Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus.

December 1, 2018. 

I stepped down from the train that brought me back to my past. Or should I say, to my unburied torment. I looked around and found everything built up again, right from the unstained blocks of a neatly recreated floor to an illuminated pole beside platform no.7. 

I thought to myself, "It feels like a resurrected place, soared from the ashes." I saw the people who were incessantly rushing towards platforms, chasing their merciless survival. I felt their hearts beating heavily and their brain freezing to one single thought, "I must get on the train or else its a pay cut that I cannot afford." 

And I suddenly realised that these people, all of them, have moved on. Or may be, they haven't but cannot wait to do so. They have locked that day, that particular moment of their life which had completely wrecked and crushed everything around them, which had shaked their soul to the core. "But then, isn't it the right thing? For how long will they be scared and hold on to something, even if it was so horrific? Do they really have the time to stop and think that it was the same place where gunshots were echoed, not in the air but in innocent people's chest? Can they really keep wailing on the fact that with no fault of their own, their people were killed? Can they really keep running from the chaos? Can they stop coming to the same station, board the same train with the same creased clothes and ghar ka dabba in their office bags, because of an incident, no matter how terrible it was?" I was questioning myself, when a chaiwala beside me poked me and said, "Are dada, pehchaana mereko? Mai chotu chaiwala. Bohot time baad aaye ho? Chai loge? Vahi cutting wali?" 

And after a long moment of staring at him and a huge scar on his forehead I said, "Are chotu, kaisa hai tu? Bohot bada hogaya." 

And with this, I remembered that dreadful day. 

Office timing, trains ariving with their usual "Chug-chug", people gathering all their stamina to board them, some finding a place to sit, some playing instruments to pass their time, some looking around bewildered and this "chotu chaiwala" making his ritual of melodiously screaming to call people and give them his special chai with his special smile. 

I remembered sudden treacherous sound of gun shots coming out of nowhere. The same people hustling with fear, some hiding behind poles, some running towards different directions. Again gun shots. Some of them hitting people in their chest, legs, brain. There were screams, loud wails, police sirens, tears and chaos. A Huge chaos. I remembered people being carried to hospitals, emergency rooms. The same people who had woken up thinking that their day would be full of work but at its end, they will be able to meet their friends, their loved ones, their family. But could not. Ever. 

I remembered myself lying beside a pole on platform no. 7, with my body drowned in sweat and blood, my eyes filled with tears and an excruciating pain. It was unbearable. Both for my body and mind. I remembered severe treatments later, both physical and mental, therapies, medications and a period of ten years to recover. 

But I was brought back to awarness by chotu who patted on my back and said with his traditional smile, "Ye lo dada, aapki pasand wali chai." 

I turned towards him and stood still. Suddenly his smile vanished and his chai remained untouched. Because all he could see was two empty sleeves of my shirt hanging helplessly for not being able to hold the cup of chai. He smiled dryly while I said nothing. But I could see his eyes feeling sorry for me. 

At that moment I thought, "If chotu chaiwala and every single stranger around me can accept the reality, if they can all forgive themselves for being or for not being present on the station that day, if they can soak the pain of losing someone or some part of their life and come back again everyday with a braver heart, stronger smile and even bigger strength to hold on to their survival, then courage has a brighter face. Losing my hands that day had made me weak. But courage gave me the faith to live again. Just like it gives every single person around me, everyday. Courage does not lie in royal thrones or power of mighty kings to rule the world. It lies in a burnt shoe of a kid who has survived in a war. Because when it comes to survial, there is no option left beside having courage and stepping up.

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