But there was more on board than the pleasing prospect of a change of aab-o-hawa. My car was packed with voluble, beaming pilgrims, some with caps tilted in the tedi-topi tradition of Lucknow's bankas, the once-boulevardiers of its chowk. Above their heads were green Samsonite suitcases and white five-litre canisters, coded in green. They were clearly full of water. These were sacred '90s koojas (Persian-Tamil word for jug), whispered the elderly Sikh who behind, full of holy water from Zamzam, the miracle spring ought forth by God for Hagar when she wandered in the desert the Ishmael. From the sands of Arabia, these koojas were being ne to the banks of the Gomti, with purely Arabic gangajal. The car rang with the good fellowship of Haj accomplished. in front cried "Aur, Hajji?" to men at the back in deliber- congratulatory affection. There was even a voluble lady, urkhaflap thrown back, who led the plaint that swelled to a that really, the fire was the fault of the Pakistanis and how ould the Saudi guards block fleeing people?
The Sikh spoke for every eavesdropper when he wondered why ly BBC reports had been so quick to flash a Pakistani's voice repeatedly saying the fire had begun in the Indian camp. Much headshaking and angry tut-tutting followed, tee-shirted men en let drop Pooja Bhatt on the Stardust cover. The polite train ice came on just then, like the ashareeri warning Kans mama of doom: the Shatabdi was approaching Aligarh, a city famed for tradition of Islamic learning and would we please remember take along or destroy our water bottles when we eventually dismbarked at Kanpur or Lucknow, to prevent their misuse.
