When you don’t get off the train at the right time

Another train story

Dear Reader,

At one time, my family lived in a Bombay apartment that was located directly across from a train station. You could stand at the bedroom window of our second level apartment, and see the lines of the tracks converging at the platforms of the station, and the groups of people waiting to catch trains. If you strained your ears, you could even hear the crackly announcements over the speakers, or the carrying call of vendors selling tea or roasted peanuts. Local commuter trains used this station regularly, breezing in and out within minutes, though there was the occasional larger, interstate train rolling in with slower majesty. There was also a rhythm to the flow of people- crowds in the mornings till about 9 or 10, followed by a lull until early afternoon after which the station was continually busy, often till very late at night.

I don’t think I could’ve articulated it then, but it was like living next to a restless beast, one that introduced both movement and terror into my otherwise ordinary days. As a child, it was fascinating to stand at the window and see people arriving from and departing for somewhere, as though Somewhere was a single destination that all trains traveled to and from. As for the terror, I think the train station came to symbolize my first experience of life’s otherness, and of its impervious and inscrutable nature. People seemed to come and go, and to my child eyes, no one appeared to have any control over what happened. There was a grimy physicality to train travel, adding to the feeling of small me vs the big world. And then there were an imaginative child’s terrors of train travel: of being accidentally left behind, of falling between the platform and the train, and on long train journeys, of loved ones getting down and not getting back onto the train in time.

Fast forward to my early twenties. I was traveling back from college to visit family in southern India. It was a few years after this incident and I’d gotten familiar with the process of traveling alone by this particular route. The trip usually took about 8 hours if you took the 9PM night train. About an hour after you got on, you wrapped up the remains of your late dinner or last cup of tea, folded the day’s newspaper away, and got ready for bed. Each wide cubicle-like space contained six foldable beds (two sets of upper, middle and lower berths facing each other). You got out your inflatable pillows and blew into them, spread a sheet over the berth, made a last visit to the bathroom, and then settled down for the night.

To be extra careful, and for the first time, I bought a seat inside the ladies only section, a similar sized cubicle-like space, but with a door that could be locked from the inside. I was really getting the hang of this, I may have thought, congratulating myself. I think one or two of the sleeping berths were empty, allowing for a less congested space. This further added to my feeling of well-being. I’d somehow gotten extra space too. One of the women closed and locked the door, and dimmed the lights. I remember it felt like a cozy, snug space for about a half hour before the almost black snugness descended into claustrophobia. I must’ve told myself to breathe, and to take deep breaths to remind myself there was still oxygen available to me. I guess I could’ve asked the others if we could keep the door slightly open, but I didn’t. Instead, I brought out my small torchlight and used it to read a book, a strategy I still use to combat all kinds of discomfort.

I was awake for a very long time.

The train got to the station I was supposed to get down at around 5 in the morning. But, since I’d only fallen asleep around 3, I slept right through both its arrival there, and the eventual departure. When I woke up, it was around 6. The sky had lightened and I was immediately aware of a sick feeling. It was always dark when the train arrived at my destination. I had no idea where we were or how I was going to get back home. In that moment of confusion and anxiety, it felt like the train, my old nemesis, had finally bested me.

“The train has always seemed part animal, a huffing bull, a hissing snake, a great fire-breathing dragon, materializing with a prolonged, annunciatory wail.” - taken from the chapter on train in The Book Of Symbols, Reflections on Archetypal Images (Taschen).

If you’ve read my other train stories, you know that I’ve been incredibly lucky in my fellow train passengers. The woman who was across from me noticed my panic and asked me what was wrong. I explained my predicament to her, that I’d fallen asleep and missed my station. I was almost in tears. Dear Reader, it might seem like the easiest thing to get down at the next station and catch a train back, but it wasn’t. I didn’t know if there was a train back that day. (There wasn’t). There were no cell phones, so my family had no idea where I was. I knew there must be a fine because I’d traveled further than my ticket allowed. I didn’t know if I had enough money to cover everything, the fine, the trip back, other expenses, etc. I was also alone and headed to a new city. I didn’t even know what city that was.

Seeing my distress, the woman took charge of me and I allowed her to. I wondered briefly if I was being too trusting, but she seemed kind and motherly and I just gave in. We got down at the next station, her destination. She took care of everything- escorting me out of the station, driving me to the bus stand, and putting me on a bus that would take me back to my city. I remember finding a seat on the bus and waving to her as though my life depended on it. I reached home a few hours later, shaken but okay.

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When I started writing this essay, I wondered why I was sharing this story. Was it to say: look, Reader, this incident shook me out of my naïveté. It said wake up, sleeping beauty, and get your act together, or life will pass you by. Or, did I mean to say, all’s well that ends well, and really, don’t worry, we are watched over by benevolent gods.

Maybe we are. I don’t know.

In telling these stories, there is the ever-present temptation to wring out some sort of truth as medicine and relief. But, what if I didn’t draw your conclusions for you? What if I said it was a jittery experience, one where I felt, at the same time, the impersonal, onward movement of life and the immediate, heartfelt kindness of another human being? That it felt like a glimpse into some secret paradox. When/where in your life have you felt that?

Best,

Priya

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