THE OLD LADY

In the bustling heart of Mumbai's Dadar station, where the ebb and flow of humanity created a cacophony of activity and a tapestry of life, I found myself on a journey I hadn't anticipated. It was a day that started like any other, filled with the monotonous rhythm of work and errands, but by the time the clock struck 5:30 pm, my day took an unexpected turn, plunging me into a poignant encounter.

The golden hues of the setting sun played on the mosaic tiles of the station, painting a transient mural of light and shadows. I made my way to platform number 6, a brief pitstop before my train to Kasara, a temporary reprieve from the demands of the day. The washroom was a sanctuary of solitude amid the organized chaos that enveloped the station.

Emerging from the washroom, I climbed the stairs to platform number four, my thoughts preoccupied with the tasks that awaited me at my destination. But then, a scene unfolded that would etch itself into my memory. An elderly lady, stooped with age, struggled up the stairs, burdened by two heavy cloth bags.

Her face was a map of time, etched with wrinkles and memories that whispered of a life lived fully, perhaps spanning seventy or eighty years. Every vein on her hands told a story of resilience and the passage of time. She ascended at a pace resembling that of a snail, and my heart went out to her.

In that moment, hesitation danced within me, a fleeting waltz of uncertainty. But a sudden impulse, an inexplicable pull, urged me to offer assistance. "Should I hold your bags?" I asked her, concern lacing my voice.

Gratitude glistened in her eyes, and a warm smile graced her lips as she handed over the bags. I draped them over my shoulder, feeling the weight of her world for those fleeting moments. We ascended together, a symphony of determination and companionship, moving at the measured pace of a snail.

As we climbed, she began to share her story, a tapestry of her life interwoven with joys and heartaches. She had entrusted fifty rupees to a man to purchase a ticket for her, only for him to vanish with the money. Thankful that she hadn't given him the five hundred rupees she possessed, she sighed with a tinge of sadness.

Captivated by her tale, I gently inquired, "Where are you going?"

"My son is leaving for a foreign country today. I've prepared some food for him, and I'm on my way to Byculla to give it to him," she said, her voice filled with a mother's love.

Our slow ascent carried us to platform number three, where she would catch her train to Byculla. Inquiring about her ticket, she admitted she didn't have one. Without a second thought, I guided her to a cemented chair and went to purchase a ticket on her behalf.

The train to Byculla arrived shortly, and we boarded it together. As the train rattled along the tracks, she placed her wrinkled hand on my head and whispered, "God bless you, my son." Overwhelmed by her kind gesture, I managed a warm smile in response.

Arriving at Byculla, I accompanied her to her son's abode, a charming old-style house adorned with a black wood balcony and wooden stairs that bore witness to decades of memories. With a heart brimming with joy, she embraced her son, a man in his fifties, their reunion a testament to the enduring bond between a mother and her child.

Tears of happiness glistened in her eyes as she clutched her son tightly, a profound and pure love palpable in the air. In that singular moment, I witnessed the essence of humanity, a reminder that amidst life's frenzied pace and endless distractions, the most profound and touching moments arise from the simplest acts of kindness and the unbreakable bonds of family.

And as I left that old-style house in Byculla, the memory of that extraordinary day warmed my heart, a beacon of love and gratitude illuminating the ordinary, turning it into something truly extraordinary.