A Searing Morning Ride
It was that sort of morning when the heat seemed to come alive — crawling across your skin, weighing down each breath. The train was standing room only, filled with commuters and students with bags and water bottles, holding their breath for the next stop to bring some touch of wind.
I stood by the window, where two young men sat facing each other. Their talk swelled gently above the rumble of wheels — speculative, optimistic, and intimate.
They were both from the same hometown. One was already studying at a private engineering college in the second year. The other had just passed his entrance exam, his father proudly by his side. They were going to the city today for his college counseling — the first serious step towards his future.
A Conversation Between Hope and Reality
“How’s your rank?” the older one asked, leaning forward.
“Twenty-five thousand three hundred fifty-three,” the younger replied, a quick, nervous smile flashing across his face.
The second-year student nodded slowly. “You won’t get IT in a government college with that. You’ll have to join a private one, like me.”
The younger boy didn’t seem surprised. “Yeah, I suspected as much. I’ll remain in Kolkata, though — no use going out. At least I’ll avoid hostel charges. What’s the charge in your college?”
Without hesitation, the elder one started spewing out figures — stiff, bright, and infinite.
“Admission’s around two and a half lakhs. Then fifty-four thousand every semester for eight semesters. Plus twenty-five thousand for the lab and library. And forty thousand for a laptop — though you’ll get that a month later.”
He said it like he was talking about grocery prices. But the words struck like stones to the man standing beside his son.
A Father’s Silent Fall
The father of the boy was a plain man — his shirt a little worn, his face creased with hard work and undreamt dreams. The more he heard, the whiter his face became.
Two and a half lakh… then more every few months. The future then appeared like a never-ending hill to climb.
He attempted to catch himself, holding on to the seat rail, but his knees buckled. In the blink of an eye, he fell.
The carriage was full of alarm — voices crying out, hands grasping. A morning commuter picked him up and settled him into a seat, using a newspaper to fan his face. The boy stood stock-still, eyes staring, heart pounding with guilt and terror.
The tempo of the train never ceased — wheels turned, stations disappeared — but all else froze.
The Story That Stayed With Me
At my station, I was pushed through the crowd to disembark. Glancing over my shoulder as I departed, I saw the man still out, his son holding onto his hand.
I never learned if he awoke.
But that morning lingered with me — the scent of iron and sweat, the fall of the father, the son’s quiet tears. It wasn’t a commute.
It was a tale of the burden of a dream — and how much weight it can be for those who bear it quietly.
