Ever since I can remember, I've associated going home from a journey with leaning out of the train or peering desparately through the window to get a glimpse - just one magical darshan - of The Bridge. Straddling the river, the often-crowded and usually-filthy connection between west and east, journey and home.
These days, money's cheaper than time, and I don't take a train home often. Flying has none of the magical possibilities with which a journey should abound, but gets me there quicker and lets me spend more time there.
And even if I don't actually see it each time I go home, I know the bridge still rears up at the entrance to the city, greeting home-comers like a rather dignified cat - pleased to see them, yet maintaining the impression of being completely indifferent to their presence.
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