Ha, I have never missed a train.” A year back, sitting with a bunch of friends, I had made this statement. But, less than a year later, I have been forced to eat my words.

Two weeks ago I made a reservation for a weekend trip to my hometown. Since it was an early morning Shatabdi, I had packed the previous night, unlike my usual habit of stuffing barely an hour and a half before the scheduled departure. In the morning, I rushed to the New Delhi railway station.

Crossing all the in-between platforms, I reached platform number one, where I saw the familiar Shatabdi. Making myself comfortable in the window seat, I started reading the latest issue of a magazine.

Ten minutes later, as I stepped out to buy the morning newspaper, I saw the train number on the coach. It was the New Delhi-Kalka Shatabdi, whereas I was supposed to board the New Delhi-Amritsar one. Confused, I rushed to the train superintendent. “Arrey madam, Amritsar Shatabdi to platform number gyarah par khadi hai! Woh to abhi-abhi nikali hogi.” Thinking I might still have a chance, I started climbing the flight of steps.

Clutching the magazine in one hand, and with my duffel bag over the other shoulder, I once again crossed the overhead footbridge, racing past lazy homo sapiens. I could see the train whimper and roar, and finally edge away from the platform. Disheartened, I flopped on to the nearby hardwood seat.

... contd.