Midnight at Mughalsarai

The train had stopped at Mughalsarai junction sometime around midnight. I was awake, staring out the window at the tired chaos of the platform. A tea vendor was arguing with a passenger over ten rupees—the usual soundtrack of a long-distance rail journey.

Then, I noticed an older man struggling with three heavy canvas bags near my window. He looked exhausted, wiping sweat with a handkerchief. Before he could call for a porter, two college kids waiting on the platform—strangers, wearing completely different styles of clothes, clearly from entirely different states—just grabbed the handles.

They didn’t ask his name, his language, or where he was from. They just hoisted the luggage onto the sleeper coach, smiled, and disappeared into the crowd before the old man could even fully thank them.

We hear so much about divisions on the news. But on these long rail routes stretching to New Delhi and Gaya, you see the quiet truth. The India I still believe in isn’t found in loud speeches. It’s found in the unprompted kindness of strangers on a midnight platform, carrying each other’s weight without being asked.

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