RAABTA

Trams are a delightful sight in the City of Joy, the only ones in India. Slow yet full of heritage and history, from its modern glass roofs to its old wooden seats, the bell for a horn or the dim yellow lights, the trams snake through the city traffic snarling like a child in a sprightly dance. They are never old, for the child in awe or the old man who sits nostalgic. They are a symbol of the soul of the city and everything it stands for, the heart, the culture, the heritage, and the glimpse of the once colonized yet glorious capital city of palaces, of British India. The story I am about to tell dates perhaps a decade or so back. I was a teenager back then, barely fourteen, and to my imaginative mind, these idle tram rides were my blissful escape from the rush of the everyday rat race. Quite frankly, like most teenagers are, I was also clueless about my future, struggling with a bit of Algebra and Trigonometry, and trying in vain to understand the pages of basic Chemistry. A