A Journey to Remember

Kanpur Station - Deepawali Eve, 1991

The station was alive with the familiar chaos of the festive season. Hawkers called out, their voices blending with the mechanical hum of arriving and departing trains. Families huddled together, clutching bags, and children clung to their parents, their faces glowing with excitement for the upcoming Deepawali celebrations. The scent of hot chai, deep-fried snacks, and the occasional whiff of burning coal filled the air.

I had just finished my CA exam that afternoon and was mentally drained. The burden of months of preparation had lifted, and all I wanted was to reach home in Lucknow, celebrate Deepawali with my family, and forget about balance sheets and audit reports for a while.

I found my seat in the second-class compartment of the train bound for Lucknow and settled in, placing my small bag beside me. As the train gave a shrill whistle, signaling its departure, I noticed a young woman sitting across from me. She looked uneasy, her face pale, her hands gripping the edge of her seat.

Her forehead glistened with sweat, and she shivered despite the mild autumn chill. Her large, expressive eyes darted frantically towards the platform, as if searching for someone.

The train jerked forward, the wheels groaning as it began to move.

"My father?" she murmured, her voice barely audible over the clatter of the train. "He went to buy medicine. He hasn't returned."

I turned my head towards the platform, but by then, it was too late. The station blurred into the night as the train gathered speed.

Her expression shifted from panic to helplessness. She slumped back against the seat, her fingers clutching the handle of the bag in her lap.

"Don't worry," I said, offering what little reassurance I could. "Your father might be in another compartment. Or if he missed the train, he will likely take the next one to Lucknow. It's best to wait for him there."

She looked at me with tired eyes, nodding slightly. "I hope so," she whispered.

The Unfolding Night

I learned that she had boarded the train from Gwalior with her father and was heading to Faizabad. She had been unwell for the past couple of days, and the fever had worsened during the journey. Her father had stepped off at Kanpur station to get medicine, never expecting the train to leave before he returned.

She barely spoke after that. The fever was taking its toll. As we neared Lucknow, her condition worsened - her breathing was heavy, and she struggled to keep her eyes open.

When the train pulled into Lucknow station, I helped her step down, carrying one of her bags while she held onto the other. The cold breeze hit us, but she barely reacted, her exhaustion overwhelming her. We stood near a tea stall, waiting, scanning every passing figure for a familiar face.

Minutes turned into an hour. Her father never arrived.

I could see she was struggling to stand. It didn't feel right to leave her alone in this condition. After much hesitation, I suggested, "You're burning up with fever. I know a doctor nearby. He's a family friend. Let's get you checked before we decide what to do next."

She didn't resist. Perhaps she was too tired to argue.

I hailed a rickshaw and took her to my family doctor's small clinic. The doctor examined her, confirmed a high fever, and gave her some medicine. "She needs rest," he said, handing me the prescription. "And food. She looks weak."

We walked to a nearby restaurant. She had barely eaten all day, and I urged her to have some warm dal and roti. I watched as she slowly ate, her hands still trembling slightly.

Just as things seemed to settle, another misfortune struck. A rickshaw-puller, who had been eyeing our table for a while, suddenly grabbed one of her bags and disappeared into the crowd.

By the time we rushed outside, he was long gone. The loss of her belongings added another layer of distress to an already difficult night.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to stay composed. "I don't know what to do now," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Waiting on Platform One

I knew the only hope left was that her father might arrive on the next train. We returned to the station and sat on a wooden bench on Platform One. The Gomti Express was scheduled to arrive soon - if her father had taken the next available train, he would be on it.

The station was quieter now, with fewer travelers but more suspicious eyes. People stared at us - two strangers, a young man and a young woman, sitting together at this hour. Their glances were judgmental, their murmurs barely concealed.

A couple of men whispered and smirked as they passed by. A middle-aged woman threw a disapproving glance before shaking her head. Their expressions made it clear - they thought we were a runaway couple, eloping under the cover of night.

She shifted uncomfortably beside me, pulling her shawl tighter around herself.

I sighed. "Ignore them," I said.

But the stares continued, and soon, a ticket checker approached us. His uniform was slightly disheveled, and his expression stern.

"Where are your tickets?" he demanded.

She showed him her confirmed ticket, with her father's name beside hers. I pulled out my CA exam admit card, hoping it would prove that I was simply a student returning home after an exam.

But he remained unconvinced. "Do you expect me to believe this story? A girl and a boy, sitting together at night on a railway platform? I've seen many cases like this."

Frustration bubbled inside me. "Sir, I understand your doubts, but we are telling the truth. We're waiting for her father, who might be on the next train."

Before the argument could escalate further, the distant horn of the Gomti Express echoed through the station. The train pulled in with a heavy hiss, its brakes screeching.

And then, among the weary passengers stepping onto the platform, I saw him - a frail man in a simple kurta, stumbling as he walked. His eyes were red, his steps unsteady.

Her father.

I nudged her. She looked up and immediately recognized him. Relief flickered across her face, but it quickly faded when she noticed his state. He was drunk.

He barely acknowledged me as he staggered forward, grabbed her arm, and muttered, "Come."

She hesitated for a second, glancing at me. I could see the exhaustion in her eyes, the unspoken words she wanted to say but couldn't.

And then, just like that, she was gone.

I stood on the platform, watching her disappear into the night.

An Unfinished Story

The train left. The murmurs died down. The station returned to its usual rhythm. But something had changed within me.

I never got her name. Never knew what happened after that night. But every Deepawali, as the lights twinkle and the world celebrates, I remember that girl from the train.

And I wonder - did she ever think of me too?