When I showed my mother the previous edition of Hybrid Hues, all she asked was if my name featured anywhere throughout. To this, with an air of frivolousness, I turned to the page with my batch photograph. The look my mother returned, I must say, was one of the sole motivating factor for me to write this up. Read on!
So, trying to figure out what I could spew out from my meager writing skills, I was reminded of the winter break last year.
The journey from Delhi to Secunderabad is certainly much easier and more comfortable than that from the railway station to my house. And with the coach attendant in the all new Duronto waking you up time and again to feed your malnourished body, realizing you’ re heading back from the hostel, you feel perfectly at home.
Even the highest level of coaxing combined with the sympathy for a helpless child returning home after a year can’ t get my parents convinced to pick me up from the railway station. Well, I don’ t blame them. Such is the traffic at Hyderabad! Nevertheless, Hyderabad like Mumbai also has a suburban rail network. With a frequency comparable to Raina hitting a sixer, the Mumbai reference should be considered blasphemous.
As soon I reached Secunderabad, I fled the train to the local train platform. On my way, on the pedestrian bridge, I could see that the Sunday 8:30 local was already there as if anticipating my arrival. Missing this meant waiting for an hour more. One notable disadvantage of getting accustomed to Delhi metro is that it makes you all the more impatient in dealing with the Hyderabad local. With my level of determination reaching skyrocketing heights, I ran,‘ forcing my heart, nerve and sinew’ to pursue the goal of my life. Meanwhile, I also had to purchase the ticket – reinforcing my love for the Delhi metro. I could see nothing but the train waiting for me. Had Drona asked me then, to my answer, Arjuna would stand no chance.
As you might have figured it out, all this build-up has got a reason. No! I didn’ t miss the train. Just as I was going to board the train after a few rounds of self-congratulating, a policeman gestured me to the next compartment. To my surprise, I was shooed off from the next bogey too and even in the one after that( I’ m greatly thankful, the train had been still waiting all this while!). I figured that this wasn’ t working and since the train had just begun to move, I sprinted to the very last bogey and finally managed to squeeze in.
I was the happiest man in the world that very moment. Not only to have saved an hour( Believe me, waiting for an hour at your destination railway station can be much worse than lazing off for 36 hours on the train) but also to have won a cozy little territory for myself in the coach. The rest of the journey was spent in celebrating the victory I had just achieved.
But this feeling of triumph, well, like all other feelings, was short lived. The train had reached the intended destination and as I alighted from the train, I realized that all other coaches apart from the one, which I was on, were dead empty. Very similar to the sight you get to see in a morning 8 o’ clock class. Upon further scrutiny, it revealed that all of the seated