Around India in 80 Trains by Monisha Rajesh

Meenakshi temple—had been purchased with the intention of releasing them at the nearest patch of green, which in dry, brown Trichy, was no mean feat.
    Embarrassed to be seen carrying the cages, we hurried towards the temple and found a clearing inhabited by one elderly goat with infected udders that swung like two footballs in a bag. She glanced up briefly, but went back to chewing her Amul butter box. By now the birds were throwing their multi-coloured bodies around the cages. Feeling like Mary Poppins, I sat on a bench, opened the door and waited for them to soar into the sky, before swooping back to place a flower behind my ear. Instead, they fell out one by one and rolled around in the sand. Their wings had been clipped. And that was not all. On close examination, the source of their colouring also became clear—they had been coloured in with felt-tipped pens. Fortunately for Passepartout, his birds were in better shape and zoomed straight out of the cage like doves at an Olympic opening ceremony. With a little effort, my breadcrumbed stragglers managed to hop into the bushes beneath the watchful eyes of a pair of hawks who were circling.

    Panting, I faced the last stretch of 437 steps that led up to the top of the Rock Fort temple and winced as a pocket-sized lady, older than God, sped ahead of me holding up her sari in one hand. She flashed a gummy, toothless smile on her way past. Eventually I reached a levelled platform where two little girls slept peacefully in an alcove beneath a series of notice boards educating visitors on the marvels of the temple:
    ‘It is a proven fact that those who worship the God will be blessed with children and that pregnant ladies will have an easy delivery ’, and ‘according to geological research this mountain is 3,500 billion years old . ’
    It was hard to determine which of the two was more impressive. It was not unusual to come across tremendous fabrications. To their credit, Indians are extremely quick thinkers, but rather than admit to a lack of knowledge, they have a tendency simply to make things up on the spot. The Sri Rangam temple management confirmed that the Sri Lanka story was a myth and for safety reasons visitors were not allowed up to check. Harbouring a constant sense of incredulity made every day in India a new adventure.
    Once again non-Hindus were not allowed into the Vinayaka temple at the top of the hill—though a greased palm sometimes waived this rule—so I cut the visit short and we stumbled down the steps and arrived back at Trichy Junction for Chinese food, before boarding train number 13, a passenger train to Thanjavur. Indian Chinese food, or ‘chindian’ food, was of hakka origin and tasted little, if nothing at all, like the authentic Chinese food, but it was delicious. Dishes often came in gravy and were flavoured with typical Indian spices like cumin and coriander and the key ingredient, a healthy dose of chilli, which catered specifically to Indian taste buds. Chinese was fast growing as the most popular choice for dining out in India, and London’s Yauatcha was soon to open a second branch in Mumbai after Alan Yau noticed that a large chunk of his dim sum diners were Indian. Trichy station’s upstairs restaurant was a few grades off the Soho teahouse, but did great ‘Schewzen’ noodles, vegetable ‘chowmin’ and American ‘chopsaucy’.

    ‘Neenga engirundhu varinga?’
    I blinked.
    ‘ Neenga Tamil pesuvingala?’
    ‘I’m sorry I don’t speak Tamil.’
    ‘Amrika?’
    ‘No, I’m English.’
    ‘ Yingland , ah? Appadiya ?!’
    Thrilled to bits, my interrogator clapped his hands above his head and the entire row sitting opposite us hooted with delight and clutched each other’s elbows. Apparently I did speak Tamil. The passenger train to Thanjavur was jammed with workers on their way home and our compartment housed a group of eight co-workers, an elderly lady and her two granddaughters, three students and a sticky baby with