Memories of HOWRAH

I've always loved train journeys. One of those rare ocassions when we get to see green trees for real and not in some TV ads for fertilizers. After one whole semester away at my univ, I went back home. And I wasn't alone. I was in the company of good friends. So it was truly an exciting trip.
Indian railways is typically portrayed as unhygenic and filthy. That is an image of yesteryears. Trains of today are fast, punctual and moreover relatively clean. If you didn't mind, you could spread a newspaper on the coupe floor and sleep. Fortunately though, we had reservations for the entire journey. We started at 11:25 pm sharp from Dhanbad by Shaktipunj Express and by 4:30 am we reached Howrah. After a brief 'brush', we went to Comesum(probably Bengali for 'come hv some'). This Comesum is part of a chain of restaurants in major railway stations that serve a wide variety of hygenic, delicious and cheap foodstuffs for the diverse Indian palates which pass through that terminal. By sheer coincidence we meet a senior that I knew from my Freshman year as an avid footballer who reached the ground ahead of all others and did warmup until we arrived. He was overjoyed at seeing us and treated us. Fine. Our connecting train was Falaknuma Express (dep - 6:00 am). With an hour on our hands we decided to cross the HOWRAH BRIDGE which was a 5 minute walk from the station.
As we exited the terminal, we were greeted by a morning with clear skies, chirpy birds and taxis, the evergreen waters of the Brahmaputra/Ganga/Damodar, the river of sorrow for once, reminding us of things that were farthest from its name. We stood on the bridge with the 'mishti' morning all around us and the Damodar flowing from under us and vibrated to pulsating rythm that suspension bridges are wont to generate. To the right as we gazed, the tint of rosy pink slowly faded into the glowing glazed ball of orange. The sun rose over the sillouette of the city, over the distant towers and apartment buildings, over the slums and the ghettos. All this we saw from the HOWRAH BRIDGE. A white topi interrupted this reverie. He was a bored policeman glad at the prospect of going home after his night shift. But before that, he wanted to know why we were standing idly as if waiting to plant a bomb. After a crisp explanation about our status as temporary tourists in this city, we waved a pleasant goodbye to him. Finally after more deep intakes of the still shivery cold air, we returned to the terminal with a morning raga in our minds. Ironically, all I have really retained of this 33 hr train journey are those 40 minutes on the HOWRAH BRIDGE which give a new meaning to the term 'suspended animation'.