The passenger train pulled into the station at midnight. Jaggu alighted and looked up and down the platform. He was the only one to get off here. The halt was exclusively for me, he thought to himself as he walked out of the station, rather chuffed. He had expected a teashop or two to still be open where he could toss off a cup of hot tea before proceeding to Palasgaon, refreshed. But the town was fast asleep like a baby, its legs curled up against its chest. Resigned to walking unrefreshed, Jaggu turned to the road leading out of the town. Bullock carts that had brought produce from surrounding villages to the market rested on both sides of the road. The owners slept in, around and underneath them. The unyoked oxen, tethered to the wheels, now poked at the spokes with their horns, now snorted. Chaff, dung and straw lay scattered around, the steamy smell swirling in the cool, quiet air. It was not an odour you ever encountered in the city. It belonged quintessentially to the village. Jaggu realised that his returning to the village now, and for this reason, probably meant that it was his last visit...

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