Nostalgia hits you hard when you least expect it.

That lump in the throat. That faint smile. That flash of memory that takes you decades back.

Recently, I took a train journey again – something I hadn’t done in years.
It lasted barely five hours, but it reminded me of the Diwali journeys to my grandparents’ house that seemed to last forever – and yet, never long enough.
The journey made me pause – at how much has changed, and how much hasn’t.

The Contrasts

Between India and Bharat, the difference is still stark.
In the Metro cities, people glide through airports, rolling sleek Mokobara bags on shiny floors, Starbucks in hand, time precisely measured in flight schedules.
But on railway platforms, time still has its own rhythm.
Even with Vande Bharat and Shatabdi trains, and their polished interiors, the soul of the Indian rail journey remains unpolished and that’s its charm.

Those red-and-white cement benches are still there, though joined now by steel ones.
Those small station stalls that once sold “puri-sabzi” now proudly display Lays and Good Day biscuits.
People still sit either on their luggage or near it even when seats are empty – protecting it as if guarding a piece of their identity.
Some bags have turned into trolleys, but some still remain good old boris.
RailNeer bottles have replaced water campers, and yet, someone still lies down on a polythene sheet, on a hard cold floor, chatting on the phone, unaware that he has just triggered someone’s nostalgia.

It took me back to Bhopal station – waiting for a train that was four hours late. We had spread a bedsheet on that same hard, cold floor. My brother and I, half sitting, half asleep on it, were unable to remain awake.
Some memories really do help keep you grounded – literally.

The Similarities

Outside, the view hadn’t changed much.
Sugarcane fields, mango orchards, eucalyptus trees – all looked like they’ve been standing there since my childhood, waving as if to say, “We were waiting for you, old friend.”

The stations still flash by in a blur and I still try to catch the yellow board with the black letters.
“Jadaunda Nara.” “Khatauli.”
Names that mean nothing, yet say everything – life is fleeting in nature.

The tiny yellow-orange wildflowers on the tracks remind you that all it takes to thrive is a little sunshine and a little rain.
It’s only us, humans who seem to want everything and still remain unsatisfied.

And yes, the “Gupt Rog” and “Swapndosh” ads still scream from unplastered walls in huge white fonts.
Water tanks, little temples, cycle repair shops – all proudly still there.  Engines still stand idle at the outskirts of station, waiting for a signal.

When the train crosses a river, that sound – that echo, still changes.
It’s like the train too holds its breath for a moment.
Sarkanda, is still spread across every corner, as if saying, “I never left.” But it reminds me of the rattle (jhunjhuna) which my baba ji made for me, by putting some stones inside it. A treasure trove. 

But one thing has changed.
Back then, I used to go to my real home as a daughter.
Now, I go to my real home again – but as a daughter-in-law.

Strange, isn’t it?
Everyone else reaches their destination.
Only daughters have to change homes to reach theirs.