Good Night,Thane

Sometimes, it isn’t the place or even the people that pull you back, it’s a memory. A feeling you have lived once and quietly wish to experience again.

That Sunday evening, I found myself drawn by one such memory—which I was about to cancel.

A close friend of mine lives in Thane, a city adjacent to Mumbai, where every year around January end, the Upvan Festival quietly turns the locality into an evening celebration. Over the years, it had become a ritual for me and my family—visit, spend an evening together with my friend’s family, and drive back home the same night. Then came Covid, and like many small rituals, this one quietly disappeared.

But somehow this year, a solid plan finally took shape. Everyone at home agreed. Just as we were all set to leave, a last-minute family issue changed everything and the plan got cancelled, leaving me with one question—could I go alone?

As I was about to drop the plan, the thought of travelling by local train suddenly clicked. Something I don’t do often, but always enjoy. So I hurried to the nearby station.

Being a Sunday, there was no standing crowd. I stood near the door, watching the city move alongside, then my attention shifted inside the compartment. The handrails hanging from the top—usually held tightly during rush hours—were all free. They swayed gently with the movement of the train, like small swings moving in their own quiet rhythm. For a moment, it felt like they were enjoying a rare freedom.

Such a small part of the train, easy to overlook. Yet,they help hold everything together.

Just then, my phone rang. It was my friend. He said he was taking his mother to the doctor and would be delayed by about 30 minutes. I said it was fine. Thirty minutes I can easily manage, I thought.

I reached Thane station and walked around for a while, taking a slow round without any real purpose. Instead of taking a direct auto to venue, I got into a shared one—more to spend time than to reach quickly. I was simply passing time… until the evening could begin properly.

The first thirty minutes passed easily. I reached the festival and felt I had timed it well.

He should be here soon, I thought.

But another thirty minutes went by.

In a place full of people, I suddenly felt… alone.

The evening had already started. Music, lights, crowd—everything was happening. But I found myself looking repeatedly toward the entrance, checking my phone without reason, waiting for my friend to join. My mind stayed fixed on one thought—when will he come?

I thought of calling him or sending a message. But he had gone for medical emergency . It didn’t feel right to disturb him.

So I stood there trying to pass time, yet unable to enjoy anything. For a moment, I even wondered why I had come at all.

In the middle of that restlessness, my attention shifted to a small child nearby. He was pulling his mother’s hand toward a balloon vendor nearby. When his mother refused, he began to cry.

Watching him for a moment, a quiet thought surfaced.

He was crying for a balloon.

And I had been standing there, isolated , waiting for someone.

For a moment, the similarity felt strangely uncomfortable. The boy was crying for something that wasn’t there.
And I had been waiting for someone who wasn’t there either.

The festival was right in front of me. The vibrant evening had already begun. Yet I had kept myself outside it.

Somewhere in that thought, I realised I had been so caught up with who wasn’t there… that I had completely ignored who was.

Myself.

I don’t know what shifted in that moment, but something softened inside me.I stopped looking at the entrance.

As I looked around again, my eyes settled on a small exhibition nearby where a few artists were painting Shivaji Maharaj. This time, I didn’t just glance—I stayed.

Not because anything had changed around me, but because I was no longer waiting for the evening to start.

I started moving from one stall to another , no longer trying to pass time but genuinely enjoying it. I found myself smiling, talking softly to myself as if I wasn’t alone at all.

It felt like I had quietly taken myself on a date… with my own company.

In the mean time, somewhere in the crowd, I noticed two colleagues from office. They were laughing, completely absorbed in their own conversation. For a moment, it felt easy—I could just walk up and join them.

But I stopped.

Not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t feel the need to.

Before they could notice me, I quietly turned and walked in opposite direction.

After spending nearly two hours, I slowly made my way back. The crowd had thinned a little, the lights still glowing as if the evening didn’t want to end just yet.

By the time I reached the Thane station and boarded the return train, there was a quiet sense of ease I hadn’t expected when I had started.

The station was crowded now.

I boarded the train, held the handrail, and stood near the door. As the train began to move, I watched the Thane city—its streets and lights slowly melting into the night—and almost unconsciously said—

“Good Night, Thane… for a beautiful evening.”

As I enjoyed watching the city night standing near the door, with the cool night breeze touching my face, I hardly noticed when my station arrived. As I stepped off the train, my attention shifted once again to the same handrails that had supported me through the journey. This time, I noticed them differently. I smiled to myself and silently thanked them too.

By the time I reached home, the evening had already settled inside me. My phone showed a message from my friend. He apologised—his mother had to be admitted to the hospital immediately. I paused for a moment, read it, and sent a quick reply: “Hope everything is okay. Take care.” Then I put the phone aside. The evening had already found its place.

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