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The talk of big planes flying everyone to Ayodhya had me thinking of my son's train fare back from Pune this summer. It cost two night shifts to book his ticket, and still he had to stand for fourteen hours. When they speak of such grand projects, I wonder what it would be to have a train that a nurse's son could sit in.
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Arre, you said it, yaar. That train ticket—I know, I know. We send our daughter to Delhi, and the first-class waitlist is a joke; last time her mother stood and cooked rotis on her lap for twenty hours. They talk of new airports like choora (knife) cutting butter, but the old Kalka Mail—that was a train for everyone, a real saans (breath) of the common man. Bas, they forget the small comfort of a seat.