When Pune Arrived Too Early

When Pune Arrived Too Early

I was travelling to Mumbai for work.
I was young then, at the beginning of my career, working as an engineer at the Space Centre in Trivandrum.
I was actually going to Mumbai – then Bombay – to attend a technical conference at IIT, Bombay.

The Kurla Express started from Trivandrum that morning, as it always did.
Slow, unhurried, and slightly indifferent to the urgency of human plans.

People boarded the train with steel trunks, cloth bags, tiffin carriers, and a lot of luggage.
Someone argued about seat numbers.
Someone else spread newspapers on the berths as if it were a ritual.

I was in a first-class compartment.
In those days, first class was more common than A/C compartments.
Old blue curtains.
A slow fan is making tired sounds.

It was already night when the train reached Coimbatore.
A man boarded the train. His berth was in our compartment.
Well dressed.
Sharp shirt. Serious face.
He carried a briefcase, VIP make, held very close, as if it mattered more than sleep.

Before the train even left the platform, he called the coach-in-charge.

Very confidently, he said,
“I am a very heavy sleeper. You must wake me up at 4:30 a.m. at Guntakal Junction.
No matter what I say in my sleep, wake me up. I have an important business meeting.”

The coach-in-charge nodded calmly.
That was all.

The man relaxed, stretched his legs, and went to sleep,
like someone who had handed over his responsibility to fate and closed his eyes.

The night passed.
Stations came and went.
Lights flashed. Names appeared and vanished.
I slept. Woke up. Slept again.

Morning light crept in through the window.

Someone outside said, “Pune.”“Pune.”

Suddenly, the serious man jumped up like a spring.
“Pune?! Why Pune?!”

Within seconds, the compartment turned into a courtroom.

He started shouting at the coach-in-charge.
Very loudly.
Abusively.
Very creatively.

I won’t repeat the words.
Let’s say even the luggage looked uncomfortable.

The coach-in-charge stood there quietly.
No argument.
No defence.
Not even a raised eyebrow.

After emptying all his anger, the man stormed out, 
still angry, still late, still blaming the world.

Silence followed.

Finally, one of us asked the coach-in-charge,
“How did you stay so calm after all that abuse?”

The coach-in-charge smiled.
A small, tired smile.

He said,
“That is nothing. You should have heard what the man I actually dropped at Guntakal said.”

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then we all laughed.
Not loudly.
But deeply.

As an engineer, I learned that day what every system eventually teaches: when you hand over control, you must also design for failure and accept the outcome.

Anger is often the sound of our own mistake, shouting at someone else.

I reached Mumbai that day with my luggage intact, my sleep half-broken and my faith in quiet wisdom fully awake.

Some lessons don’t need speeches.

They just need a missed station

and a calm man in uniform.