It started with a small decision—a moment of ego—and quickly spiralled into a harrowing experience.
As a kid, I hated holding my parents’ hands in public. I mean, who wouldn’t? It felt like a neon sign screaming, “I’m a baby!” So, whenever we were in a crowded place, I’d wait for the first opportunity to wiggle my hand free.
Most times, this little act of rebellion didn’t cause any problems. But one day at Howrah Junction, it almost cost me dearly.
Picture this: Howrah Junction, one of the world’s busiest railway stations. With over 23 platforms and more than a million passengers moving in and out daily, it’s a sea of chaos, noise, and urgency. On that day, we were headed to Bombay via the Geetanjali Express.
As we walked toward our train, weaving through the crowd, I decided—quite proudly, I might add—that I didn’t need to hold my dad’s hand anymore. Big mistake.
I was blissfully unaware of the unfolding disaster for the first few minutes. Head down, lost in my thoughts, I didn’t notice the growing distance between me and my family.
And then I looked up.
They were gone.
I was an eight-year-old, standing alone in the middle of one of the busiest railway stations in the world. My heart raced as my mind conjured every worst-case scenario imaginable.
What if I never find them?
What if some lumpen element takes me?
What if they leave on the train without me?
The Search That Felt Life Forever
I started running, scanning every face in the crowd. People jostled past me, hurrying to catch their trains, oblivious to the lost child among them.
The more I searched, the more hopeless I felt. Tears threatened to spill, and my breath came in gasps. The thought of being left behind forever played on a loop in my mind.
Desperate, I began running back in the opposite direction, praying with every step. “Please, God, let me find them. I’ll never do this again.”
Meanwhile, my dad had contacted the station authorities, who announced a missing child. But in a station as massive as Howrah, announcements can be hit or miss. Between the noise of arriving trains and the crowd’s chatter, I didn’t hear it.
By then, the Geetanjali Express had arrived. Time was running out.
I stood frozen, tears streaming down my face. A kind elderly man noticed me and stopped to ask what was wrong. Before I could finish explaining, I heard my dad’s voice.
“Babu” (my nickname)!
I whipped around and saw him running toward me. Relief washed over me so powerfully that I could barely stand. Dad looked both relieved and furious. I could see it in his eyes—he wanted to hug me and scold me all at once.
Thankfully, the crowd spared me from the scolding I knew I deserved.
But I didn’t need his words to know the lesson. I had learned it the hard way.
A Word to Young Readers
If you’re a kid reading this, here’s my advice: Don’t let your ego get in the way of holding your parents’ hand in public. You may think you’re too grown up for it, but a moment of carelessness can lead to a lifetime of regret.
Your parents aren’t trying to embarrass you; they’re trying to keep you safe. And safety always trumps pride.
Looking back, I’m grateful for this experience—not for the fear it caused but for the lessons it taught me. It showed me the value of staying close to the people who care for you and listening to their wisdom, even when you think you don’t need it.
Sometimes, the most important lessons come from the moments we least expect. So hold tight, stay close, and remember: letting go isn’t always the best choice.
About Me
I am a thinker at all times. I see, I think. I hear, I think. I read, I think. Every weekend I write. I would love to know what you think.