The mysterious train passenger

TRAIN journeys had a familiar rhythm in our lives. From Jagadhri, we often travelled to nearby cities — always carrying a tiffin of home-cooked food so that we wouldn’t have to step off the train for meals. It was both a practicality and a tradition — a way to carry a taste of home and share what we had with others along the way.

On one such journey, my parents were travelling to Patiala. Since there was no direct morning train in those days, they boarded one that stopped for nearly an hour at Ambala. By the time the train reached Ambala, it was almost noon. They spread out their modest meal — soft paranthas with spicy aloo-sabzi — and began to eat.

Seated nearby was a middle-aged gentleman, clad in simple clothes, his eyes weary yet kind; his face bore the fatigue of long travel. My mother, with her habitual generosity, offered him a parantha. He hesitated for a moment and then accepted with a quiet nod. The three shared their modest meal in silence as the warmth of human connection filled the compartment.

When the last morsel was gone, the man turned to my mother and asked, almost shyly, “Behanji, do you have more paranthas?” She smiled apologetically. “No, brother. We only packed a tiffin for the journey. We will reach Patiala soon and eat properly there.” The man sighed. “I’m going to Nabha. Haven’t eaten since morning.”

Mother’s heart softened. She rummaged through her bag and found the guavas they had brought along. “Here, have these,” she offered gently. The man accepted one and ate it slowly, savouring each bite. When he finished, a calm, almost peaceful expression crossed his face.

As the train resumed its steady motion, the man turned to my father. “Mr Singh,” he said in a low, earnest voice, “you have given me so much. Now let me give you something in return.” Before my parents could respond, he untied the edge of his lungi and revealed a thick bundle of currency notes. “Take as much as you want,” he said. “I can give you more if needed.”

My father was taken aback. “No, brother,” he replied calmly. “We didn’t share our food for any reward. You shared our meal — that’s enough. God provides for everyone.”

The man smiled faintly but kept insisting. My parents remained firm, and eventually, the discussion ended in silence.

When the train slowed at the next small station, the man suddenly rose, picked up his bundle and stepped off. My father, noticing that the station wasn’t Nabha, called after him, “Brother, this isn’t your stop!” But the man didn’t turn. Dad hurried after him, pushing through the crowd — yet when he reached the platform, the man had vanished, leaving no trace among the scattered passengers and drifting dust.

To this day, my parents remember that afternoon at Ambala — and wonder whether the stranger was merely a hungry traveller or a mysterious messenger sent to remind them that kindness is its own reward.