Newerways

As a student studying in a different city from my hometown, I had to visit the railway station frequently for my train reservations. Life was not as easy; the long winding queues and the suffocating smell of sweat, the heat, and the body-hugging closeness with people around sent shivers down your spine. A single fan on the high ceiling of the Charbagh railway station was the only source of air circulation, if there was any.  At times, we could assert ourselves and make a separate queue for ladies, but most times this feminist move would be rejected by males waiting for hours for their turn. Obviously, railways had no such provisions, at least on the booking counters, even though they provided a seat quota for ladies on the train. In those dreary hours of waiting, I could simply shift my weight from one leg to another, hoping for a miracle to happen. On the other side of the window, the booking clerk himself looked exasperated. Sweat continued to trickle down his face, and he...