He was halfway through his third paratha when he heard something fall in the room behind him. He looked over his shoulder, startled. Through the open door, he spotted his razor and shaving things lying on the floor. Nothing had gone into the room and the wind had died down. He had a moment of unease but then his hunger reclaimed him and he went on with his meal.

After he had eaten he washed his hands, drank a copious draught of water and sat back, picking his teeth contentedly with a twig. His sense of well-being returned now, as he sat in the gentle breeze, listening to the chorus of frogs and crickets that came welling up from the flooded fields below. It was so restful, so tranquil, that something special was called for, he decided: it was an occasion that demanded one of his rare cheroots.

Phulboni was not much of a smoker, but once or twice a week after a good meal he took pleasure in lighting up a good cheroot or cigar. He remembered packing some for the trip, but he wasn't sure exactly where he had put them.

The signal-room was pitch dark now, but he had kept a matchbox handy. He struck a match and at once his eyes fell on the signal lantern, gleaming in its alcove. An idea flashed into his mind. He picked up the lantern and shook it. The sound of sloshing oil told him that the tank was full. He flipped back the glass window and fumbled for the screw that operated the wick. Giving it a couple of turns, he raised the wick an inch or so and lit it. When he snapped the window back into place a bright red light filled the room.

Pleased with himself, he went over to his hold-all and began to rifle through its pockets, looking for his tin of cheroots. He had just found it when there was a metallic snap behind him and the light went out. Phulboni clicked his tongue, irritated with himself for not having shut the door before lighting the lantern. He made his way over to the desk and lit another match. But then he took a closer look and discovered that he had been mistaken: the flame had not been extinguished by a gust of wind. Rather, the wick had been lowered back into its socket with a turn of the screw. He fiddled with the screw, frowning, wondering whether it had come loose. It was hard to be sure, and in the end he just turned the wick up and lit it again. This time he made sure to put it in a corner that was well sheltered from the wind.

Then he lit his cheroot, sitting crosslegged in the doorway, listening to the myriad insects of the monsoon. Halfway through the cheroot, he heard the screw in the lantern turning once again. Casting a glance over his shoulder he saw that the light had gone out. Phulboni froze; a chill ran down his spine. Then he remembered his gun and settled back reassured. There was nothing he knew of that was proof against a.303. He went on puffing at his cheroot.

He smoked the cheroot right down to the stub and then rose to his feet. It was something of an effort to go back into the signal-room, but now he had no option. He knew he would not be able to find his way to the stationmaster's house on his own, in the dark.

Phulboni set about preparing for the night very calmly and deliberately. He changed into his night-time pyjamas in the dark, rationing his matches. Then he pulled his stout leather belt off his trousers and used it to fasten the door. He took the gun out of its bag and placed it on the floor beside his bed, within easy reach. Then he lay down on the bed, facing the door. He had half-expected that he would find himself lying awake a long time. But it had been a long day and he was very tired: within a few minutes he was fast asleep.

He was awoken by the touch of rain upon his face. He sat up, startled, and reached instinctively for his gun. The door was open, flapping in the wind, and the rain was blowing into the room in great billowing gusts.

He struggled out of bed, cursing himself under his breath for not having made sure of the door. The belt was lying by the entrance, still buckled. He picked it up, pulled the door shut and tied the belt around the doorpost again, as tightly as he could. Stepping back he lit a match to see if the belt would hold.

That was when he noticed that the signal lantern was no longer in the corner where he had last placed it. He looked around at the desk and then at the alcove: the lantern was nowhere to be seen. It had vanished.

Phulboni was groggy with sleep and the first thought that came into his mind was that the stationmaster must have come in and taken the lantern while he was asleep; maybe there was an emergency somewhere down the track. He undid the door and looked out into the driving rain. Sure enough, there it was: a little circle of red light, bobbing up and down, some fifty yards down the track.

'Masterji, masterji!' Phulboni called out after him, shouting at the top of his voice, through cupped hands. But the light went on its way, and little wonder: the wind was howling, driving the rain before it.

Phulboni gave himself no time to think. He pulled his shoes on, wrapped a heavy towel around his body, and ran out. For an instant he toyed with the idea of taking his gun. But then, thinking of what the rain and mud might do to it, he changed his mind. Squaring his shoulders he walked out on to the track, narrowing his eyes against the buffeting wind. It was not till he was halfway to the siding that he began wondering how the stationmaster had let himself into the signal-room when the door was fastened from inside.

Phulboni stumbled on, lengthening his stride to match the gap between the sleepers. The wood was slippery with rain, and he had to struggle to keep his footing. He had trouble keeping the red light in sight, but he had the feeling that he was gaining on it. Every time he caught a glimpse of it the light seemed to be just a little closer than it was before.

Then, between two furious gusts of rain, he saw the light change course and veer off towards the right. He wasn't sure of his bearings any more, but he guessed that the stationmaster had reached the point where the tracks forked off towards the siding. He was amazed: whatever the emergency, it was hard to imagine why the stationmaster would come all this way in a storm to go to the siding.

Now he lost sight of the light and slowed down a little.

Dark as it was, he fixed his eyes on the track, trying to make sure that he didn't miss the turn to the siding. when it came. But in the end he found the turn only because he happened to stumble upon the curved point-rails. He began to feel his way ahead with his feet, following the tracks as they veered off to the right.

After a few steps he stopped and looked ahead, shading his eyes. Somewhere within a swirl of pouring rain he spotted the bobbing red light. It seemed much closer now and it seemed to be almost stationary.

After a few more steps he was certain. The light had stopped moving: it was on the ground, beside the track probably very near the spot where he had been sitting earlier that day, watching the egrets as they fished in the water below. He was sure the stationmaster had seen him and was waiting for him to catch up. Cupping his hands around his mouth he shouted once again, at the top of his voice: 'Masterji, masterji.'

The light seemed to bob in encouragement and he began to run faster, as fast as he could, eager to catch up. Then suddenly, when the light was no more than twenty feet away, he tripped. He fell face forward but managed to throw his hands out in time to save his forehead from smashing into the cold steel.

He paused, in relief, to catch his breath, holding himself up with stiffened arms, his hands clutching the rails. And then, just as his breath was beginning to return, he felt a tremor in the rail. He placed both hands on the rail. There could be no doubt of it: the rail was shaking, vibrating under an approaching train.