The rhythmic movement of the train, the constant hum of conversations, the occasional cries of babies, fill the compartment. A father walks up and down the aisle, gently rocking his crying child, trying to calm him. It all feels familiar, yet different.
Sitting in the Rajdhani Express to Goa with my parents, I find myself lost in a stream of memories.
There’s something special about train journeys. They aren’t just about getting from one place to another; they carry stories, emotions, and nostalgia. As I glance at the kids in the nearby berths—laughing, climbing up and down, fighting over the window seat—I can’t help but be reminded of my own childhood travels. The excitement of summer vacations, the thrill of hopping from one berth to another, the joy of watching the scenery shift from city to hills and plains.
The last time I traveled to Goa by train to my maternal uncle's home, I must have been around ten years old. The rain was relentless—pouring down, drenching everything in sight. I remember the train getting delayed, the tracks submerged in water, and the journey being abruptly halted a few stations away from our destination. I had no idea what was going on with Mom and Dad or how they were managing our luggage in all that chaos. All I and my sis cared about was the magical world outside—lush greenery, overflowing waterfalls coming down the hills. The weather was perfect, and for us, it was nothing short of an adventure.
We had to switch to a bus from the point where the train stopped. The bus was packed to the brim, barely any room to breathe. But somehow, my sister and I managed to get seats near the driver’s cabin, while Mom and Dad stood the entire way. I remember a lady standing close to us, carrying a basket that smelled strongly of fish. But what I remember most about her was her warm, kind smile and she was saying something in Konkani which I didnt understand.
Back then, I lived completely in the moment—soaking in the beauty of the journey, blissfully unaware of the struggles my parents faced.
Today, as I sit in this train, I see the same journey through a different lens. I’m no longer the carefree child who only cares about the scenery. Now, I find myself keeping an eye on my dad, making sure he doesn’t indulge too much in sugary tea and sweets. I glance at my mom, noticing her anxiousness, reassuring her with a simple nods.
As I sit in this train, lost in nostalgia, another journey from a different phase of life comes to mind—one from my youthful spinster years, when I traveled with my friend. It was a special trip, not just because of the destination but because of where I was in life. I was about to get married in a couple of months, stepping into a new chapter, leaving behind the carefree days of singlehood.
That night, we didn’t sleep. We talked endlessly—laughing, reminiscing, soaking in the moment as if we could somehow make time pause. We knew that life was about to change, that things wouldn’t be quite the same again. We wanted the train to halt just a little longer, to let us hold onto that fleeting phase of life. There was excitement, but also a quiet ache, an unspoken understanding that this moment was special because it would never come back.
It’s interesting how train journeys seem to mark these transitions in life. As a child, they were pure adventure. As a young adult, they were filled with deep conversations and emotions. And now, they are moments of reflection, of watching over the very people who once watched over us. We start noticing the little things—their silent worries, their unspoken exhaustion, their need for reassurance.
This train ride made me realize that the scenery outside keeps changing, just like life itself. But some things—memories, emotions, and the love we carry—stay with us, no matter where the journey takes us next.
