When you think of railway stations in India, you expect a crowded, dirty place with so much noise that two people standing a foot away need to shout. Forget about sitting in a local train. (Now now the New Bombay stations are an exception)
But think again. Go to Delhi, travel in the metro there, and I am sure you will come out impressed. With working escalators and clean floors, the stations are beautifully made.
Picture this. In a car, a ride from Delhi University to Connaught Place takes around an hour; if you are lucky and the traffic is moving. Contrast that to the metro, which takes fifteen minutes and leaves you in the heart of Connaught Place. You get a place to sit easily; it is centrally air-conditioned (obviously) and even for a first-timer, there are enough signs and boards to have a trouble free journey.
Mumbai needs a metro. Though it has been passed, I am sure it will be years before such a project will be undertaken in this city. Why, we do not know? Remember the Bandra Worli flyover?
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Thursday, February 02, 2006
School
I always wonder why my parents decided I should go to a boarding school when I was just in the fourth grade.
It was a brave decision; and to say that I also wanted to desperately go to a boarding school was another thing. I had always been in awe of my sisters who were in Mussoorie International School. My sis never failed to tell me how much fun they had in school, besides the independence they got.
So I, who had torn an acceptance from Welham Boys in the second standard, suddenly wanted to join a boarding. And then, I was at Scindia School, Gwalior.
I did not know then, that I would have to bathe in ice cold water in the even colder winter, or that I would have to eat tasteless food for three years.
What I did know was that I was to live on my own for those years. I would be introduced to so many people from so many parts of the country, that I would later be able to distinguish a Bihari from a Bhaiya. (Most people in Bombay confuse between the two.)
There was this fascinating person I met. He was a German guy, of German parents, not an NRI. And surprise, surprise, he was a Hindi teacher.
I went to so many places. Went to Bangladesh, went to Ajmer.
Good my parents thought I should go to a boarding school. Everyone should.
It was a brave decision; and to say that I also wanted to desperately go to a boarding school was another thing. I had always been in awe of my sisters who were in Mussoorie International School. My sis never failed to tell me how much fun they had in school, besides the independence they got.
So I, who had torn an acceptance from Welham Boys in the second standard, suddenly wanted to join a boarding. And then, I was at Scindia School, Gwalior.
I did not know then, that I would have to bathe in ice cold water in the even colder winter, or that I would have to eat tasteless food for three years.
What I did know was that I was to live on my own for those years. I would be introduced to so many people from so many parts of the country, that I would later be able to distinguish a Bihari from a Bhaiya. (Most people in Bombay confuse between the two.)
There was this fascinating person I met. He was a German guy, of German parents, not an NRI. And surprise, surprise, he was a Hindi teacher.
I went to so many places. Went to Bangladesh, went to Ajmer.
Good my parents thought I should go to a boarding school. Everyone should.
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