Through the corner of his eye, over the heads of the ninety-five thousand people, he can see the railway tracks coming in from the darkness, glinting in the light of the giant halogen lamps they have put up at the station to prevent thieves from ransacking the store or even ripping off the fish-plates, and selling them as scrap at the Howrah foundry market, it's time now for the last two words, sister's and child, there, it's done, the eight words have been spoken, they have flown, each word across the city, like eight pigeons in flight, in the night, white against black, he doesn't have to lie anymore, twist facts to flesh out his fiction, he coughs once to clear his throat, coughs twice, and then he looks down to see the belt in his trousers firm and stiff, he breathes in hard, the tummy doesn't droop, he adjusts his shirt, walks down the steps that lead off the stage, they are all standing now, some clapping but he doesn't hear because he has to be home in time for his daughter to wake up, to open her eyes.