Sameer Bhide 1 The train screeched to a halt with a metallic groan, and the smell of coal, iron, and a hundred kinds of human fatigue hung heavy in the air. Bimal stepped down onto the platform of Victoria Terminus with a battered canvas bag, a portfolio case under one arm, and an envelope stitched into the lining of his shirt containing twenty-six rupees. Bombay. The city of cinema, sweat, and stories. The year was 1956, and Bimal was twenty-four years old. He stood for a moment, absorbing the chaos around him. Vendors shouting about chai and vada pav. Porters…