Every morning, like clockwork, I boarded the metro from Mysore Road station. It had become a ritual — not just a commute, but a quiet slice of time carved out for myself. I always chose the short train that ran between Mysore Road and Garudacharapalya. It wasn’t just about convenience; it was about comfort. These trains were less crowded, and more often than not, I’d find a seat — a small luxury in the chaos of city life.
The longer train, the one that ran all the way from Challaghatta to Whitefield, was a different beast altogether. Packed to the brim, it was a gamble I rarely took. My routine was simple: ride the short train to Garudacharapalya, then switch to the Whitefield-bound train for the final leg to ITPL.
But today was different.
I was in a hurry, hoping to reach the office early. As I stepped into the station, a Whitefield train was already waiting. Without a second thought, I hopped on. It was crowded, as expected, but luck was on my side — a seat opened up after a few stops. I settled in, phone in hand, scrolling through the news, music playing softly in my ears. The rhythm of the train, the hum of the city, and the comfort of routine lulled me into a quiet reverie.
Then came Garudacharapalya.
Almost on autopilot, I stood up, walked out of the train, and stepped onto the platform. It was only after the doors slid shut and the train began to pull away that it hit me — this wasn’t the short train. This was the Whitefield train. The one I was supposed to stay on.
I stood there, frozen, watching the train disappear into the distance, carrying my morning plans with it. A mix of disbelief and amusement washed over me. I couldn’t help but laugh at myself — standing there like a character in a silent comedy, outwitted by my own routine.
Sometimes, even the most familiar paths can surprise us.
