Trains have always made me feel nostalgic. Maybe it’s the slow rhythm, the passing trees, or just the way time stretches when you’re staring out of a window. That day, I was travelling alone after years — from Delhi to Bhopal. A casual, ordinary trip.
But it became anything but ordinary.
By the time that train reached its final station, I was no longer the same person who boarded it.
A Bag Full of Hope
I had packed light — a few clothes, my journal, and a small tiffin box with homemade sweets. But more than anything, I carried a restless mind and a heavy heart. Life had been all over the place — work stress, loneliness, and a recent breakup that still stung deeper than I admitted.
Somewhere deep down, I was hoping this short trip would help me reset.
The Little Krishna Temple at the Station
Before boarding, I saw a tiny Krishna temple on platform number 2. It was squeezed between two stalls, barely noticeable. Something pulled me there. I stepped in for just a minute, folded my hands, and without even thinking, started whispering a soft Krishna bhajan under my breath:
“Adharam Madhuram, Vadanam Madhuram…”
It just came out of me.
I don’t know why — maybe because maa used to sing it during long train rides when I was a kid. Maybe it was just the comfort I needed.
I left with a weird feeling in my chest — like someone had heard me.
The Tragedy in Coach B2
We had just passed Agra when it happened.
A man in his early 40s sitting a few seats away suddenly collapsed. People rushed, called out for a doctor, someone pulled the chain to stop the train. It all happened so fast.
He was travelling alone. No ID. No phone on him.
By the time we got help, it was too late.
The body was silent. Still. And suddenly, the entire coach felt haunted.
I didn’t know him. But watching someone lose their life so close… it shook me.
So deeply, I can’t explain.
Why Me?
I couldn’t stop crying. I kept thinking, “Why did I see this? Why here, why now?”
The passengers got busy. Some moved to other coaches. Some whispered. But I just sat there, staring at the empty berth.
At the next station, an old woman came in — out of nowhere — and sat across from me. She looked into my teary eyes and softly said:
“When death travels with you, offer Him life in return.
Tomorrow morning, make Panchamrut. Offer it at sunrise.
And chant the Adharam Madhuram lyrics. You’ll understand.”
I didn’t ask her who she was.
I didn’t even find her again after that.
The Offering
The next morning, I reached my destination. Still shaken, still heavy.
But I remembered her words.
I got up early, found a small Krishna temple in the colony, and made Panchamrut myself — milk, curd, ghee, honey, sugar. I placed it in front of Krishna and sat down.
This time, when I sang Adharam Madhuram, I didn’t cry.
I just… let go.
Of the fear.
Of the helplessness.
Of the pain.
Something Shifted
As I was leaving the temple, a child tugged at my dupatta and smiled. He pointed at the bowl of Panchamrut and said, “He liked it.”
I asked, “Who?”
He said, “The man who sleeps now. He said thank you.”
I was stunned. But before I could say anything, the kid ran off — laughing.
And I… stood there, frozen.
I Still Think About That Day
I never knew who that man on the train was. Never got his name, his story, or even where he was headed.
But I think… maybe I was meant to see what I saw.
To break a little.
So that I could heal a little differently.
I still don’t understand everything. But I now believe that when you witness death up close, you start honouring life more quietly — through devotion, through rituals, through whispers to a silent God.
🙏 With grace,
A girl who boarded a train with pain, and got off with something divine.
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