“Taratari hato, Reema (Walk faster, Reema). The 11:20 local won’t wait for you.”
Baba didn’t look back. He never did. Missing a train was almost a moral failure in the Banerjee household.
I followed him toward Konnagar station. The overbridge rose ahead- tall, grey, and mostly ignored.
Konnagar is a small town in the Hooghly district of West Bengal. My parents moved there after retirement. I live in Mumbai now, writing for a living and have come home for a short vacation.
We live barely five minutes from the station. From our side of town, there is a small gap in the fence that leads straight to the platform through the tracks — a shortcut everyone knows. However, the official entrance lies on the other side of Konnagar, a long detour that few are willing to take.
As always, Baba stepped down onto the tracks.
“Baba…” I tried again, “You know this is wrong, right?”
He gave a dry laugh. “Wrong? Or practical?”
He pointed toward the bridge. “You want me to climb that with these knees? By the time I reach the top, the train will reach Howrah.”
“But what if—”
“What if nothing,” he said calmly. “We’ve been doing this for years. You just have to be careful”
I followed him anyway, heart pounding louder than the distant horn.
Every time I cross the tracks, my mind stages disasters.
What if my foot slips?
What if I trip?
What if the train doesn’t slow down?
Above us, the bridge stood like a promise of safety that is hardly used.
The next morning, the newspaper didi’s call woke me up. I picked up the local newspaper while grabbing my morning coffee.
The headline froze me.
ACCIDENT ON THE TRACKS
“Ma…” my voice trembled, “someone died last night. A 19-year old girl.”
Ma stopped stirring the tea, and baba read on in silence.
The words before me blurred.
Konnagar is small, and news spreads fast like wildfire.
Authorities were finally on alert, and by evening, metal fences had sealed the shortcut to the tracks. A large board appeared near the overbridge, and the whole week, announcements blared from an e-rickshaw moving through the streets:
“Passengers must use the overbridge. Crossing the tracks is prohibited.”
“At least now it’s safe, but…” I said softly.
But as I said it, my thoughts drifted to another looming problem.
Baba said nothing.
The next day, we reached the Konnagar station, but this time we stood at the base of the overbridge.
For the first time in years, it was crowded. Baba looked up. The stairs looked longer. Still he began climbing.
Ten steps….Pause.
“Go ahead,” he said between breaths.
“I’m not leaving you. Let’s take our own time.”
Ma, a heart patient, climbed slowly, stopping every few steps to steady her breath.
Behind us, someone muttered impatiently, “Move.”
An elderly woman clutched the railing below.
By the fifteenth step, Baba’s jaw had tightened.
“Good exercise,” he forced a smile when we reached the top.
I forced a smile too that hid both my pain and a resolve that was now beginning to take shape.
“No more bridge, baap re. Next time we will go through the main entrance and cross the tracks from there. At least that will be pain-free,” Baba said once we were seated in the local train, his smile edged with irony.
I understood. For him, risk felt lighter than pain.
That night, I wrote emails.
To the municipality.
To the railway authorities.
I wrote about the urgent need for ramps, lifts, escalators, basic dignity, and accessibility. Things Konnagar station severely lacked.
I waited for weeks, but nothing happened.
The railway blamed the municipality. The municipality blamed the railway. Files moved endlessly to nowhere.
A week later, while crossing the tracks again, Baba paused.
“Strange,” he said.
“What?”
“They woke up after someone died.”
He looked at the tracks beneath his feet.
“But they’re still sleeping while we struggle.”
I didn’t argue. Because he was right.
A few months later…
I was back in Mumbai and settled into my hectic life, but Konnagar was always on my mind.
I called Ma from the office first thing in the morning.
“Hello Ma, kemon acho (how are you)?”
“Bhalo achi (I’m good),” she replied warmly. “We read your column today. The whole town is proud of you.”
“So… any response from the authorities?”
There was a pause.
“No.”
After I hung up, I sat quietly at my desk with the newspaper open before me. The words stared back.
My words may move readers. They may stir conversations. They may even trend for a day.
But sadly the overbridge at Konnagar still has only stairs.
We wait for tragedy to enforce rules.
But we rarely design those rules with empathy.
The overbridge is finally being used.
But every day, someone still chooses between pain and risk.
We call that progress?
Some stories do not end in victory.
They end in waiting….
PS: “This post is a part of ‘Echoes of Equality Blog Hop’ hosted by Manali Desai and Sukaina Majeed under #EveryConversationMatters blog hop series.
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