I am a creature of habit. And since my habits have rarely landed me in trouble, I don't see any point in being any different. This is principally why I felt uneasy that day.

It was Ashtami evening. The night before, on the favourite niece's demand, I had decided to take off for Farakka. As I got off the car and entered Sealdah station, I could, in my head, imagine the collective reaction of the khandaan - Did she really? But in the middle of the Pujas?

Apprehension is something I don't usually experience while travelling. But as I waited for the Gour Express that evening, I felt an odd stirring in the pit of my stomach. It is true that I was travelling alone and second class after decades, but more importantly, this was the first time there was no one to see me off.

The homely ritual was a family habit and suddenly minus it I felt like a kite without a latai. Without the tug of belonging the zing of adventure seemed pheeka.

The train chugged into the station. The orderly queue for the general compartments was a pleasant surprise, as was the thin crowd before my designated coach. I found my seat, inspected the lavatory - everything was as they used to be.

My co-passengers, a young Bengali couple with a child and a Rajasthani family of three - mother, father, teenaged daughter - were busy tucking their luggage under the seats and settling down. I dialled a friend to say nothing had changed about train travel. The voice at the other end said, "Really? Brave the onslaught of other people's cell phones and then let's talk."

The middle berth was mine. The Bengali couple had the lower berth and the top berth facing me. After they had their dinner, I offered to pull up the middle berth so they could put the child to sleep. The father, a grumpy looking man, had barely seen my mouth move when he decided I was making some impossible request. " Na, na, na," he shushed me rudely.

I snuggled close to the window hoping to see the fireflies waltz in the distant dark, only to realise that in the Durga Puja season even the dark is golden. Another old habit died whimpering - no firefly sighting for me this time.

A cough interrupted my thoughts. It was the presumptuous father. Could I get up so that they could call it a day? But that is exactly what I had proposed in the first place. Why did he shout me down then, I glowered. He mumbled something and turned away. Jumping to unfair conclusions - such a poor habit.

I had consciously deviated from one habit this time. Had decided against using the luggage chain (although I hadn't left it home). But once snug in my berth, I felt it might not have been such a smart idea after all. I peeped down at the snoring forms below me and the array of footwear lying askew and went back to sleep.

At 7am the train pulled into a rain-drenched Farakka. A one-man reception committee was waiting for me. As I filled my lungs with smog-less air, I felt alive.

The car took the road along a feeder canal that flows into the Ganges. I was distracted by a giant mound of coal and vegetation to the left. Beyond that, I was told, is the habitat of those who make life easier for the babus and bibis, dadas and didis in the living quarters provided by the National Thermal Power Corporation.

In the 20 minutes we'd been on the road, barely three or four cars crossed us, and, of course, the occasional motorcycle and bicycle. I feel torn. What should I look at - the clear, straight ribbon of a road ahead or the canal along it? It is not as if the scene is exceptionally picturesque, but the sheer indulgence of an unimpeded view is difficult for the urban eyes to resist.

That evening, we sat at the Puja pandal. As men, women and children in wedding finery shuffled towards the dias of the Durga pratima, we sat facing the stage outside. One woman was reciting poem after poem she herself had composed. Her politest audience was possibly Ma Durga and her children.

I was sitting there listening to gossip, bickers, oohs and aahs, when someone pointed at a block of flats in the complex and said - "Look the Ghoshes, Sinhas and Sens have all gone out of town." How did she know from looking at a building? I couldn't help but ask. "All those flats are dark. No one switches off the lights in this part of the world."

Aah. Sweet habit.