Chapter 1: 1990’s Zindigi aa raha hoon main.
Part 1: Train 12860: The Train to no where (1994 June/July)
There’s nothing quite like standing on a crowded platform in Jamshedpur (Tata Nagar) waiting for Geetanjali Express*, your whole life packed into one VIP suitcase, and realizing you’re about to fake your way into the world of dreams. I was 19, fresh out of school and brimming with equal parts naivety and misplaced confidence. I hadn’t cleared any engineering entrance exams—a combination of not being particularly bright and the slight distraction of knowing my father was fighting cancer. But I had one ace up my sleeve: the ability to convince my parents that heading to Pune with a Rs. 5,000 banker’s check and zero college admissions was somehow a good idea.
It wasn’t a con. It was… optimism. Let’s call it that.
Armed with a bag stuffed with clothes, my precious mark sheet, and that Rs. 5,000 banker’s check—a princely sum that represented both my savings and my parents’ trust—I boarded the train to Mumbai (there were no direct trains to Pune), where a friend’s friend had promised to get me into some college. Any college. This wasn’t just a journey; it was a desperate, one-way ticket to reinvention.
The train chugged along, and so did my fantasies. By the time we reached Bhusawal, I had imagined myself acing college, landing a top-notch job, and sending a grateful letter to my parents about how their sacrifice had paid off. Then, as if the universe wanted to test my mettle, it threw me my first challenge.
A kind-looking middle-aged lady with two kids seated across from me leaned forward and said, “Beta, can you please fill this bottle with water from the platform? These two are thirsty.”
“Of course, aunty,” I replied, eager to showcase my helpfulness to the world.
The train came to a halt at Bhusawal station, and I hopped off, clutching her bottle. The water tap was farther down the platform than I’d anticipated, but I hustled. I filled the bottle, turned around, and jogged back. It was a proud moment—until I reached the spot where my coach had been.
Gone. The train was gone.
It took me a few seconds to process it. The train had left. WITH MY BAG. And my Rs. 5,000 banker’s check. And my mark sheet. And every shred of my dignity.
“No, no, no, this isn’t happening,” I muttered, pacing the platform like a maniac. My dreams were now rocketing toward Mumbai at 60 kilometers per hour while I stood holding a water bottle that didn’t even belong to me.
The station master, clearly accustomed to such drama, shrugged when I approached him. “You’ll catch the next train, beta. Maybe someone in your coach will keep your belongings safe.”
“Maybe” was not reassuring.
I sat on the platform bench, the enormity of my predicament sinking in. My solo adventure had turned into a solo catastrophe. The Rs. 5,000 bankers’ check? That was going to get me into college. The mark sheet? Proof that I’d at least finished school. And my clothes? Well, let’s just say that showing up in Pune without them wasn’t exactly how I envisioned starting my new life.
By the time the next train ( a goods train) rolled in, I’d decided I had two choices: wallow in self-pity or treat this as a comedy of errors. Since I didn’t have the luxury of wallowing, I chose comedy.
*The Howrah-Mumbai Geetanjali Express (12860) is a prestigious long-distance train connecting two of India’s bustling metropolitan cities, Howrah (Kolkata) in West Bengal and Mumbai (Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus) in Maharashtra. Introduced in 1977, it is named after Rabindranath Tagore’s celebrated work, Geetanjali, symbolizing the cultural heritage of India. This superfast express covers a distance of approximately 1,960 kilometers in around 30 hours, passing through key states like West Bengal, Jharkhand, Odisha, Chhattisgarh, and Maharashtra.