My Train Journey – From Delhi to Mumbai

The journey began on a warm Delhi afternoon, when I boarded the Mumbai Rajdhani with the pride of a man holding a confirmed ticket. A small rectangle of paper had the power to make me feel superior to half the Indian population. “Upper Berth, Coach B3, Seat 41” — it sounded like a luxury suite in my mind. But trains in India have their own sense of humor. No sooner had I placed my bag under the seat than a family of twelve appeared. They marched in like they owned the bogie. The children scattered in every direction, uncles debated loudly about who should sit where, and an aunty immediately opened her steel dabba of aloo parathas. The smell spread faster than Wi-Fi, and soon my confirmed upper berth felt like a crowded family living room. By the time we left Delhi, I had already given up two inches of my seat to a restless child, three spoons of pickle were offered to me without consent, and my bag had been used as a pillow by one of the uncles. At Mathura, things escalated. A group of unreserved passengers stormed in, carrying bags, chickens, and even a harmonium. By Agra, our coach resembled a mini India — one baby crying, two uncles comparing Raj Kapoor and Dilip Kumar, one baba blessing people for small donations, and a young man trying to sing Bollywood songs off-key. The aisle was so crowded that moving from one end to another felt like crossing Chandni Chowk during Diwali. Yet, amidst this chaos, something beautiful happened. Strangers shared food, laughed at silly jokes, and even defended each other when the TTE appeared. The poor ticket examiner looked at the crowd, sighed deeply, and muttered, “Yeh reserved coach hai ya mela?” before walking away in defeat. Night fell. The snoring began. One man’s snores shook the bogie like a diesel engine. A toddler, after hours of roaming freely, climbed into my lap as though I was his official babysitter. At some point, the paratha aunty patted my shoulder and said warmly, “Beta, tum toh family jaise lagte ho.” For a moment, I forgot I was a passenger. I was just another member of this temporary family — a family bound not by blood, but by tickets, tiffins, and shared inconvenience. By morning, the chaos had softened. Vendors shouted “Chai, chai!” as sunlight filtered through dusty windows. Faces looked tired but strangely content. We had survived the great Delhi–Mumbai express together. When the train finally screeched into Mumbai Central, I stretched, smiled at my co-travelers, and stepped off the train with a mix of relief and nostalgia. Then I reached for my pocket. The wallet was gone. Inside were my cash, cards, and even my precious Mumbai Metro pass. I could only laugh. After all, what is an Indian train journey without a little tragedy at the end? But fate wasn’t done with me yet. The next morning, my doorbell rang. Standing there was the strangest man from the train — the baba with the harmonium. He held out my wallet with a grin. “Beta,” he said in his gravelly voice, “tumhari karma achhi hai. Lekin agli baar, apna chain aur wallet sambhal ke rakhna. Main baba hoon, locker nahi.” He played a random tune on his harmonium, blessed me, and disappeared into the Mumbai crowd. I closed the door, shaking my head in disbelief. Delhi to Mumbai — one ticket, one unforgettable circus, one lost wallet… and one ridiculous savior.