Far-Flung Postcards is a weekly collection wherein NPR’s worldwide staff shares moments from their lives and work around the globe.
I like Mumbai, however there are days when the town checks me. Once I’m strolling in sweltering warmth amid a cacophony of horns, dodging canine poop on the pavement, coughing up mud churned up by zigzagging rickshaws.
So I took a break with my household this month close to the seashore in Goa, and booked a trip in a Vistadome coach on the 12051 Jan Shatabdi Specific, departing 5:10 a.m. from the British-era Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus.
Because the solar rose and mists evaporated, I and the girl sitting beside me swiveled our chairs to face the practice’s famously extensive, clear home windows. As we did, a lush, inexperienced vista rushed previous: tangled jungle, swollen rivers and waterfalls.
I gasped, after which laughed. What an ideal balm, I believed. And an opportunity to fall in love, once more, with India.
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