Sneha Jain, Class X F
I tried calling him, but he didn’t pick up. Resignedly, I trailed behind Arthur as he walked across the platform, absorbing every detail he could.
‘Indian railway stations are amazing’, he commented, staring ahead at nothing in particular, ‘terribly humid and a little dirty, but nevertheless, amazing.’
Arthur was my friend and colleague. When I had mentioned that I was visiting my parents in my homeland, he had expressed his desire to accompany me. Indian had always fascinated him, and so there we were.
‘Really? What’s so great here?’
While clicking photos of the tracks, he replied, ‘I don’t really know myself. The chirping of crickets? We never get to hear that back in Manchester. And this atmosphere – it’s so bubbly and bright.’
‘That’s just the travelling effect. Everybody likes the entire world, except the place they live. There’s nothing special here, trust me.’
‘True,’ he replied with a wry grin, ‘but you’re wrong. This place – every place is special.’
I took a seat on a bench and so did he. ‘Really? How so?’
‘Through this railway station, thousands of people travel, do business, meet loved ones. Just think, how can this place not be special?’
‘That applies to almost every place.’
‘And therefore,’ he said, ‘every place is special. Heck, we are beings made of carbon – very difficult to find free in the universe – making new discoveries and surviving regardless of the probability that we shouldn’t. Everything, everybody, is special.’
And to this day, I can see him smile and say that line worthy of belonging to a philosopher, teaching me a great lesson of life at a remote railway station.
Then of course, he got up and tripped over his shoelaces, but maybe it was his blush after that, that made the line so much more human.
