Shatabdi

The shatabdi trains are among the fastest trains in India.  They are day trains, have fewer stops than most others, and they all return to their origin in the evening.
Most leave fairly early in the morning.  Which means you have to be serious about getting up in the morning and being on time. I had to run to catch my train because the taxi was stuck in the traffic jam well outside the station.
After my taxi had not moved for about ten minutes and my watch said the train would leave in eight minutes, I said to the driver, "How far is the entrance to the station?"
"It's just there around the corner and to the right.  When is the train?"
"In eight minutes.  Do you think I should go on foot?"
"I think you should go on foot, and you should go quickly."
So I paid him, ran to my train and did just barely make it.
Shew. 

Now this is not luxury, but there are some pretty good things about the shatabdi.

The shatabdi breakfast, complete with ketchup

The cars are air conditioned.and they serve you a meal and give you a newspaper to read.

And you MUST take the newspaper.  You must.
I refused it.  And the man threw it into my seat anyway.  Then five minutes later, he came back and threw in another one.
Thanks man.  I'll be sure and read it all twice.

I guess they want to be sure you have something to do while they prepare to bring you your meal.

Most people around me were sleeping.
I spent my time looking out the window, seeing the sights.

Steaming hot tea

And then came the tea.

the hot water for your tea

With a thermos full of hot water so you can make it yourself just the way you like it.

As my train adventure began with running, so it also ended.
On the morning I left to return home, my taxi arrived late.  I arrived at the station at the time my train was supposed to be leaving.  I ran in, and asked the nearest newspaper seller which platform the train was at.
"That train is right there," he said, pointing to the nearby train that was beginning to move.
Ah!
So I ran and jumped onto the nearest car, and--shew, again--did make it home.

Airport upgrade

I was appreciating some airport upgrades.
Like how the airport now has those gangway things so that you don't have to walk on the tarmac (or out in the cold). Or how there are all kinds of new budget airlines flying in and out (cheaper prices).

The military still hangs out on the tarmac, though.
I don't think that will be changing for quite some time.

The travel factor

Yes, my tickets to the Commonwealth games events include passes on the metro. But is it worth it?
Is it worth--

• the squish,
• the arms upraised in your face,
• the violation of personal space?

I had this idea, silly me, that the shuttle ride from the metro station to the stadium would be, well, a shuttle.
Wrong.
It was the average India bus experience.
We queued for the arrival of the bus in men's and women's lines, but when the bus pulled up it did not line up with our queues and people made a mad rush to get on.
I'm not an aggressive person.
In about forty seconds, the 743 (you know, estimate) of us waiting to get on the bus were on the bus.
Except me.
I was still standing there.
The CWG helpful-guy-in-uniform said to me, "I'm sorry, you can catch the next shuttle."
After I'd already been waiting there fifteen minutes and just missed the last one--I was at the front of the line, even! "My Aunt and Uncle are on that bus," I replied, referring to my travel companions.
The helpful guy turned to the man with his leg sticking out of the bus door that could not close. "Move over, she has to get on the bus," he said.
And they moved.
There's always room for one more.
Last passenger on and off we went.
But where was the a/c for the hundreds of us crammed in there? Not turned on.

One awesome thing I discovered: there are cars on the metro trains reserved for women only.
Wow is that a breath of fresh air. Literally.

Reality

I was on a plane flying to the US when I overheard a conversation.
"Are you heading home for the holidays?" said the lady.
"Oh yes, can't wait for that cranberry sauce," said the man.
"Yeah," she laughed, "back to reality."
"That's right, heh heh heh."
And their conversation went on to complain of some of the deprivations their stay in India had included, how they couldn't believe the way people lived, and what modern conveniences they were about to enjoy upon landing.
Wait a minute, I thought, cranberry sauce and people speaking American English, that's reality? This experience that people are living by the billions on the other side of the world is not real?
Life for the guy sleeping beneath the Ambedkar statue isn't reality? There are thousands of people homeless and living on the streets. And, yeah, they bother you knocking on the car window at the streetlights, begging for money. But they're not imaginary, and flying to the other side of the world doesn't mean they cease to exist.
I don't think the goatherd's little girl--or anyone she knows--has ever heard tell of a cranberry, but her reality is just as meaningful as my own.
She puts a little sweater on her baby goat and brings him to graze in the shadow of the Taj Mahal--if that's not other worldly! She may never go to school, but all she experiences is still real.
I'd have to say that it's we here in America who think life needs to include instant messaging and drive-throughs that need the reality check. Since when do we need these things as if it's the only way to live?
If you've seen it, it's only fair to at least acknowledge that it's really there, this other place where people live and work and love and die.
Because it is. Real.

And be careful what you say on an airplane. Because someone might overhear you and form unflattering opinions of you.

Getting home

After all my traveling, I am back now. My trip from the airport to the house was eventful.
I was assured by the airport authorities and the taxi driver that my airplane boarding pass would serve as "curfew pass" to get through the strict city-wide curfew that was being enforced by police and military. We were stopped around eight times before the driver refused to take me any further. He was too agitated.
At most of the checkpoints, he would very respectfully greet the military officer, they would look at my boarding pass and his taxi papers, and then wave us on. At one stop, they wanted to try out their English and ask me how long I've lived here. But what rattled the driver was the last check point we passed and the young officer who seemed to be on a power trip. "You know it's a curfew today," he said, "Are you a curfew breaker? Do you want to get beat?"
It was only just after we'd driven out of sight of those men that the driver decided that was far enough and he stopped the car. Nearby there was a path to my house, actually. Rather God-ordained. I'd never been down that path, but I could see through the trees that it would end up right near the neighbor's house. There were some women standing nearby saying they'd find somebody to take me through to the other side. So the driver took my boarding pass to help him on his way home, and I took my suitcase over the rough, chicken-and-goat path (they'd left behind their markings).
The path came out just at the end of my lane, and my tour guide wheeled my suitcase the rest of the way to my door.
Arrived at last.