Chapter 3 - Railway Gate

 

3

 

            A few days after the journey that had left my thoughts wandering among farmers, dust, and unfinished questions, I again found myself sitting beside the window of a slow-moving bus.

 

            There are some seats in life that quietly become confession rooms. A bus window is one of them.

Outside it, the world keeps changing. Inside it, the mind keeps returning to the same unanswered thoughts.

 

            The afternoon Sun had begun losing its sharpness. The heat still floated above the roads, but the anger of the day had softened. Our bus moved lazily through small towns, uneven roads, and fields waiting for evening shadows.

 

            The passengers inside were busy fighting invisible battles.

 

            One man was arguing loudly on the phone about money someone owed him. A college boy kept refreshing his social media feed every few seconds as if happiness might suddenly appear there. Two women were discussing relatives with the seriousness of world leaders negotiating peace treaties. A child behind me cried because his mother refused to buy him chips from a roadside stall.

 

            Everyone seemed restless.  Everyone seemed late for something.  Perhaps modern life is nothing but a long queue of people afraid of losing time.

 

            The bus suddenly slowed down near a railway crossing.

 

            A long line of vehicles had already gathered there - motorcycles, scooters, tractors, auto-rickshaws, cars, even a milk van leaking drops onto the road.

 

            The red signal blinked lazily.  The gate was closed.  Immediately irritation spread among people like heat spreading across metal.  Drivers stretched their necks to see whether the train was visible. Some kept honking unnecessarily, as if noise could force iron gates to open. A young man on a motorcycle muttered abuses under his breath. One car driver repeatedly checked his watch every few seconds.

Impatience has strange habits.  It looks at a two-minute delay as if life itself has been insulted.

 

            Our bus stopped a little behind the crowd. I leaned toward the window and looked around absentmindedly.  That was when I noticed him.  An old man stood quietly beside a worn-out bicycle near the edge of the crossing.  Unlike everyone else, he looked completely untouched by the delay.  One hand rested gently on the bicycle handle. The other hung loosely beside him. His white kurta had faded under years of washing. His turban carried dust from many roads. His slippers looked older than some of the boys waiting there.

 

            But his face…His face carried the stillness of someone who had stopped wrestling with time long ago.  He was not checking the railway track repeatedly.  He was not sighing.  Not irritated.  Not anxious.

Just standing there quietly, as if waiting itself was part of life and not an interruption to it.  The scene looked strangely beautiful amidst all the chaos.

 

            I kept watching him.

 

            Around him engines roared impatiently. People cursed the railway department. Someone tried to duck beneath the gate and was shouted back by the guard.

 

            But the old man remained calm.

 

            A thought crossed my mind quietly, “Perhaps age does not weaken people.
Perhaps it simply removes the unnecessary hurry from their souls.”

 

            The bus conductor beside me lit a beedi and complained, “These railway crossings waste half of life.”

            I smiled faintly.  Maybe half of life is not wasted at crossings.  Maybe half of life is spent refusing to stop at them.

 

            The old man adjusted his bicycle slightly and looked toward the tracks, not with urgency but with acceptance.  Young people look at waiting as defeat. Old people often look at it as weather.  Neither permanent nor personal.  Just something to pass through.

 

            I wondered where he was going.  Maybe returning from a market.  Maybe carrying medicines.

Maybe coming back from visiting someone sick.  Or maybe he had nowhere urgent to reach because age eventually teaches people a dangerous truth - Most destinations are not as important as we once believed.

 

            The crossing remained closed.  The irritation around me kept growing.

 

            A man on a scooter shouted, “Where is the train? It’s been so long!”

 

            Another replied angrily, “This country will never improve.”

 

            I noticed something strange then.  The train had not even arrived yet, but people had already emotionally exhausted themselves fighting the delay.  Human beings often suffer more in imagination than in reality.

 

            The old man meanwhile stood peacefully beside his bicycle, watching the empty railway track glowing under the sun.  He reminded me of trees.  Trees never appear impatient.  They stand through heat, storms, winters, and endless waiting.  And perhaps that is why they survive longer than human pride.

 

            I kept staring at the old man, and suddenly memories of my own elders returned to me.  My grandfather waiting silently outside government offices.  My mother sitting calmly in hospitals without complaining. 

 

            An old retired soldier I once knew who said, “The biggest victory in life is learning where not to waste your anger.”

 

            At that time I was too young to understand him.  Youth believes speed is strength.  Age slowly teaches that calmness is strength too. 

 

            A small breeze passed across the crossing.  Dust rose gently around the old man’s feet.  For a brief second he closed his eyes.  Not dramatically.  Just naturally.  As if he trusted the world enough to pause inside it.  That single moment felt heavier than many speeches I had heard in life.  Because modern people know how to move fast.  But they have forgotten how to stand still.  There is a difference between stopping and resting.  Most people stop physically.  Very few rest mentally.

 

            The crossing had now become noisier. A few bikers had moved dangerously close to the gate, ready to race forward the second it opened.  Everyone wanted to be first.  Human beings spend entire lives trying to become first in lines whose destinations they never question.

 

            The old man, meanwhile, had not moved an inch.  He looked toward the crowd once and smiled faintly.  Not mockingly.  Almost compassionately.  As if he understood something they still did not.

And perhaps he truly did.  Time humbles old people in ways youth cannot imagine.  Young men think they are chasing time.  Old men know time was always walking beside them.

 

            I suddenly remembered something I had once heard during my army years:  “When bullets fly, the experienced soldier breathes slower.”

 

            At that age I thought courage meant aggression.  Later I understood that true courage often looks quiet from the outside. 

 

            The railway guard finally appeared near the gate. People instantly straightened their vehicles.

Engines roared alive.

            Impatience stood up like an army preparing for battle.  But still no train came.  The guard simply adjusted something and walked away again.  Groans of frustration filled the air.  Someone cursed loudly.

A boy kicked his motorcycle angrily.

 

            And then something unexpected happened.  The old man slowly sat down on the low concrete edge near the crossing gate.  Not dramatically.  Not tiredly.  Simply because the wait was longer than expected.  He parked the bicycle beside him and looked toward the sky.  There was such dignity in that small act that I cannot fully explain it even today.  He did not fight the delay.  He adjusted himself to it.

That is a wisdom modern life rarely teaches.  We are trained to control every situation.  But peace often begins the moment we stop demanding control over everything.

 

            The bus driver beside me grew restless and muttered, “People have no value for others’ time.”

 

            I looked again at the old man and thought - Maybe life becomes lighter when we stop measuring every minute like currency.  The truth is strange.  Most people rush through life only to eventually sit alone in retirement wondering where all the years went.  Perhaps life was never asking us to run so hard.

Perhaps it was only asking us to notice.

 

            The sunlight had now softened further.  The old man’s shadow stretched longer beside the bicycle.  For some reason that shadow moved me deeply.  Age itself is a long evening shadow.  Slowly stretching.  Slowly fading.  Yet strangely peaceful.

 

            The crossing bell finally rang louder.  Far away, the train became visible.  Immediately chaos returned.  People started their engines aggressively. Some moved before the gate had even begun opening.

But the old man remained seated calmly until the train fully passed.  The train thundered across the tracks.

Children inside it waved happily through windows.  Some passengers stared outside absentmindedly, lost in their own unfinished thoughts.

 

            For a few seconds both journeys crossed each other - Those waiting beside the tracks.  And those trapped inside the moving train.

 

            Then it was gone.  Silence briefly returned.  The gate slowly began opening. And suddenly everyone exploded forward.  Motorcycles raced recklessly.  Cars pushed ahead.  Drivers fought for inches of road as though eternity depended upon crossing first.  Dust rose wildly.  Horns screamed.  People who had waited fifteen minutes could not wait fifteen more seconds.

 

            The old man stood up quietly after most vehicles had already crossed.  He lifted his bicycle gently.  No hurry.  No competition.  No anger.  He crossed the tracks slowly, almost carefully, while the world rushed around him.  And for reasons I still cannot fully explain, that old man looked freer than everyone else there.  Perhaps freedom is not about moving faster.  Perhaps freedom is about not being controlled by urgency.

 

            Our bus finally crossed too.

 

            I kept turning back from the window until the old man disappeared into the road behind us.

But something about him remained sitting beside me long after that crossing was left behind.

 

            The rest of the passengers returned to their phones, arguments, complaints, and conversations as if nothing meaningful had happened.  But I felt strangely quiet inside.  Because sometimes life does not teach through extraordinary events.  Sometimes it teaches through ordinary people standing silently beside closed gates.

 

            As the bus moved ahead, evening slowly descended upon the fields.

 

            Shadows stretched across roads.  Smoke rose from distant homes.  Birds began returning to trees.

And I kept thinking…Maybe wisdom is not found in books alone.  Maybe it hides in unnoticed people who have learned how to wait without bitterness.

 

            That evening I understood something important.

 

            Young people often believe patience means weakness because they have not yet been defeated enough by life.  But age slowly teaches that not every delay is an enemy.  Some pauses protect us.  Some stops save us.  Some closed crossings prevent collisions we cannot yet see.  And perhaps that is why old people eventually stop fighting every interruption.

 

They have already seen enough life to know -

Not every closed gate deserves anger.

Some simply deserve silence.