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By scheduled classes he meant the lowest castes in India—the Dalits, the so-called Untouchables, whom Mahatma Gandhi called Harijans, Children of God. What Kuldeep was questioning was a system that had its American parallel not only in affirmative action programs for minorities, but also in the stubborn resistance by the rest of the populace to the preferential fast track.

"They are now better-off than we are. They have so many advantages. These advantages were written into the law, to lift them up, and these laws have never been taken off the books. It's becoming a problem."

"How many people are we talking about?"

"A big group—maybe thirty percent of the population."

"What else worries you?"

"The north-south divide—lots of friction. The Punjab and Haryana are feeding the whole country," Kuldeep said. "So much of the country's water comes from here. And what are we getting for it?"

Interesting, this man from Ilford, Essex, growing passionate and indignant about resources in the Punjab. He did not live here, but this was where his heart was.

"The pity of India is the bad roads—bad for so many reasons. We are not keeping pace with other countries with respect to roads. Corruption, mismanagement. It can take hours for a simple journey. Everything else is going ahead, but not road building."

Kumar said, "And there's the population. Look at this."

The railway car was full—more than full: all the seats were taken, many people were standing, luggage was piled to the ceiling, and every time we rounded a sharp bend or stopped suddenly, passengers toppled and fell. The platforms of passing stations were jammed. People hung out the windows. People jostled, and there may have been passengers on the roof—it was a common occurrence. Everyone was civil, but there was no escape from the mob.

And for all the talk of modernity, the train was in tough shape—very dirty, broken seats, filthy toilets, loose wires tangled in the passageways, chipped paint, and the usual stinks.

Yet, amid the chaos and the crowds, life went on, the conductors punching tickets, passengers making phone calls, food sellers squeezing from car to car, calling out, "Cutlet! Cutlet!" or "Ess krim! Ess krim!" or "Jews! Mungo jews!" or "Chicken rice!" or "Pani! Vutta! Pani! Vutta! Buttle vutta."

"What's your biggest worry?"

"The division between rich and poor is growing," Kuldeep said. "It's huge at the moment and it's getting worse. Many people have everything, but also many people have nothing. How to fix?"

To change the subject, he said he was looking forward to the England-India cricket match in Delhi. "It's tomorrow. You should go."

"Maybe I will," I said. "Who should I be watching?"

"The bowler, Harbhajan Singh. They call him Bhaji—he's great."

That was when I was certain Kuldeep was a Sikh. He had no beard, no turban, no steel bracelet. He had been Anglicized, but still he rooted for India, still was loyal to his race and religion: he mentioned the only Sikh player on the team.

Stretching my legs on the platform between coaches, taking the air, I struck up a conversation with Mohinder Singh. He was a businessman, living in Ludhiana, but on his way to Delhi. I mentioned that I had just come from Uzbekistan.

"We sell lots of woolen goods from Ludhiana to the Stans—Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan," he said. "Pullovers, scarves, mittens. They buy from us. We export everywhere. Bike parts. Ludhiana was in the Guinness Book of Records as one of the largest makers of bikes. Because of the successful bike industry, the motorcycle company Hero Honda located here."

Jullundur was also a big maker and exporter of sports equipment. Soccer balls, cricket bats, cricket balls, hockey sticks. For religious reasons, many Hindus will not make anything involving leather, which they deem unclean. Sikhs, with no such sanction, have cornered the market.

He said, "Lots of agricultural land is being converted into housing colonies. There's a big housing boom in the Punjab. Not just locals but nonresident Indians from Canada and the U.K. investing in real estate. Small farmers sell up their land and use the money to send a son to the U.K. or Canada, to emigrate and make a go of it. Hoping he will succeed and send money back."

He asked me if I had been in India before. I told him that I had last been in Punjab thirty-three years ago.

He asked, "What do you think is the biggest difference?"

I said, "What you're doing now. Talking about progress and praising India's economy. Confidence and self-esteem. I never heard that before."

He agreed, saying, "And phones. When we lived in Simla, my father was a paramilitary. Twenty years ago it was almost impossible to have a telephone. I remember the day we were notified that we could have a telephone. We rejoiced!"

"How long had you waited?"

"Two years!" he said. "Now it isn't a mark of status. Even rickshaw wallahs have mobile phones."