Anyway, when Sudha called suddenly to say she was dancing in Bharat Bhavan and would I come to watch and chill out afterwards for a few days, I flung myself impulsively on the first train that I got a berth—any berth—on. Only after the Dakshin Express pulled away from my brother's encouraging platform noises about itinerant axe murderers, did I really look about and rue that once again I was off to MP by coffin class. It was just last June that we'd towed a horri-fied fashion crew by second class non-AC along with good sport Sabrina Holkar, to shoot Maheshwari saris on her at, where else, Maheshwar. It's usually 12 snoozy hours from Delhi to Bhopal, with a pleasantly sooty train breakfast and superlative chai in the morning. But the kohra (fog) made us so woefully late that we missed our track timings and lay grump-ing for whole half hours at pretty halts like Sanchi and Dewangunj to let several snooty superfasts zoom by.