The Train to Home

In the Billet / dormitory where we slept, a slow ceiling fan creaked above my cot, gathering dust no one bothered to clean. I’d lie there, pillow beneath my head, staring at its lazy spin, thinking: I don’t want to be dust on a fan—forgotten, stuck. One night, lost in that thought, a diesel engine’s horn pierced the stillness—a train on the tracks just beyond our compound. The Doppler effect kicked in: faint at first, then louder as it neared, fading as it passed. For a moment, I was on that train, hurtling toward my hometown, my dreams. When it rolled away, reality sank back in—I was still here, chasing something I couldn’t grasp. But that sound? It lit a spark in me, a quiet motivation to hold on.

The next morning, my instinct whispered: That train touches my town. A friend called me for tea, the aroma faint but promising. What came was a disappointment—a khaki mug of watery, boiled slop, not the rich chai I craved. The corporal pouring it glared at me, a demoted bachelor stuck in kitchen duty, his bitterness as plain as the tea’s lack of color. I stared back, sipping anyway. Above us, dark clouds loomed, threatening rain, but they held off, as if giving me a chance to chase my hunch.

That night, after the 8:30 PM IST roll call, I skipped my cot. The moonlight peeked through shifting clouds—not the morning’s heavy ones, but lighter, teasing. I slipped to the compound’s edge, waiting for another train. Ten minutes passed—no rumble, no whistle. I didn’t know the timings; it was my first real try. Then, a dim glow flickered on the rails. The compound wall was high, so I balanced on a brick, straining to see. A fellow cadet spotted me. “What’re you doing?” he asked. “Getting fresh air,” I said. “On a brick?” he pressed. I shrugged—“Feels good up here.” He pointed to a tree by the kitchen. “Look at it. Grows here, dies here. That’s us.” The wind rustled its leaves, moonlight dancing on them, mocking my urge to break free.

The glow on the tracks brightened. A horn blared, closer now. My heart raced—I had to know if this was my train. It roared past, too fast to read the boards, the night blurring the details. I felt a pang of defeat. That tree didn’t know it was trapped on defense land; the moon didn’t care. But I did—I was caged, desperate to connect with home.

Next morning, I told a friend. “Stop dreaming,” he snapped. “Do the work. That’s it.” Another jumped in: “Don’t kill his spirit—he’s got dreams. Why stop him?” A senior cadet, munching dry, salty bread (no butter, no jam), overheard. “You want to know the train?” he said. “A kilometer from here, past the woods, there’s a steep curve. Trains slow down there. Mid-afternoon, around 1:00 PM, stand on a boulder—you’ll see it. But it’s tricky. Roll call’s at 1:00 PM, and classes run then. You’d need to leave by 12:30 PM, trek through defense woods. Up to you.”

A chance like that meant becoming the Billet Orderly (BO)—the guy who skips drills, PT, and roll calls to manage the dorm. My turn was coming, and I clung to it like a lifeline. The morning teas even started tasting better, my mind fixed on that train. When my BO day arrived, I was giddy—wealth, pleasure, and purpose rolled into one. I’d finally see it.

Then, at noon, a sergeant dumped a pile of registries on me—tedious verification work, page by page. My heart sank. It’d take hours, past 1:00 PM, past my shot. Tears welled up; a month’s wait for another BO turn felt like forever when I missed my family, my soulmate, my people so fiercely. But Joshi, a BO from the next billet, saw my despair. “I’ve done this already,” he told the sergeant. “Let me help—he’s tired, been at it all morning. Needs rest before PT at 4:00 PM.” The sergeant grunted, “Fine, as long as it’s done.” I mouthed a silent thank you, eyes misty, and bolted.

It was 12:40 PM. I ran, unsure where the boulder was, just hunting that curve. By 12:50 PM, no sign—just tracks stretching into the woods. A distant horn sounded, growing louder. I sprinted, the sound fueling me. The compound wall shrank near its end—no way out, but I’d hit the curve without realizing. Breathing hard, I stopped. At 1:00 PM sharp, the train rolled in, slowing as it took the bend. Coach after coach passed—no nameplates. Then, a weathered one with broken windows crept by, its dull paint spelling my hometown and Bangalore. Tears streamed down my face. I jumped, laughed, saw my childhood flash before me. It was my train.

The compound wall was low there. I leapt over, ran to the tracks, and touched the steel—still warm from the train. It was a lifeline to my town, my people. I danced on the gravel, joy spilling out, not caring how I’d climb back. That moment, I’d made it.