There is
something about train journeys. Takes me back to childhood. The long, long
summer commencing with the yearly trip to my nani’s place in Agra. The city
of Tajmahal to most of the world. And to me, the place where I spent a glorious
month, playing, fighting, dreaming, escaping and being the children that we
could not be the rest of the year.
Today as I bring
to you these words from a train coach en route to Agra, I feel suddenly
nostalgic. No, this is not a long vacation. No, these are not school holidays. And
we are not a bunch of half a dozen kids counting the miles to the annual
reunion.
These are precious
four days stolen from under the wings of time. From killing schedules and
unreasonable professions. To attend a wedding that my grandma would miss. And she
would want me there.
So, here I am. On
another train journey to the shrine of my childhood. It is a journey that our
kids would not really know in this jet setting age. And though the feeling
would not last, in this moment, I feel almost sorry for them.
