It began casually enough—one lazy afternoon in a group chat with my bank batchmates. Someone mentioned their railway adventures, and suddenly, I found myself transported back more than three decades, to a night that has stayed with me ever since. That’s when I shared my unique experience with the Indian Railways during the early days of my married life.

Back in 1991–92, I was posted at the Main Branch at Railway Road, Aligarh. A cousin’s wedding in Kolkata gave me the perfect excuse to plan our honeymoon—Darjeeling and Gangtok from there, and then a return to Aligarh by the North East Express. It promised both family warmth and the romance of the hills.

On our last day, we went to Siliguri to meet my two brothers-in-law—one an engineer with the West Bengal State Electricity Board, the other a regional manager in a pharmaceutical company. It was the final family moment before we were to board the train from New Jalpaiguri (NJP) at 9:30 pm.

We reached the station around 8:30 pm, only to be greeted by the notice board announcing that the train was running late by three to four hours. The natural decision seemed simple—why not go back home, have dinner, and return leisurely? The WBSEB jeep was waiting outside, after all.

But my pharma brother-in-law, ever pragmatic, decided to check with the Assistant Station Master (ASM). The ASM, who had just taken charge, was confident:

“The train is on schedule. I’ve checked the control updates—it has already left the last station.”

It was a moment of split trust. The notice board said one thing, the ASM another. When we pointed it out, he was momentarily zapped—clearly unaware that the board still showed a delay—and promptly sent someone to correct the timing. The RM brother-in-law, who knew the terrain and rail movement patterns well, double-checked with the ASM and confirmed the latest update. Reassured, my wife and I decided to stay back at the platform.

And then, like a scene straight out of a film, the North East Express steamed in—five minutes before time. We were the only two passengers to board the 2AC coach at NJP. Most others had likely gone back home for dinner, trusting the delay announced on the notice board and expecting the usual three to four hours of waiting. Delays were, after all, not uncommon on that route, often caused by disturbances in Assam and the unrest among the Bodos. The result was surreal—the entire compartment lay hushed and empty, almost dreamlike, as though the railway had gifted us a private passage back into everyday life.

That night has stayed etched in memory—not just for its romance, but for its lesson. The truth doesn’t always shine in neon lights or flashing boards. Sometimes it resides quietly in the words of a duty-bound man who knows his craft. Sometimes it rewards faith with an experience so rare, it becomes a story to cherish for a lifetime.

Even today, whenever I glance at an announcement board on a railway platform, my mind drifts back to that night in 1992—the empty 2AC coach, the hesitant pause on the platform, and the quiet reassurance of togetherness. Today, of course, we have live GPS tracking and real-time updates at our fingertips. But life in those days, despite its uncertainties, felt simpler and strangely more gratifying. My sympathies still go out to our co-passengers who trusted the board and missed the train, while fate handed us a memory of a lifetime.

In Indrosphere, I often write about journeys, food, and culture. But some journeys go deeper. They remind us that life’s magic often lies in the unplanned, the unexpected, and the moments when we dare to trust beyond appearances. That night at NJP wasn’t just about catching a train—it was about catching a glimpse of how fate, chance, and companionship weave the true fabric of our lives.