"Trit! Trit! Trit!"", the alarm was ringing far away, purposefully and deeply. 'What was the alarm doing on this train?' Soon there was fire near the toilet. A lady in a deep red sari with white borders began yelling for help. Flames engulfed me. I shreiked!

I heard footsteps followed by a sharp click. Next moment, Pavan sir was shaking me. "we will get late for the 12 o'çlock bus", I heard him saying. Looking around, there was no train, no flames. I was in my room. The fan was whirring slowly. I smiled.

We freshened up in ten minutes and were soon locking the room,getting ready for what would be a dream tour: a trip to picturesque Shimla. The air was fresh outside. Mist particles floated in the air, like talcum powder; sticking to my face and skin, sending a ticklish sensation.

Our only companion on the deserted road was the night watchman, ambling around, blowing his whistle every few minutes. He stopped in his tracks when he saw us. Then a look of recognition flashed across his face and he resumed his walk.

As we moved effortlessly across the road, flanked by cars parked on both sides, I thought of the night watchman. Walking in the mist was a heavenly feeling. The watchman surely had an envious job, making the most of the peace and calm in this town that is notoriously fast- paced. 'If only his job paid as much as an engineer's!'. I sighed.

We woke up a sleepy rickshawallah near the supermarket. He was fighting against nature, against his body, trying to keep awake. A few minutes of bargaining, and the deal was settled for fifty rupees. We knew the fare, and didn't offer to pay less than that. A stranger makes that mistake. He quotes less than the reasonable fare, and ends up paying more. We had been strangers in this town for two months. 'Old strangers'. Hard to dupe.

The ride to the station was quiet, except for our conversation. Riding on the road gives a feeling of possesion. I don't have to share the road. It's all mine. Food for the ego.

We boarded a Himachal roadways bus and took adjacent seats on a 3- seater, near the back door. Three local boys sat behind us, engaged in animated talk. An old man sat far up in the front seat, wearing a black jacket and a woolen cap. He was smoking a beedi, apparently trying to heat up his whole body with the heat he absorbed.

The bus swayed as it negotiated the 'jalebi'curves. Outside, it was dark. The road was lined with trees on both sides. It brought back memories of yesteryears. Travelling back home from high school used to be a big excitement. It meant we would eat 'food' for the next few days. Things had changed a lot now. We had grown up, the child inside me had got lost somewhere along the years.

The bus stopped with a jerk. I looked out. A signboard boldly proclaimed cold drinks and chinese food.

We got down from the bus, and headed towards a chaiwallah.

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Comments: Durga Prasad Pandey(dpsmiles at yahoo.com)