I am travelling from Bengaluru to Mysuru, and as is my wont, I reached the station almost a full hour before my train, the Shatabdi Express, was to leave. I like arriving early. I love watching trains come and go, and marvelling at the vendors hustling passengers, and the sounds, emotions and antics that go on. I seated myself comfortably on the platform where my train was to arrive, under a sign that said C14, the expected position of my coach.

Soon enough, the latest entrant to our railway network came in—the Vande Bharat Express. Having watched our beloved prime minister wave with a steady hand to flag off the Vande Bharat trains one by one, my hand too involuntarily started moving till I became aware and awkwardly ceased the admiring imitation.

I peered into the train driver’s cabin and took a couple of pictures. I continued my clicking spree. Wanting to impress a friend, with WhatsApp at hand, I despatched the pictures to him. A quick chat followed. As it often happens, the rapid messaging spanned comments about the train, the state of the railways, the rash of inaugurations, the politics of it … Meanwhile, the Vande Bharat departed.

I then took a couple of pictures of another train’s rake, parked patiently on the adjacent platform. It looked old, uncared for, cold and inhospitable. Lettering on one of the coaches said, ‘Chair Car’. Maybe it was just a matter of a coat of paint, I thought. I have a soft corner for the railways. My early years were in the railway colonies. My father worked for the railways. So, my gaze came with a sense of familiarity bordering on ownership that allowed for criticism and disapproval. I am digressing.

Within minutes, the Shatabdi was expected to roll in. I prepared myself for the scramble during it’s brief five-minute stop. Just to be sure I was positioned correctly to hop into my coach stress-free, I asked a hovering porter where C14 was expected. Since my childhood days, I have known porters to be very well informed about all things railways—arrivals, departures, coach positions, and which platforms trains were expected to arrive on. The porter said that the Shatabdi Express had coaches numbered only up to C12, and there was no coach C14. Porters knew it all, and yet, I was not willing to take this man’s word. I felt summarily dismissed. I waved my ticket at him. One look was enough—it must have convinced him that I must be illiterate or plain stupid. He pointed out that it was a ticket for the Vande Bharat—which had departed just a few minutes earlier!

Here I was, well on time for my train, and instead of boarding, I had stood right next to the coach I was booked in, and spent precious minutes taking pictures, and discussing the train, the railways and its politics with my friend in Gurgaon. I had even seen off the train!

Frantic, I asked around to see if I could hop on to the Shatabdi, due any moment, by picking up a ticket on the go. No luck. Nice weather, No rain. Just a nip in the air. Sunny, not very common for Bengaluru these days. But there was hardly time to take it all in. I walked to the ticketing office nearby and picked up a General Class ticket for the next train, leaving at 11:30. My daughter meanwhile booked me an AC Class ticket for the same train.

I asked, ‘Which platform?’ The man at the counter waved his hand and emitted a sound I received as ‘Same’.

I went back to the same platform, and saw the Shatabdi Express pulling in to the station. I confirmed visually that there was indeed no C14. The very train I thought I was to be travelling on seemed to halt for a long time, as if staring at me. It was cruel and mocking, and maybe it lingered longer, making sure I had learnt my lesson. I couldn’t help but laugh and smile at how the day was turning out.

The Shatabdi too left for Mysuru. My Shatabdi. Sigh.

The track was clear for my train to arrive, or so I thought. I started tuning in to the announcements on the public address system: ‘The Rajya Rani Express, originating from Bengaluru will depart to Mysuru from Platform 6 at 11:30 am.’ It was 11:15, and I had time to kill. Some unease crept in. Originating from where? So, Bengaluru was not a pass-through station for my train, as I had imagined. Which meant that my train must probably already be on a platform and passengers must be boarding. My brain was whirring. I did a quick 360 scan to see what platform I was on. Platform 7.

The train parked straight across from where I was, for which I had some unkind words earlier, was the train I was now booked to travel on. I made a dash, crossed the tracks, and was now on Platform 6. So far, so good. I looked for a porter. By now, you know they remain an important part of my rail journeys. I felt reassured once the porter had spoken. The experience of the past hour had left me with jangled nerves. I felt the urge to ask more people. So, after a couple of vendors and some travellers also confirmed that I was on the right platform and standing next to the correct train, I ventured into my coach.

I looked out of the window—there was Platform 7, and the very place where I had quietly watched people for over an hour, and had sat and admired the Vande Bharat, spoken to a porter, seen off the Shatabdi Express, and had looked across at the coach that had ‘Chair Car’ written on it. I am in that Chair Car as I write this.

Cover image: By Sameer2905 – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=126888996