Phulboni realized, looking around him, that the station was empty – absolutely empty. There was nobody, not a single human being anywhere in sight. The spectacle was so startling as literally to provoke disbelief. Stations, in the young writer's experience, were either crowded or less crowded. They were less crowded when you could walk through them unimpeded, without having to push people aside. On the rare occasions when that happened you said, in surprise: 'Why, the station's empty today!', using the term metaphorically, conjuring away the coolies and the vendors and the dozing passengers and the waiting relatives and so on who, without actually impeding your progress, were still undeniably present. That, as far as the young writer knew, was what the word empty meant when applied to a station. But this? Phulboni, for all his gifts, was at a loss to think of a word to describe a station that was literally uninhabited and unpeopled.

The young man's heart sank as he contemplated that desolate spot. He had no idea where to go next or how. There was no road or pathway in sight. The station, perched on the railway embankment, was a little island in a sea of shimmering floodwater.

Phulboni had been led to believe that someone would meet him at the station: a shopkeeper or stall-owner or some other person who dealt in Palmer's products. But here he was, in Renupur, and so far as he could see, he was the sole occupant of the station. Picking up his beddingroll, he slung his gun over his shoulder, and set off for the signal-room to see if he could find the stationmaster. No sooner had he taken his first few steps than he heard a voice behind him, calling out, 'Sahib, sahib.' Turning around, Phulboni saw a tiny, bandy-legged man, scrambling up the embankment. He was dressed in a mud-stained dhoti and a railwayman's coat and he was holding a brass pitcher by its lip.

Phulboni was so relieved to see another human being that he would gladly have embraced him. But mindful of his status as a representative of Palmer Brothers he stiffened his back and raised his chin.

The man caught up with Phulboni and took the beddingroll out of his hands.

'Arrey, sahib,' he said, panting. 'What to do? Every time the rains start it's like this with me: back and forth, out to the fields and in again. If I eat so much as one banana it goes shooting right through and out again like a cannonball. It's an affliction. The-one-who-is-at-home always says to me, she says, "Arrey, Budhhu Dubey, if you were a cow instead of a stationmaster at least I would be able to do all my cooking with your dung." And I say to her, "Woman, think a little before you speak. Just ask yourself, if I was a cow instead of a stationmaster why would you need to cook for me?"

Phulboni's mouth twitched, but being new at the job he was not quite sure of the tone that was expected of a representative of Palmer Brothers in situations like these. Sensing his hesitation, Budhhu Dubey was already the picture of contrition.

'Oh, sahib,' he said. 'Budhhu Dubey is a fool, telling a big sahib like you about his dung. Forgive me, forgive me… '

He threw himself at Phulboni's feet. Now it was all the writer could do to keep him from buffing his shoes with his forehead.

Phulboni pulled him up, brusquely. 'Enough of that,' he said. 'Tell me, how can I get to Renupur?'

'That's the thing,' the stationmaster said, apologetically. 'Even if you had a boat you would not be able to get to Renupur today.'

Phulboni was aghast. 'But where will I stay?' he said. 'What will I do?'

'Nothing to worry about, sahib,' said the stationmaster. He gave Phulboni a wide grin. 'You will stay with me.' He explained that a shopkeeper had sent word from Renupur asking him to look after Phulboni.

Phulboni pondered this proposition at some length. 'Where do you live?' he asked finally.

'Right there,' said the stationmaster, 'behind those trees.' He pointed at a distant mango grove, perched upon a gentle rise. To Phulboni the spot seemed to be separated from the station by some two or three miles of waterlogged plain.

'It won't take a moment to get there,' said the stationmaster. 'We'll leave your bags in the signal room and then we'll start walking. You'll see, by the time we get there, the-one-who-is-at-home will have something special ready for you.'

He picked up Phulboni's bedding-roll and started towards the signal-room, swaying on his bandy legs. Phulboni followed close behind, carrying his canvas gun-bag. Pushing the door gingerly open the stationmaster ushered Phulboni in. As they stepped in a gust of wind blew the door shut. Suddenly they were enveloped in cobwebbed gloom.

The room was very small with only the one door and a single shuttered window. In one corner, there stood a dusty desk. Otherwise the room seemed abandoned and unused.

It was only when Phulboni's eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness that he spotted a string bed, pushed up against the far wall. It was on old charpoy, covered with torn matting. Phulboni went over and gave the mat a slap, raising a cloud of swirling dust. 'Whose is this?' he asked the stationmaster.

'Oh that's been here for ever,' said the stationmaster' dismissively. 'It belongs to the snakes and rats.' He pushed the door quickly open and stepped out. 'Let us go now, sahib: it will soon be dark.'

Phulboni cast another glance around the room. This time his eyes fell upon a small alcove in the wall. Standing inside it was a signal lantern. Phulboni went over to take a closer look and was pleasantly surprised to see that the lantern had been recently cleaned and polished. The tin body was gleaming clean and the circle of red glass in the lantern's window shone bright red in the reflected sunlight. Phulboni put out a finger to tap on the glass, but the stationmaster stopped him, hurtling across the room and pushing his hand away.

'No, no!' he cried. 'Don't do that.'

Phulboni jumped in surprise, and the stationmaster said vehemently: 'No, no, it's not to be touched.'

'But don't you touch it?' said Phulboni, even more surprised now. 'Then who cleans it? Who polishes it?'

The stationmaster dismissed the question with a wave of his hand, muttering something about railway property. 'We should set off now, sahib,' he said trying to steer Phulboni to the door. 'It's getting dark; we have to be quick now.' The writer shrugged and bent down to pick up his bedding-roll. 'No,' he said, throwing it on the charpoy. 'No. I am going to stay here tonight.'

The stationmaster's mouth fell open and a look of alarm descended on his jovial, slightly doltish face. 'No, no sahib,' he said, his voice rising. 'You can't do that – that cannot happen. It cannot be done.'

'Why not?' he asked. Dilapidated though it was, the prospect of a night in that room seemed vastly preferable to that of wading through two miles of floodwater.

'No, no,' the stationmaster cried. 'No: put it out of your mind.' There was a note of panic in his voice and his forehead was beaded with sweat.

'But I'll be fine here,' said Phulboni.

'No, sahib, you mustn't stay here,' the stationmaster implored him. 'Come home with me; I won't let you stay here all by yourself.'

This made up Phulboni's mind. 'I'll be very comfortable here,' he said. 'Don't worry about me.' He set about unstrapping his hold-all before the stationmaster could answer.

Like all train travellers of the time, Phulboni was wholly prepared for an eventuality such as this: packed in his bedding-roll were a thin mattress, a pillow and several sheets and towels. When he unstrapped it, the bag fell open like a ready-made bed.

'Look,' he said with a triumphant gesture. 'I'll sleep very well here.'

'No,' the stationmaster said, tugging ineffectually at his hold-all. 'You can't: it's not safe.'

'Not safe?' said Phulboni. 'Why? What could happen to me here?'