Sliding doors

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.

A little later, meandering outside the railway station with a heavy heart, I got the reservation cancelled. Pocketing fifty per cent of the money I had paid, I even managed the sympathy of the guy behind the cancellation glass window. “Very sad, madam. Fokat mein paisa kata.” Soon after, I walked into the nearest coffee shop, despite the “closed” sign hung on its glass door, and asked the guy for a cold sparkle coffee. I looked around, spotting no one; I guessed that nobody else had missed a train.

A week back, I was again sipping chai, when a colleague mentioned his early morning flight blues. I just stopped short of saying, “Ha, I have never missed a flight!”