The year was 2001. It was mid-October, and autumn had painted the world in hues of gold. The excitement of Durga Puja was in the air, and I was on my way home to Kolkata from Charkhi Dadri, Haryana. As a high school teacher, my life was often structured around routines, but this journey would prove to be anything but ordinary.
I boarded the train to Delhi from Bhiwani at 5 pm. In the same compartment, a family joined me—a father, a mother, and their two young children. We were all travellers, heading towards different destinations yet sharing the same path, if only for a while. The gentleman was returning to his duty at a military base in Assam with his family, while I was eagerly anticipating the warmth of home and festivities.
Upon reaching Delhi, we faced a common predicament—both our trains were scheduled to depart early the next morning. The waiting room was overcrowded, buzzing with restless passengers and their luggage. Rather than struggle for space, we made a spontaneous decision to spend the night on a platform bench, an experience that would stay with me forever.
The platform, though quieter than during peak hours, was still alive in its own way. A few passengers like us waited patiently for their trains, while railway staff moved with practised efficiency. Locomotives rumbled as they dragged empty coaches back to the yards. Every now and then, a train would arrive, spilling out sleepy-eyed travellers, while others hurried across platforms to catch their departing trains. Even at midnight, the station never truly slept—hawkers whispered their final sales, guards paced the length of the platforms, and the rhythmic clatter of moving carriages became an unexpected lullaby. I watched in wonder, experiencing the station in a way I never had before.
We settled in, making the most of our temporary resting place. The gentleman carefully arranged his baggage to create a makeshift bed for his children, ensuring their comfort in the midst of the station’s chaos. Dinner was a heartwarming affair—my humble bread, butter, banana, and sweets merged with their lavish spread of parathas, vegetables, salad, and pickles. A meal shared with strangers became a moment of connection, breaking barriers and forming bonds that transcended our brief encounter.
We took turns sleeping, watching over the luggage and the little ones. In between, we talked—about life, work, and family. He spoke of his responsibilities at the military base, and I shared my journey as a teacher. When I rested, his wife and I exchanged stories in hushed tones—her childhood, marriage, and the challenges of constantly relocating with her husband’s job. For the first time in eight months since leaving home, I found comfort in a heartfelt conversation, a warmth I had unknowingly craved.
As dawn painted the sky with soft hues, we took turns freshening up in the waiting room, then shared one last cup of morning tea. The station, now awake with new travellers, signalled the end of our brief yet profound companionship. With a handshake and silent prayers for each other’s well-being, we parted ways—they boarded their train to Assam, and I caught mine to Howrah.
In those days, without mobile phones or emails, staying in touch was nearly impossible. Yet, that night remains etched in my heart—a reminder that sometimes, the most unexpected moments with strangers can leave the deepest impact. It was not just a night spent on a platform; it was a journey beyond destinations, a fleeting but unforgettable bond formed in the heart of a bustling railway station.