The man who quietly changed my journey (658 words)

This is a real story of my journey six decades back that started with anxiety, included a chance encounter, and ended with an unexpected act of quiet generosity.

It was one of those blazing Indian summers when the entire country seemed to be on the move. Trains were packed to the brim. Reservations were nearly impossible. Waiting lists ran into the hundreds.

In those days, there was no online booking. Everything—from ticketing to waitlists—was handled manually. If you wanted a seat, you either had influence or incredible luck. Touts thrived, often in cahoots with some corrupt officials. Travel on a specific date was, in short, a gamble.

Amidst this chaos, I had to travel urgently to Delhi on official business. Air travel was out of the question—it was far too expensive and reserved only for top-level bureaucrats. My office, after pulling a few strings, managed to get me a berth on the onward journey through the state government quota.

The return, however, was a different story. My ticket was waitlisted way down the list—far past the point of hope. Still, I left for Delhi, deciding to worry about the return later.

I was allotted a berth in a first-class coupe. No one had shown up to share the compartment as the train began to move. Just then, a middle-aged man hurriedly boarded, his porter barely managing to get his suitcase inside.

“You were about to miss the train,” I said, more amused than annoyed. “Lucky you got in by the skin of your teeth.”

He gave a faint smile. “True, I was held up in a meeting and had to rush, sir.”

He was short, bald, and spoke with a quiet deference. The “sir” hinted at someone accustomed to formal hierarchies. We didn’t talk much that night—both of us were tired and soon drifted to sleep.

The next morning, over a modest cup of train coffee, he asked if I was from the Tamil Nadu cadre. I clarified I wasn’t an IAS officer, just a middle level public sector executive.

At this, he visibly relaxed. He spoke more freely—about Chennai, about his difficulties finding North Indian food while traveling, and about the little adjustments that come with work and life away from home.

I casually mentioned the trouble I’d had getting a return ticket and showed him my waitlist—number 347. He glanced at it, nodded, and jotted something into his small notebook.

“Well,” he said with a quiet smile, “Let’s hope you’re as lucky on the return as you were on the way here.”

He didn’t offer help. He didn’t mention who he was. And I didn’t ask.

After finishing my work in Delhi, I approached our local office for help with my return ticket. Their response was predictable—holiday rush, zero availability, even the emergency quota had been rejected.

But around 4 PM, an assistant came running into my room, breathless.

“Sir! A berth has been released in your name. And…it wasn’t us. I checked. It came from the Chairman, Railway Board’s quota.”

I stood still for a moment, the pieces falling into place.

That quiet, polite man in the coupe—the one who smiled faintly, spoke gently, and never once revealed his identity—must have been someone working in the office of the Chairman, Railway Board. He didn’t say a word, didn’t promise a thing. He simply acted.

I was reminded of a Sanskrit verse I had once read:

शरदि न वर्षति गर्जति वर्षति वर्षाषु निःस्वनो मेघः |

नीचो  वदति  न कुरुते वदति न  साधुः  करोत्येव     ||

In autumn, clouds thunder but bring no rain. During the monsoon, they rain silently.

The ordinary man speaks but does not act; the noble one acts without a word.

In a world full of noise, that gentleman chose silence. In a system clogged with influence and noise, he acted quietly and effectively.

Sometimes, the greatest gestures are the ones that are never announced.