Sometimes a short story, sometimes a travelogue, this nostalgic journey aboard the Pushpak Express by Sharad Raj captures an unforgettable connection from the pre-internet era of handwritten letters and simple joys.

Step aboard the Lucknow-Mumbai Pushpak Express and relive a bygone era through this heartfelt tale—sometimes a short story, sometimes a travelogue. Experience the charm of pre-internet connections, cultural exchanges, and the serendipity of meeting strangers who leave an indelible mark. From conversations about Buddhism and communism to sharing homemade food and exploring Asian philosophies, this journey captures the essence of human connection. Perfect for readers seeking nostalgia, travel stories, and reflections on fleeting yet meaningful encounters, this story is a window into life before the digital age.

A Chance Encounter on the Pushpak Express

Ufff! What the heck, you can’t even get me a lower berth, I scorned at my dad. Twenty-five hours on the upper berth of a second AC compartment that I would now have to endure had spoilt my mood even before boarding the Lucknow-Mumbai Pushpak Express. It was soon after my marriage, and a vacation was coming to an end. Sulking, I perched myself on the upper berth. Across from me was a young girl—seemingly a foreigner. We exchanged a polite smile. She turned out to be from Taiwan. I can’t recall her name now, almost 30 years later.

As we got talking, I learned she was an architect who visited India often for work. My first question was about China and Taiwan. A few pleasantries followed, and soon it was time to sleep.

The morning came late—youth sleep more. As she woke up, she pulled out a fancy battery-operated toothbrush, the kind one typically finds in the East. We wished each other good morning, and the conversation resumed. I offered her some homemade breakfast, and she accepted it, wary of train food. What followed were 16 hours of continuous talking.

We touched on everything under the sun—Communism, Mao, Buddhism, the big-brother attitude of China, democracy, and the Tiananmen Square massacre. She had flirted with Communism in college but was now a practicing Buddhist, which, in my view, is a spiritual counterpart to Marxism. She shared fascinating insights into Taiwanese culture and why her firm saw potential in India.

Cultural Summit on a Sluggish Train

My desire to sit on the lower berth evaporated quickly as we immersed ourselves in what became a cultural summit of sorts. The train, plagued by chain-pulling and delays, crawled across the countryside. Yet, we were too absorbed to care.

Our discussions spanned common Asian experiences, Buddhism, Indian tourist spots, and art and cinema. This was the late 20th century, before the internet’s ubiquity but just after globalization began changing the world. We spoke of Bollywood—Amitabh Bachchan, Satyajit Ray, and Ritwik Ghatak—names she surprisingly knew. In turn, she introduced me to Jackie Chan movies, Taiwanese art, and traditional philosophies like Confucianism and Taoism.

I mentioned The Tao of Physics by Fritjof Capra, a book I had read in college, and we deliberated on how science and mysticism might find common ground. Purely material philosophies, no matter how egalitarian, seemed inadequate in answering life’s deeper questions. Whether we rarely disagreed or simply chose to be polite, I couldn’t tell.

We took a short afternoon siesta before resuming our conversations. Before that, I shared some gol mirch ka chicken from Lucknow’s Maharaja dhaba and fried fish from a small joint near my house in the railway colony. By the time we woke up, the train had fallen further behind schedule.

An Awkward Goodbye

She grew anxious as the train approached Bombay VT (Victoria Terminus) closer to midnight. I reassured her that Bombay was safe and alive at all hours, but her unease was apparent. She hinted at needing a place to stay, and it became awkward. I had mentioned Juhu, where I lived, but what I hadn’t said was that I was married. Our conversations had never ventured into personal territories. Out of nowhere, I blurted, “I’m married!”

Her demeanour shifted slightly. The subject of her late-night arrival wasn’t raised again. I gave her my landline number before disembarking at Dadar, leaving her to continue to VT.

The next afternoon, she called after confirming her flight. We met at the coffee shop of Centaur Hotel near the airport. As I browsed a new Marquez book in the lobby, I saw her walk in. We exchanged brief pleasantries and ordered coffee and sandwiches. A heavy silence hung over the table, broken only when she said, “You should have told me you’re married.”

“Well, it just seemed odd to bring it up amidst discussions of Buddhism and Communism,” I stammered. The rest of the meeting was awkward. Before leaving, she took my postal address. I escorted her to a kaali-peeli taxi and bid her goodbye.

Weeks later, I received an eight-page letter from her, her address scrawled on the last page. I read it aloud to my wife, who knew about my encounter on the train. In her simple wisdom, she encouraged me to reply—it’s always good to have a friend. But I declined. Any response, I felt, might set off a chain of events best avoided.

Today, three decades later, she often comes to mind, especially when I watch Richard Linklater’s Before Sunrise. I’ve searched for Taiwanese architects on social media, fully aware of the futility. Those 30-odd hours on a sluggish train remain etched in memory—a fleeting connection that became a gift to cherish in a world before smartphones and the internet.