The woman on platform #8

By Ruskin Bond
Adapted for English Language Learners

Photo courtesy Sai Kiran Anagani, Unsplash!

It was my second year at boarding school. I was sitting on platform no. 8 at Ambala station waiting for the train going north. I was twelve-years-old. My parents thought I was old enough to travel alone.
     I had to wait until midnight (मध्यरात्री) before my train arrived. I walked up and down the platform, looking at the bookstall or feeding broken biscuits to stray dogs. Tired of this, I sat down on my suitcase and looked sadly across the railway tracks.
     Suddenly a soft voice close behind me asked, "Are you all alone, my son?"
     I looked up and saw a woman standing near me. She had a pale (फिकट गुलाबी) face and dark, kind eyes. She wore no jewels (रत्नजडित), and was dressed very simply in a white sari.
     “Yes, I am going to school,” I said and stood up respectfully.  She seemed poor, but there was a dignity (मोठेपण) about her that I immediately respected.
     "I have been watching you for some time," she said.  "Didn't your parents come to see you off?"    
      "My parents said that I am old enough now to travel alone."    
     "I am sure you are," she said.  I liked her for saying that and I also liked her for the simplicity of her dress and for her deep, soft voice and the serenity (शांतता) of her face.
     "Tell me, what is your name?" she asked
     "Arun." I answered.
     "How long do you have to wait for your train?"    
     "About an hour, I think. It comes at twelve o'clock."
      "Then come with me and have something to eat," she replied.
     I was going to refuse (नाकारणे), but she took me by the hand and led me down the platform. Her hand was gentle. I looked up at her again. She was not young, but she was not old. 
       She took me into the station dining room, and then ordered tea and samosas. At once I began to take a new interest in this kind, gentle woman. She took pleasure in watching me eat. I think it was the food that strengthened the bond (बंधपत्र) between us, for I began to talk freely. I told her about my school, my friends, my likes and dislikes. She questioned me quietly from time to time, but preferred (प्राधान्य) listening.  I forgot that we were strangers. But she did not ask me about my family or where I lived, and I did not ask her where she lived. I accepted (स्वीकारा) her for what she had been to me — a quiet, kind and gentlewoman who gave sweets to a lonely boy on a railway platform.
     After about half-an-hour we left the dining room and walked back along the platform. One of my school friends, Satish, a boy about my age, was there with his mother.
     "Hello, Arun!" he called. He turned to his mother and said, "This is Arun, mother. He is one of my friends at school."
     "l am glad to know that," said his mother. She was a large, domineering (दुराग्रही) woman who wore glasses. She looked at the woman who held my hand and said, "And I suppose you're Arun's mother?"
     Before I could say anything the woman replied, "Yes I am Arun's mother."
     I was unable to speak a word. I looked up quickly at the woman, but she was not at all embarrassed (लज्जास्पद), and was smiling at Satish’s mother.
     Satish's mother said, "It’s such a nuisance (उपद्रव) having to wait for the train in the middle of the night. But you can’t let a child wait here alone. Anything can happen to a boy at a big station like this. There are so many bad people around. These days you have to be very careful of strangers."
     "Oh, Arun can travel alone," said the woman beside me.  I was grateful to her for saying that. I had already forgiven her for lying. And besides, I had taken a dislike to Satish's mother.
     "Well, be very careful Arun," said Satish's mother looking sternly (कडकपणे) at me through her glasses. "Be very careful when your mother is not with you, and never talk to strangers!"
     I looked from Satish's mother to the woman who had given me tea and sweets.
     "I like strangers," I said.
     Satish's mother was shocked. She was not used to being contradicted (विरोध करणे) by small boys.    
     "There you are!," said Satish's mother. "If you don't watch over them all the time, they'll walk straight into trouble."  Then she looked at me and said, shaking her finger at me, "Always listen to what your mother tells you. And never, never talk to strangers!"
     I moved closer to the woman who had befriended (मित्र) me. My train was moving slowly into the station. As it came to a stop, Satish jumped on and shouted, "Come on, Arun, this carriage is empty!" I picked up my suitcase and ran for the open door.
    We placed ourselves at the open windows, and the two women stood outside on the platform, talking up to us. Satish's mother did most of the talking.
     "Don't jump on and off moving trains!," she said. "And don't stick your heads out of the windows . . . and don't eat too many sweets!" Then she looked at my 'mother' to see what she would say.
     I let her take my hand in hers, but I could think of nothing to say. She smiled in a gentle, understanding way. I leaned (विचलित) out of the window and put my lips to her cheek, and kissed her.
     The train jumped forward and she drew her hand away.
     "Goodbye, mother!," said Satish, as the train began to move. Satish and his mother waved to each other.
    "Good-bye," I said to the other woman, "Goodbye — mother ..."
     Satish's mother was talking to her, but she wasn't listening. She was looking at me, as the train took me away.