My parents, for reasons known only to them, used to take us to Chennai and Bangalore whenever school closed for the summer. They did this every year, without fail, for over a decade and a half. We had no relatives or friends in either city, but adults have all kinds of mysterious reasons for why they choose to do what they do. They must have explained why visiting other cities was impossible, of course, but I can't seem to recall that explanation. Maybe they just felt the need for something familiar, year after year, for which I can't blame them. Nostalgia can be a powerful drug.

What I remember most about those journeys aren't the destinations themselves — although I continue to retain a fondness for both cities — as much as the journeys by train. We would find ourselves at Victoria Terminus at unearthly hours, depending upon which train we had tickets for. The platforms would be filled with people of all kinds because that is how the middle class travelled back then before we all found air travel magically affordable. There were no fancy suitcases anywhere on display because this was India before liberalisation. All we had were massive trunks, like giant treasure chests, locked and tied up with rope, carried on the heads of porters who unerringly knew which platforms they needed to be deposited on.