Around India in 80 Trains
Monisha Rajesh
Language: English
Pages: 288
ISBN: 1857885953
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Taking a page from Jules Verne's classic tale, Monisha Rajesh embarked on an adventure around India in eighty trains. Indian trains carry over twenty million passengers daily, plowing through cities, crawling past villages, climbing up mountains, and skimming along coasts. Monisha hopes that her journeys across India will lift the veil on a country that had become a stranger to her.
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Themselves—a pastime they reserved for when they had an audience—so I caught up with Passepartout and relayed the ‘imaginary friends’ conversation. He looked down at his camera and adjusted the lens. That night after kebabs and a merlot, Octopussy was screened to set the mood for Udaipur. As Roger Moore leapt out of his gorilla costume onto the top of a speeding train, chased by a sword-wielding Sikh in a blue turban, I wondered why Passepartout had been so quiet. Since the comment about the.
World’s oldest running steam train, and also an original rake of the Palace on Wheels. Scrawling the Joy Train into the logbook was satisfying and it added variety. Anusha would not care. Anusha did not care. She looked up and her face fell. ‘Oh my God, why you are coming so late again? I knew, I just knew you were going to come late again. Hurry up, I have a party to get to.’ Anusha’s severe ponytail had been abandoned and her hair spilt down over her shoulders, streaks of henna skimming.
Two hundred pairs of feet bounced lightly on the floor of the enormous hall, causing the entire room to vibrate. It was a pleasant feeling and the idea was to allow the sensation to enter through your feet, until you eventually became the shaking. This soon became a bit dull and I was glad when the second stage began, which involved dancing any way your body wished to. As the third stage began, which involved ‘witnessing whatever was happening’—inside and out—I sensed something behind me. Turning.
Stuffed my tickets into my bag and waved. ‘Be careful,’ she warned. A colleague in London had put me in touch with a friend of his who lived in Delhi. Dan was a television reporter for a well-known American network. That night we arranged to meet in a bar in Sundar Nagar. A steamroller of a man sat at the bar with a buzz cut and beard, his shirt sleeves rolled up and a whisky in one hand. If he stretched too hard his pecs would have split his shirt in two. ‘Hey, I thought there were two of.
Hyderabad and my dad’s from Chennai.’ ‘But Indian only?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You are studying?’ ‘No, I’m a journalist, but I’m riding the railways for a few months.’ ‘Oh! Where are you going to next?’ ‘I’m heading south to join the Golden Chariot.’ ‘I have a niece in London, you may know her.’ He scrolled through his phone, ‘you must call her when you go home’, he said, showing me a number that I typed into my phone. ‘So you have seen the temple then?’ he asked. ‘Yes. It’s really beautiful. But what.