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827 George N Netto Who can ever resist watching a train thunder across the countryside? At 77, I still can’t. Trains have enchanted me ever since a May evening in 1950 when I gaped in awe, clutching my father’s hand tight, as the Tuticorin Express majestically steamed into Trichinopoly junction, clanging and hissing, and screeched to a halt. It was my first introduction to the Railways — and it made my heart race. To me, the steam locomotive epitomised brute strength and unmatched power. Everything about it fascinated me. In particular, what attracted me was the way the tracks vibrated ...

George N Netto As our school’s PT master, he kept us fighting fit. Every day, he would march us out into the scorching Tiruchy sun for a 30-minute workout. Despite being on the wrong side of the 60s, no exercise was beyond him. And if he could do it, he reasoned, so could we boys. Clad in baggy, knee-length khaki shorts — a relic from his days in the police force — the six-foot, ramrod-straight Mr Tomlinson would energetically demonstrate physical exercises with an agility that belied his age. And he expected us to match him — nothing less would do. ‘Patrick,’ he’d bellow, ‘is...