That evening, the monsoon rains beat a steady rhythm on the corrugated roofs of the city’s busiest railway station. Flickering fluorescent lights cast long shadows across the empty platforms, and the air smelled of wet earth and diesel. Rishi, a fifteen-year-old boy with wire-rimmed glasses and a backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder, stood beneath a concrete pillar on Platform 3, waiting for his late-night train home. He was tired after a long day of classes and tuition, and his phone battery was threatening to die. Spotting a charging outlet nearby, he slipped behind the pillar to plug in his phone—and to carve out a quiet spot where he could scroll through messages before boarding.
No sooner had he settled than he noticed, half-hidden by the pillar’s edge, a man talking softly on his mobile phone. The man was in his early thirties, dressed in a rumpled kurta and jeans, and clutching a battered leather bag. Rishi tuned out the station announcements and the distant chatter of other passengers. He leaned forward, curious despite himself.
“Trust me,” the man whispered, his voice taut. “I’ve made up my mind. No one will even notice if I’m gone. It ends tonight.”
Rishi’s breath caught in his throat. The man sounded hollow, weary—defeated. He glanced at his own phone screen, the tiny battery icon flashing red, signaling imminent shutdown. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a quiet voice asked: Should he intervene? But his fear of overreacting—to what he assumed might be a bout of self-pity—kept him rooted in place.
The man continued: “Tell them I’m sorry. I don’t want to be found. I’m on Platform 4. After the last train leaves, I won’t be here.”
Rishi felt a knot in his stomach tighten. A voice on Platform 4, a farewell… He shut off his phone’s screen and listened harder. The man’s words were punctuated by long sighs, as if each breath might be his last. Rishi’s heart pounded. He knew those words: they were a suicide note delivered aloud. He looked at the glowing station clock: 8:17 PM. His train departed at 8:40. He had twenty-three minutes to decide.
For a moment, doubt mingled with fear. What if this was just a dramatic rant, a momentary lapse? What if the man was joking? Yet something in the tremor of the man’s voice told Rishi otherwise. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.
He stepped forward, pressing his back flat against the pillar. Gathering courage, he muttered to himself, “I can’t just stand here.” He would become the boy who stood by and watched. He couldn’t let that happen.
Rishi edged around the pillar and broke into a brisk walk toward Platform 4. He passed duty-bound porters, couples arguing in hushed tones, and vendors winding down their stalls. Each second felt like a small eternity. Approaching Platform 4, he slowed, scanning the shadows beneath the overhead shed. Chairs lay overturned, stray tickets fluttered on the floor, and water dripped from the roof where a tile had cracked.
His eyes flicked to a man seated on a low bench, head bowed, one hand clutching a phone to his ear. Rishi froze. That was him—no mistaking the rumpled kurta and the leather bag slung at his feet. The man’s voice was barely audible: “I’m tired. So tired.”
Rishi swallowed. He walked up and cleared his throat. The man didn’t look up. “Excuse me,” Rishi said gently. His voice cracked. “I, uh… I couldn’t help overhearing. I’m sorry.”
The man’s gaze snapped up. For a moment, his eyes were blank pools. Then recognition—and fear—flickered there. “Who are you?” he asked, anger and vulnerability colliding in his tone.
“I’m Rishi,” the boy replied, swallowing another wave of panic. “You said you… you didn’t want to be found. I’m here. I heard you.”
The man shook his head. “You shouldn’t have listened. You’re just a kid. Get away.”
Rishi reached into his pocket and pulled out a small packet of chewing gum—his only prop. He snapped it open and offered it, his hand trembling slightly. “Here,” he said. “Take this. I… I don’t know what to say, but I care.”
The man stared at the gum as if it were a gift from another world. He hesitated, then took it, unwrapping it with a trembling hand. He pressed it to his tongue, and for a moment, he sat in silence, chewing. Rishi shuffled his feet, unsure what to do next.
Finally, the man spoke, his voice a harsh whisper. “I lost my job last month. My family doesn’t know. I haven’t eaten properly in days. I can’t face them. I thought… maybe I could end it all here.”
Rishi listened, his own despair melting into empathy. The station lights cast a pale glow on the man’s hollow cheeks. The boy’s fear subsided enough for him to speak with conviction. “You can’t go through with this. It’s not too late. Please, let me help.”
The man’s shoulders shook. “I’m ashamed,” he choked out. “I’ve failed them.”
Rishi knelt in front of him. “Everyone fails sometimes. But ending your life won’t fix anything. You deserve help.” He looked around, spotting the station’s help desk. “Let’s go talk to someone—anyone. Please.”
The man inhaled shakily, tears brimming in his eyes. Slowly, he rose, clutching his bag. Together, they walked toward the station police kiosk. Rishi felt his pulse pound in his ears, but his resolve held firm.
At the kiosk, two officers looked up from their newspapers. Rishi stammered, “Sir, this man… he was going to hurt himself. Please help him.” The officers exchanged worried glances, but the earnestness in Rishi’s eyes—and the man’s hollow expression—convinced them to act.
They guided the man to a bench and called for medical help. One officer said kindly, “You’re safe now. Thank you, young man, for speaking up.”
Rishi felt a surge of relief wash over him. As an ambulance’s wailing siren drew near, he realized his own train was long gone. But he didn’t care. He had done the right thing.
---
That night, Rishi didn’t get home until well past midnight. His mother scolded him lightly but then paused when she saw the exhaustion—and something else—in his eyes. He didn’t mention the man at the station. Instead, he said, “I helped someone tonight, Ma. It felt… important.”
Two days later, Rishi’s phone buzzed with an unknown message:
“Thank you, Rishi. I don’t know how you found me, but you saved my life. I’m getting help now. I’ll never forget you.”
Rishi stared at the screen, a strange warmth blooming in his chest. Outside his window, the first post-monsoon sunshine broke through heavy clouds, painting the sky in hopeful hues. He slipped the phone into his pocket and smiled.
Somewhere in the crowd at Platform 4, a man was given a second chance. And a boy discovered that courage, even in small doses, can save a life.
React
