of his