Apparently this happens every time my dad arrives in Kharagpur. Our little parade proceeds along India's longest platform, through a tunnel, out into the main entrance where there's The Classic White Ambassador With Red Official Light waiting in the foyer, surrounded by more armed guards and a pair of drivers.
And other assorted miscellaneous well-wishers.
The Brits had absolutely ridiculous standards of living. They've given 4 bedrooms, 4 bathrooms, 2 dining rooms, a drawing room, 2 verandahs, a portico, a kitchesm 2 boxrooms, a TV room, and assorted other alcoves, including a separate room dedicated solely to the purpose of washing dishes.
In this cathedral, the Indian Railways now houses one DRM.
Classic winter holiday
Warm sun. Sitting in the verandah in a chair. Lolling. Reading. Snoozing. Dozing. Snacking. A dog comes along the driveway, into the lawn, lies down in a flowerbed, and rolls around enthusiastically. Gets up, leaves the way it came.
Occasional sounds drifting in on the breeze from a school. A marriage. Trains in the distance. Birds.
Elderly grandparent threatens suicide in the face of my continued doggedly single existence.
Guano turns the entire driveway white.
A Mahila Sammelan meeting happens, presided over by my mom. In the railway colonies, individual identites get subsumed, lost in the greater entities that they've chosen to become a part. of. Like names. There's Mrs. FA&CAO, Mrs. DRM, Mrs. ADRM, Mrs DAO, Mrs. ADAO...
Station master calls to tell us the train has arrived at the platform and will leave in 5 mins to Cal! We're still finishing breakfast. And this is why I love small towns - we still catch it.