Ghodadongri

The train barely stopped here at the small station of ghodadongri.
.
Sitting in an airconditioned compartment distances you from whatever
is going on outside and I miss the feel of the smells and the shouts
of porters at the way stations and the hasty negotiations on the cost
of poha or a plate of samosas purchased through the Window. And I miss
the rush or wind in the face from the endless Indian plains and the
metal shutters that had to be dropped down when it rained in the
middle of the night.
.
I remember that a train journey used to be accompanied with a strong
iron smell that would permeate every cloth that you wore. I just don't
get it anymore. Must be all those years of sailing on rustbuckets that
killed my iron smell.
.