Slow Train Coming

This Trackside Wisdom Brought to You by Mild Inconvenience

There was a time I used to take the bridge.

It was the “respectable” way to cross the railway tracks during my early morning walks…

Safe, official, and approved by orthopaedic surgeons across the world. But somewhere along the way, I started avoiding it. Not for any profound reason. Just… well, the incline.

I’d tell myself, “Take the bridge, be responsible.” And then I’d glance at the slope rising before me like some smug concrete treadmill and think, “Or… I could just go under it.” And so, slowly but surely, laziness won. A sort of low-grade rebellion disguised as morning fitness.

Now I take the side roads, walking toward a familiar gap under the bridge…

One of those quiet in-between spaces where people cross the tracks without much fuss or permission. No signboards. No barriers. Just an understanding between humans and railways: “I won’t get in your way if you don’t get in mine.”

Most days, it works out fine.

But every now and then, just as I near the tracks, I hear it—that faint metallic rumble in the distance. I know immediately what it is: a slow train coming.

And these aren’t your sleek, silver, high-speed showstoppers. No, these are the long, tired, blue-and-brown snakes of the Indian Railways.

Passenger trains pass quickly enough. At least with those, there’s life in them. Faces to glance at… a peek into someone’s morning. A smile here, a newspaper there. The occasional chai cup balanced like magic on a window grill. Sometimes, a kid makes eye contact and grins, as if we both know something the grown-ups don’t.

The rhythm of people in transit offers something vaguely comforting.

But the goods trains… Ah, the goods trains.

They approach with a tortured screech, dragging a hundred wagons behind them like they regret saying yes to the journey in the first place.

They squeal. They shriek. They groan like someone trying to get out of bed after fifty years of government service.

And then… just when I think I can still make it across soon enough—they stop. Right there. On the track. Blocking the way like an overgrown security guard who’s suddenly decided you don’t look trustworthy.

My first reaction? Annoyance. Why now? Why me? Why didn’t I just take the bridge (besides the obvious reason of… incline)?

But then, the moment stretches.

The morning light softens. The world becomes still. And slowly, my frustration gives way to something else. A strange, reluctant calm. I start noticing things—chalk markings on oil tanks, faded company names, serial numbers that look like passwords to a parallel universe.

I catch myself reading them like horoscopes:
ABC Petrochemicals. IOC. Madras Fertilisers.
Clearly, the gods of logistics are trying to send a message.

And then comes the comeback.

Without warning, the train lurches. Thud. Clank. Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock. Like the bogeys are waking each other up:
“Come on, lazybones. He’s moving. We’re all moving. Let’s go.”
It’s the loudest version of peer pressure I’ve ever heard.

And as the train finally slithers away and clears my path, I smile. Not just because I can cross now… but because somehow, in all that noise and inconvenience, I found a pause. A moment I wouldn’t have chosen, but one I needed.

You see, Bob Dylan once sang about a Slow Train Coming. I doubt he was talking about freight traffic near Ernakulam station, but every time I stand there watching a train roll past me like a rusty epiphany, I think: maybe he was on to something.

Because life’s not just about momentum. Sometimes, it’s about waiting.

And as I’ve learned on these mornings, a train that blocks your way might just be giving you a different kind of ticket—a brief, involuntary detour into thought, into observation, into a reminder that not all delays are lost time.

Of course, when I post this story, readers will likely interpret it in wildly different ways.

Someone will say it’s about fate.
Someone else will say it’s about missed chances.
Someone will probably message me to ask if I’ve tried taking calcium supplements for my knees.

…And honestly? I love that.

Because stories, like slow trains, mean different things depending on where you’re standing. And sometimes the best view comes when you’re standing still.

In a world that’s always rushing to be somewhere else, maybe these pauses aren’t interruptions at all…

Maybe they’re reminders that some journeys begin only when you stop moving.