“The Train I Never Caught: A Journey That Changed Everything”

I was supposed to be on that train.

The 7:45 from Jaipur to Delhi—the last one that evening. I had planned everything with military precision: check out early from my hostel, eat something light, and reach the station at least an hour before departure. After nearly three months of backpacking across North India, I had promised my parents that I’d return, apply for jobs, and “get serious about life.” That train symbolized more than just a ride home. It was my return to reality.

But that morning, something unexpected happened.

As I wandered the old pink streets of Jaipur one last time, a young boy—maybe ten years old—walked up to me near Hawa Mahal. He was barefoot, covered in dust, with eyes that sparkled with mischief. He tugged gently at my sleeve and asked, “Sahab, have you ever been to Pushkar?”

I smiled and shook my head. “No. Why?”

He grinned like he knew a secret. “Because that’s where the gods walk barefoot.”

It was a strange thing to say. I laughed it off, gave him a few rupees, and walked on. But his words stayed with me like a pebble in my shoe. I couldn’t stop thinking about Pushkar—a town I had skipped on my original plan.

On impulse, I rented a motorbike and started the journey. The road to Pushkar was dry, sun-scorched, and winding through dusty villages. I rode past camel carts, fields of marigolds, and temples carved into sandstone. When I reached the town, it felt like stepping into a forgotten page of history. The ghats glowed golden under the evening light, temple bells rang softly in the air, and a sacred calm wrapped the town like a warm shawl.

I sat by the lake as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in reds, pinks, and golds. Sadhus meditated nearby, foreign tourists lit diyas, and the moment felt surreal—almost like a dream I didn’t want to wake up from.

Then I checked my phone.

7:46 PM.

I had missed the train.

A jolt of panic shot through me. The interview. The plans. The commitments. My phone had no signal, no internet. There were no taxis in sight. For the first time on this trip, I felt truly stranded—not physically, but emotionally. I had messed up.

But as I sat there, barefoot, watching the lake ripple under the moonlight, a strange sense of peace settled in. Maybe it was the silence, or the stars overhead, or maybe I was just tired of running after schedules and expectations. I looked around at the people sitting beside me—most of them not in a hurry to be anywhere.

For once, neither was I.

I ended up staying the night in a small guesthouse near the ghat. It had no Wi-Fi, no hot water, and certainly no reminders of the world I had momentarily escaped. But what it did have was quiet. And stories. That evening, the guesthouse owner shared tales of pilgrims who walked for weeks to reach this sacred lake. He said, “Everyone comes to Pushkar with a reason. Sometimes, they just don’t know it yet.”

I stayed three more days.

I walked with locals to the hilltop Savitri temple at sunrise, rode camels into the desert, and even helped a shopkeeper serve chai to passing travelers. I stopped being a tourist. I started simply being present.

One morning, I joined an elderly man who was feeding pigeons by the lake. We didn’t speak for a long time. Then he said quietly, “The journeys we plan are rarely the ones we need.”

His words felt like a mirror. Maybe that missed train wasn’t a mistake. Maybe it was a gift—a pause in the chaos to remind me of who I was before the deadlines and checklists took over.

Eventually, I returned to Delhi—but not for the interview. I went back to pack up my apartment and let go of the version of myself that only knew how to chase the next thing.

Now, I travel differently. Not to escape, but to feel. Not to plan every step, but to discover what happens when I stop controlling the route. I write stories of missed trains, quiet lakes, and the kind of beauty that only reveals itself when we stop running.

Because sometimes, missing a train isn’t the end of the journey.

Sometimes, it’s where the real journey begins.