Indian Railways Anxiety: A Raw Personal Travel Story

“May I have your at-tension, please?”

Indian Railways anxiety isn’t ghosts, breakups, or even unpaid bills — no, it’s a full-body, mind-melting ordeal that hits you the moment you step on a grimy platform. Every breath becomes a carefully calculated exercise: inhale on one, exhale on two.

.My nightmare has a steel frame, a grimy platform, and a whistle that could summon panic faster than any ex ever could. It’s Indian Railways.

The germ-phobia in me doesn’t just wake up here. Instead, it kicks the damn door down. Every breath turns into a carefully calculated exercise: inhale on one, exhale on two. I’ve already sanitised my hands eight times, and I’m perched on the edge of a seat — steel or wood, can’t tell through the grime, though the memory of sanitiser stings my fingertips.

Sweat slides down my temples under Prada sunglasses, useless against the bacteria but essential for dignity. All I want is a waxed, sanitized bath. Meanwhile, I rock myself like a baby, trying not to cry, while waiting for a train that may betray me with the wrong coach. Every whistle, every shuffle of shoes on the platform, sends tiny electric shocks down my spine.

Yes, I did this to myself. I skipped my return flight to Bangalore. Why? Don’t ask why. Mangalore — his voice, those painfully sad dad jokes, the never-ending cries when we meet — that’s the only reason. And yet, here I am, gripping my bag, counting tiles on the platform, obsessing over germs, while my heart refuses to let reason in.

It’s absurd, terrifying, and exactly everything I hate — yet also everything I cannot let go of.