The train that was supposed to depart at 5 PM was late. It was 5.45 PM and judging from the reactions of the passengers waiting with me at Platform no 3, after a series of frantic Arabic announcements, it was not coming anytime soon. “Trains on Platform No 3 are always late.” The middle aged man, sitting next to me, holding a book and a leather bag that seem to date from the 80s, said as he lit up another cigarette. It was a cursed platform. The Egyptian stations are not that different from the ones we have in India. Both grossly mismanaged, not very clean, uncomfortable, crowded, loud, and, this is the best part, full of character. From shops, that sell everything from the Quran to the latest issue of Maxim, and from bags to baby clothes, to food stalls that serve delicious bowls of Kushari and piping hot kebabs, from the friendliest guards who voluntarily come up to make sure you are at the right platform to the coolest people who offer you a smoke before lighting one up for themselves. And just in case, in the midst of…
