There is something about railway journeys. I always look forward to them. Maybe because I get to see India in a bogey. Second class. The First class is too stuffy and boring. Glum faces and serious dispositions. I prefer second class.

I love sitting and watching people. You meet a variety of them. And usually there is nothing else to do. Munch on the variety of eatables. Drink some “kaaaaaapi, kaaaaaaaaapi”. Or “chai, chayi, chaaaaaaaaai”.

I wonder how they manage to sound so distinct. How it sounds the same whether you are in Katpadi or Kolkata. Maybe they have some training school where they are taught the finer nuances of sound production. Talented bunch, I would say.

I like the window seats. Gives one a nice view of the world around. Just sitting there watching the world pass by is quite a soothing experience. I like the rhythmic “Katak, kataaaaack, katak, katak, katak katack”…the jolts and the shakes. And in between “wooooooooo”. I like closing my eyes, blanking my mind and just letting the sounds and the feel, the vibrations and tremors seep in. Quite relaxing. Even now when I think of it, it makes me feel good.

I remember a time when I was sitting beside the window with my eyes drooping to the lullaby of the train, when I heard an unusual sound. “Chik, chik, chik”. It was sort of pleasant to listen to. Nice and rhythmic. Just like the rattles a two year old would love.

Yes. Rattles. I was right. I opened my eyes and leaned a bit towards the left, and way down the corridor was a visually challenged man selling rattles.

The way he was shaking them was musical. Even a five rupee worth rattle, made of cheap garish green plastic could make some music, when it’s in the right hands. This man must have been in his forties.

Greying hair. Dark glasses. Pock marked face. Un-ironed clothes. Quite worn out and dirty. The stains of his hard life quite visible. I was about to close my eyes again to the rhythmic dose of “katak, katak”, when I noticed a well-dressed middle aged gentleman, quite obviously very wealthy, take his wallet out.

On closer observation, this man was an NRI. The white sports shoes, formal black trousers and the t-shirt, clubbed with a snazzy watch with a golden strap and a thick gold chain around his neck were blatant hints. I reconfirmed it by glancing at the airline tags still un-removed on his lap-top bag.

His wife had similar status and his two daughters were probably American born confused desis. Nice family. Anyway the man had a huge heart. That’s for sure. He fumbled with his wallet and took out a hundred rupee note.

The visually challenged man was slowly moving forward, coming closer to us, step by step. When he reached near, the NRI “Huge heart” slipped the money into his palm. Deftly.

The visually challenged man felt the note, held it wrapped in his fist for a split second and instinctively returned it. Firmly. It was obvious that the visually impaired man didn't want money that he didn't earn.

Looks like he was content with whatever he made, by selling his rattles.

The NRI “Huge heart” looked disappointed. He meant well. His intentions were good. He wanted to do his bit to help.

But the visually challenged man, with his dignity, he made me see.

In that single moment, I saw hope.

I felt like hugging him.