A Platform of Strangers (A true story)

 

I sat on a polished chair on the platform, gazing at my loved one through the smoked glass of the train. A silent prayer for a safe journey formed on my lips.

A stillness settled around me as passengers boarded and found their seats. The platform came alive with a familiar paradox: those who had been desperate for the train to wait until they have to board the train were now equally eager for the wheels to start turning.

Then, a family of eight stormed the platform. They were a whirlwind of hurried confusion, their eyes darting around as they tried to figure out where to go. I saw desperation etched on the father’s face. The mother was a commander, keeping a watchful eye on four children while balancing a mountain of luggage. Two elderly family members simply followed, their movements slow and uncertain.

The father seemed unlettered, his desperation palpable as he stared at the coach number on his ticket, unable to make sense of it. I wondered if he had booked an AC coach to give his family a rare taste of comfort, or perhaps he had spent all his money to attend on an unforeseen tragedy. Whatever the reason, I recognized that feeling of frantic hope. He had no watch or smartphone, only a small piece of paper—the only clean thing he held.

He looked around, his eyes meeting mine. A vivid memory flashed in my mind: the same desperation I felt at the Bangkok airport, searching for a visa stamping counter with minutes ticking away before my connecting flight to Krabi. The thought vanished as he moved toward me, his family trailing behind him like they were connected by invisible chains.

“Is this the right train?” he begged, his Hindi accent unfamiliar. A voice inside me whispered the ancient verses I had read: “Do not withhold good from those to whom you should give it, if it is within your power to help.”

I held out my hand, gesturing for the paper. I took it, and some of his anxiety surprisingly transferred to me. I quickly scanned it: CNF… CNF… seat numbers… M1 coach.

“This is the coach,” I said quickly, pointing. “Go in from there.”

He rushed toward the train doors, then stopped, confused. Two entrances stood before him: M1 and A3. It was clear then—this was an unlettered man boarding a train for the very first time. He asked a few passengers near the A3 door for help. They understood his accent, yet they simply scoffed and smiled with contempt, a silent judgment for a family they believed couldn’t possibly afford an air-conditioned ticket.

It was a disheartening moment—to see how many "speechless and deaf spirits" exist in this world, people who refuse to offer a simple word of guidance.

A minute passed as I stood and watched, a lump forming in my throat. I couldn’t just sit there.

I stood up, walked over to him, and pointed to the correct M1 coach door. I stayed there until all eight of them had boarded. 

As the train began to pull away, I saw their silhouettes through the smoked glass—a family of eight, finally settled in their seats. A wave of happiness washed over me. At that moment, my loved one reappeared, we said our goodbyes, and I walked away from the platform with a peaceful smile on my face.