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It had been a good two hours. Two hours and no TC! My back was aching from the crouching position I had into in order to avoid detection by Pappi who, occasionally, stood up and walked past me. Initially, when I was fresh, I felt like a tiger hiding masterfully, ready to pounce on its prey. But now as time was tiredly trudging past, I was reminded of a frustrating ‘hide and seek’ game I had once been involved in. I was hiding in a similar awkward position in a cupboard of a reeky attic, but the one giving the ‘den’, as we used to call it, never turned up. He told us the next day that while counting till hundred under the old Peepul tree, he had scarcely gone till thirteen, when he had seen a ghost and run away. I remembered how I couldn’t straighten myself for weeks after that experience. It was as though the cupboard had permanently been attached to my back. Now I felt the same in the berth.

I wanted to sleep but couldn’t afford to. The arrival of the TC couldn’t be missed. There had not been much like between Rajit and Pappi. They were both busy reading.

As I was yawning, a voice made itself clear. “Ticket please,” it said, and it sent a wave of fresh energy into my body. The TC seemed two-three compartments away, and I waited for him to land in our midst, once again with the air of a tiger. And he arrived shortly.

I produced my ticket from above, without getting noticed by Pappi, who was busy searching for his. Rajit also showed his ticket. The TC indeed turned out to be a man with glasses and had a menacing look. He had a red tikka smeared on his forehead. His glasses balanced themselves on the very tip of his nose, from above which his eyes looked piercingly at our professor, waiting for him to produce his ticket.

I couldn’t help looking at the professor sitting on the opposite side, restlessly checking all his pockets for his purse. Finding that it was not in its place, the professor asked Rajit nervously, “Have you seen my purse?”

”No,” he replied, concerned.
“Just wait a second, sir, it might have fallen off,” he said to the TC as he bent down and looked underneath. He rose. It was not there.
“I don’t know where it has gone!” he said to the TC.
“I know,” said the TC with a suspicious look.
“What?” asked Pappi.
“I know where your purse is mister and I know you well, wait and watch!”
“You are getting me wrong, sir, I am a law abiding citizen…” and then suddenly Professor’s eyes lit up. Hope was back. “Sir,” he said to the TC, “I might have kept it in my trunk, let me check,” and then he moved towards his trunk.

Horror filled the TC’s eyes and he shouted, “Wait!” A man from the pantry, on his rounds, had stopped to watch the entertaining scene and seeing him the TC ordered,

“Hold him! Hold him tight, don’t let him move, I’ll be back,” and at that he lifted Pappi’s truck and rushed off. I wondered where the TC had gone, probably to get a chalan slip. But why with the trunk? The pantry man hung on to Pappi like a lover in a fit of passion and it was funny. Pappi offered no resistance, yet the man held on to him as if he was a mass of sand. I braced myself for descending, in my role of the deliverer. I saw the TC come and told myself, “Here you go!”

I was in the process of getting up but I had to stop. Behind the TC were two policeman ad hawaldar. The petty offence surely didn’t require three of the police force! A policeman came forward and told the pantry man to release Pappi. He did so and stepped aside. The policeman looked at Pappi in a ruthless manner and Pappi squirmed under his glare. The Professor opened his mouth to speak but before he could do so the policeman spoke, “Welcome, Mansukh Lal, after all these years, what a brilliant disguise but what a foolish mistake...”

The frightened look on Pappi’s face turned to a confused one and I was shocked too. What on earth was the policeman talking about? Who the dickens was Mansukh Lal? And what the devil was a brilliant disguise?

“Sir, you are mistaken, I am not Mansukh Lal, I am Professor Prabjot Pal Sidhu, a professor at IIT Delhi and I have lost my purse. I want to look in to my trunk for it, but the TC…” The policeman laughed loudly, “Ha-ha, ha-ha, ha-ha…” He looked at his subordinate and they joined in too, “Ha-ha, ha-ha, ha-ha,” roared the voices in our bogey. I wanted to laugh too at that comic scene, only that it was too big a mystery to me. It was apparent that police was confusing Pappi with some Mr. Mansukh Lal, but the million dollar question was – Who was Mansukh Lal?

“Look into your trunk indeed! No use, Mansukh, in dodging me! Ten years! After ten years we have closed in on you and your gang, and you want me to allow you to open your trunk, take out your pistol and run away again, you scoundrel! I had alerted all the officials to report to me in case of any suspicion. I knew I’d catch you the moment we shot two of your gang on the train, and wasn’t I right? You are under arrest!”

The confused looking Pappi was a horror-struck Pappi now. Gone was the look of apology in his eyes for not producing his ticket. ‘Ticket-les,’ they might insult him with, but certainly not a ‘scoundrel’. He was a man of dignity.

There was a change, meanwhile, in my plan. I couldn’t descend and tell the officer that he was my professor. The police would want a proof and the purse would have to be produced. I had to wait for the moment when I could plant it somewhere. I couldn’t jut come down with it and announce, “Here it is!”

“Excuse me, officer,” said Pappi, “You are mistaken. I told you I am not Mansukh, and I will have no more insults. I am a professor and demand due respect. What proof do you have that I am Mansukh?”

“Proof, forsooth!” shouted the officer, “You think you can dress like a sardarji and get away. The disguise of a Sikh, you must have thought, was the ideal one for the head of the ‘Takla Gang’ (th gang of the bald). No body will ever suspect you with a turban and a beard! But you are wrong! I appreciate your genius, but by losing your ticket, you have committed a folly. Hawaldar,” he addressed his subordinate, “Tear off his beard!”