What an insignificant photograph. The emptiness of the landscape swishing by as you stand near the door of the coach of the train.
This is what I remember. The annoying families constantly littering peanut shells on the floor. A young man leching and me running to the safety of the coach door. The dangling, noisy vestibule threatening to rip apart as you stepped over it.
The smell of beedis and the occassional person insisting on brushing their teeth in the small basin. The annoying railway tap that has to be constantly pressed with great pressure hissing with reluctance and spite.
The rail journeys back home were far from perfect. But I miss them. The chai walah, the bisleri bottle madness and the joy of standing at the door, the wind knotting up your hair.
Everytime I go back, I want to take that familiar GT. And instead, giving into the ease and the time constraint, it’s the airports.
I miss that. The sheer romance of the journey. And the endless empty landscape.