The Host of the Station

I usually arrive at the station just as the train arrives. This time, I was a little early, and my train was a little late. This gave me enough time to lose myself in thought while sitting on the uncomfortable iron chair. My gaze was fixed on the tracks—tracks that help people get to where they want to go, to their destinations, to their loved ones, to their dreams.

The railway station is always a lively place. It's always busy, noisy, filled with the sound of trains, announcements, chatter from people, and the sellers. What entices me the most is the fact that a railway station can be whatever you want it to be. It can be your starting point, a waypoint, or the destination. Each train that pauses for a brief second in its continuous run to transport souls to their destinations carries an influx of emotions: happiness in the journey to loved ones and sadness in the parting.

That’s when I noticed the little guy—a stray dog, brown with big black eyes. What drew my attention was his tail, stiff as a stick and pointing upwards, contrary to the proverb in my region: "Nayayude vaal ethra naal kuzhalilittalum valanje irikkoo" (Meaning: Even if you put a dog's tail in a pipe for eternity, it will still be round). He was strolling alone through the platform. He’d go to my left, and after some time, he’d return and go straight to the right. He repeated this pattern for as long as I was there. I wondered why. Was he playing? Or was he searching for food, water, or his mom? But his movements weren’t frantic; they were calm, with a little bit of playfulness—assuring me that it might not be the latter. Maybe his mom was resting somewhere, and he was just playing.

The question began to itch at my brain, so I followed his movements to the end of his stroll. But there was nothing—he just went back and forth. It would’ve been better if he could talk. Then, I could just ask him:

"Hey, little guy, what are you searching for?"

But that’s impossible and it’s not like I’ve never swallowed words I’ve wanted to say. I can only find solace in my interpretation of the situation. That gives me the freedom to choose the answer that feels right.

I chose to believe that the little guy is a damn good host. The station is his home, and we are his guests. And he is so happy to have so many guests that he’s running around, welcoming each and every one, careful not to miss anyone. He’s trying so hard to be part of their journey, even for a second—even if they don’t recognize his efforts. He’s just happy to share that fleeting moment with them. And for those who do recognize him, I imagine he feels great joy. I hope so, at least.

As my train arrived and I found my seat, looking out through the window, I saw the little guy sitting, tired from his constant stroll. He was catching his breath, but even in this moment, he didn’t forget to look at everyone, sending his silent wishes. I hoped he’d look at me, too. Send me off on my journey. If he just looked at me, I could say everything I wanted to say to him. Maybe he would understand me—maybe not. But I wanted to say it anyway. And as the long horn of the train sounded, he finally looked at me.

"I do appreciate you…"