Rain began as soon as the train pulled out of Baroda station, fine rain that left droplets on the huge picture windows, and later the downpour drenched the countryside in shades of green and caused impromptu lakes to reflect the skies, and instant streams to rush to wherever they were flowing to. Stations rushed by, and the sky was variations of slate to the horizon, unnamed trees  flowering in the distance, some bore new leaves. I stared till it was too late, although the book I was reading is pretty absorbing too—a magical new world built on snippets of our pasts. Must be one of the pleasures of life, reading to the gently rocking movement of a train. I’m quite liking Meluha, though I’d like to run a red pencil through the adjective OD.