The Day My Dad Became My Hero

This is an incident from the year 1986, a time when I was a child just beginning to explore my fascination with the Mumbai railways. Our home in Kalyan was only about a fifteen-minute walk from the station, and that proximity often made it the backdrop of my early childhood memories. I don’t clearly recollect why Papa had taken me to the Kalyan Railway Station that day, but I vividly remember one thing — if things had gone terribly wrong, my life could have taken a completely different turn.

Papa, once a high school teacher, had the gift of words. He was endlessly talkative with everyone he met, always full of stories. That day was no different. As we stood on the sparsely crowded platform, a friend or an acquaintance of his happened to bump into us. I stood beside Papa, holding his finger, while their conversation stretched on. Meanwhile, I became lost in the world unfolding before me — trains arriving, halting, leaving; people boarding and alighting; the rhythmic sounds of metal on metal creating a hypnotic "dropper" effect that fascinated my young ears.

At some point — I don’t recall exactly when — I let go of Papa’s finger. Something about the train that had halted at the platform drew me in. Perhaps it was the thrill of stepping into a local train coach, the challenge of finding a spot in a crowded compartment, or the sheer joy of standing at the window, gripping the grill and watching the world blur past.

Being a child in Mumbai’s bustling trains had its privileges. Adults would instinctively make way, guiding me toward the window — the best place in the world, I thought. But what felt like a magical moment to me was, on the other side of that window, the beginning of a nightmare.

Papa, suddenly realizing I was no longer by his side, panicked. He searched the platform, the bookstalls, asked strangers — all in vain. His friend joined the search too. Seconds ticked by, but in those moments, fear consumed him. The train I had unknowingly boarded began to move. That’s when Papa, driven by instinct and love, made a life-saving guess. He knew me. He knew my obsession with the window seat. He trusted that knowledge. As the train picked up speed, Papa started running alongside it, his eyes scanning coach after coach. With superhuman effort, he boarded a moving compartment. To me, he was nothing short of Superman.

Determined, drenched in sweat, and with unwavering focus, Papa moved from coach to coach, asking, searching, hoping. At each station — Dombivli, Diva, Kalwa, Thane, Mulund, Kanjurmarg — he got off and boarded a new coach, his eyes relentlessly seeking me. The train was heading toward Victoria Terminus, and the chase continued. Finally, at Ghatkopar station, Papa boarded yet another coach — and there I was. Standing by the window, holding the pane, blissfully unaware of the chaos I had caused. When he saw me, he pushed through the crowd and grabbed me, holding me as though he'd found his entire world again.

I have only a faint memory of his emotions that day. But I know he must’ve been overwhelmed — with relief, with love, with fear that finally gave way to gratitude.

Ironically, I was clueless. I didn’t even realize I had been lost. Back then, there were no mobile phones, no GPS trackers, no loudspeaker announcements for missing children. But I always believed one thing: Papa was behind me, with me — my superhero who would never let me fall.

And that day, he proved it.