The Two Sides of a Tracks: A Lesson in Empathy

​Travel can be a transformative experience, but sometimes it is the difficult moments that leave the most lasting impact. I truly believe nothing offers more enlightenment than a train journey; in fact, I started blogging as a direct result of one.

​Last week, I traveled to Kasaragod with my father. It was a peaceful trip in a sleeper coach, where I even managed two hours of undisturbed sleep. However, the return journey to Kozhikode (Calicut) was a Herculean task—especially traveling in a General Ladies' compartment with my mother and sister.

​Initially, I stood for a while before finding a seat. Shortly after, a mother entered with her child. I held her six-year-old daughter to help them out, and my own mother gave up a small portion of her seat so they could sit—even though my mom could barely find enough space for herself.

​As the hour passed, the rush intensified until it became difficult to breathe. Just as I was nearing my station, another passenger began experiencing a breathing problem. My mother pleaded with the women nearby to help her or move over to make room for her to sit. It was a heartbreaking sight: in a place known as "God’s Own Country," one mother would stand for a child the age of her own daughter, while another woman watched without a shred of mercy.

​I was particularly struck by a girl my age who worked in a hospital, yet showed a completely heartless reaction. I found myself deeply irritated by this behavior—how could someone be so indifferent? Most women choose the ladies' compartment for safety, but it made me wonder: is a journey among such "heartless creatures" truly better than a general compartment? Perhaps in a general carriage, others might have shown more consideration and made a more comfortable arrangement simply out of respect for her as a woman.

​Ultimately, this journey served as a stark reminder that shared spaces do not always guarantee shared humanity. While we often seek out specific compartments for physical safety, true security comes from the empathy and concern we show one another—qualities that cannot be mandated by a sign on a carriage door. It is a bitter irony that in "God’s Own Country," a place defined by its beauty, we can find such coldness among those we expect to be our allies.

​I’ve realized that being a woman or a professional is not enough; we must actively choose to carry the lessons of our own struggles with us, ensuring that no one else has to stand alone when they are gasping for air. Empathy isn't just something we are born with; it must be acquired through personal experience and genuine concern for others.