For some time, I had this on my mind that hardly I would find a carriage or a cycle-rickshaw outside the station, for the time on my wristwatch was quarter past six and the train had yet to cover ten to twelve miles of distance to reach the station. I was en route to Bilaspur, some eighty miles to the northwest of Kolkata. On a Sunday evening, Mr. Seth, my neighbor, probably a few days before the trip while were having coffee at his bungalow, told me that the place is very tranquil and one may find themselves feel at home. We were discussing the way we slog at our respective offices and how a vacation to an unknown place would make us lively again.
The concluding part of our discussion reminded me of the invitation I had received from the…show more content… Before I could pick it up, my fellow passenger, the one with the Horn-rimmed spectacles booted it away, getting my phone smashed to pieces in the process after it hit the wall on the other side of the carriage. I flung my arm to catch him by the shoulder, but he ran out of the carriage door at lightning speed. With little to do, I got on to my feet, dusted the dirt off my shirt, lifted my luggage and my dismantled phone before making my way out of the carriage.
The platform looked more like a graveyard than a place where trains were likely to halt. Even if they did, like the one I got off from, they must have stopped for a few minutes for the passengers to exit and afterward whistled off to the next station. The platform consisted of the station master's office and a long old wooden bench for the passengers to sit and wait. The place was dimly lit. A lantern hung from the pole erected near the station master's office, but the station master was nowhere to be seen. He must have set off for home after doing away with his…show more content… Whereas, the bench was of little use to the passengers because the droppings of the birds had already occupied the