I entered the station—and, surprise surprise, it was exactly how I remembered it. If there’s one thing about Indian railway stations, it’s that they age like fine wine… but without the wine. Same mad rush of people bumping into each other, same heroic smell rising proudly from the tracks, same broken benches that look like they’ve fought two world wars and still lived to tell the tale. Beggars were at their stations (pun intended) already, hustling harder than most corporate employees—no sick leaves, no excuses.

Honestly, I loved it. There’s something strangely reassuring about this stubborn chaos. Like, the world outside might change—new buildings, new trends, new iPhones—but the railway station? Nah, it’s staying the same messy masterpiece it always was. And honestly, if I ever walked into a station one day and found it sparkling clean and smell-free, Maybe I’d just stare blankly at the shining floor. I think my heart would break into  pieces. . I wouldn’t even board the train. I’d probably turn around and go back home, Like something sacred had been taken away, mourning the death of true Indian travel.


My train was already waiting at Platform No. 1, standing there with the kind of tired pride only old trains know. Ahmedabad was its starting point, and the moment I saw it, I could tell — the years had left their fingerprints all over it.
The exterior was worn, faded where bright paint must have once lived. Scratches ran along its body like battle scars. It didn’t gleam like the new ones; it didn’t try to impress. It was just there — old, dependable, and maybe a little grumpy at being woken up this early.

I climbed into my coach, the metal floor rattling softly under my feet. The coach was mostly empty, save for a few early risers shifting their luggage, adjusting their seats, moving around with that half-sleepy, half-hurried energy.
I had reached a good twenty-five minutes early, just the way I liked — early enough to settle in before the noise swallowed the calm.

My seat was easy to find — side lower, as always. I threw my bags up onto the side upper berth, the straps dangling down like lazy vines. Then I sank into my seat, stretching my legs out with a deep sigh that seemed to pull some of the morning’s chill into my bones.
This spot — this little corner of the world — was mine for few hours.

I leaned back, watching the scene unfold inside and outside the train.
Porters hurried by, balancing impossible towers of luggage. Passengers darted across platforms like ants startled from their trail. Families shouted over each other, waving arms, checking tickets for the tenth time. Street dogs roamed near the tracks, ignored by everyone but each other.

Outside, the sky had started pulling itself out of darkness.
A slow light seeped through the black, brushing the edges of buildings and wires in silver. It wasn’t sunrise yet — just the heavy promise of it, the world caught halfway between sleep and waking.The air was still touched by night, cold and dry, carrying with it the scent of faraway places. And it was almost time to begin THE JOURNEY