Chai Garam, Chaii…

A Story of Steam, Struggle, and Silence

Platform 7, Sealdah Station. 4:40 AM

Before the first light touched the city, Meghu was already awake. The rest of Kolkata still slept, but not the railway station—not Meghu’s world. The tannoy speakers still crackled from the night before. A distant goods train rattled through line 5, its horn a lonely echo in the dark.

Meghu, a thin boy with sharp features, dust-covered slippers, and a kettle full of dreams, squatted behind an abandoned IRCTC vendor stall near Coach Position Marker B. He coaxed a blue flame from a kerosene stove propped up with bricks. His hands moved like clockwork—crushing ginger, pouring milk, measuring loose-leaf Assam tea with instinct, stirring a brew stronger than most lives around him.

And then, every few minutes, his voice rang through the mist:

Cha g-a-r-a-m! Chaaiii… special malai cha!

It was a sound more reliable than the 12314 Sealdah Rajdhani's arrival bell.
A sing-song ritual that sliced through the sleepy eyes of passengers, TTEs scribbling in logbooks, and coolies stretching beside their canvas carts, waiting for the next arrival.

Just past the outer fence of Sealdah station—near the siding tracks where disused carriages rusted under tarpaulins—stood a row of makeshift homes. In one of them lived Meghu with his mother and little sister, Mishti. Their home, built from wooden planks, biscuit tins, and stitched blue tarpaulin, leaned against a concrete wall that bore faded railway graffiti and posters of last year's Durga Puja.

Their father was long gone—some said he left for Gujarat to find work at the Sabarmati yard. Others whispered he drank himself into one of the rail gutters near Shalimar. Either way, the weight of survival fell squarely on Meghu’s shoulders.

Every coin he earned from that steaming kettle went into medicine for Ma, who coughed blood at night, or pencils and rubber erasers for Mishti.

Now Meghu was the man of the house.

Ma had asthma. Mishti had dreams. Meghu had responsibility.

He’d rise before dawn, fetch milk on credit from Ganesh-da’s stall near the Level Crossing Gate No. 4, and be on the platform with the first Howrah–Barddhaman EMU local pulling in at 5:02 AM.

His chai wasn’t fancy. But it had fire in it—like him.

The station was changing fast.

Old wooden departure boards had been replaced by LED indicators. The announcer’s voice was now automated. CCTVs blinked coldly where old guards once sat chewing pan and humming Rabindra Sangeet. The old chaiwalla with his aluminium kettle was now being nudged out by IRCTC kiosks and vending machines selling overpriced green tea sachets.

But not Meghu.

He still walked coach to coach—his tray loaded with six steel glasses and a battered thermos—dodging rolling luggage, grumbling ticket inspectors, and sleepy soldiers headed to Siliguri.

The regulars knew him:

“Dada, ekta jore cha dao… dudh kom, pran beshi.”
(“Brother, one strong tea—less milk, more soul.”) > “Meghu, tor cha toh train-er horner thekeo beshi jagai!”
(“Meghu, your chai wakes me better than the train horn!”)

He’d grin, pour with flair from high above like the street vendors of Gariahat, and move on before the next signal turned from amber to green.

That Friday, a political bandh had paralyzed half the city. Metro services were down. Buses stayed off roads. But Sealdah station—the artery of Bengal—kept breathing.

The platforms were packed to the edge. The 13149 Kanchan Kanya Express was late. Tensions simmered.

Then came the spark.

A shout.
“Bomb!”
Another voice—“Churi niye ghurchhe re!” (“He’s carrying a knife!”)

Panic broke like a cracked axle.

Crowds surged toward the footbridge. The announcement system shut down mid-sentence. Steel trolleys overturned. Tea kettles clanged. Bags burst open, spilling apples, books, slippers.

Meghu, trapped at the base of the footbridge near the Ladies Waiting Room, clutched his tray and tried to back away. But the crowd surged down like a wave.

• The tray flew.
• The kettle spilled boiling chai.
• A leather boot slammed onto his wrist.
• Then another.
• Then silence.

The Sealdah Medical College was overwhelmed that day.

Dozens injured. A few dead. Meghu was among the broken.

The doctors were cold but quick:

“Both hands crushed. Amputation necessary. Inform next of kin.”

No stall license. No vendor registration. No IRCTC ID.
No proof Meghu had ever worked at all.

Just another body wheeled into the trauma ward. Another form filled, another number tagged.

The boy with the kettle was now just a file.

Today, Meghu sits quietly near Pillar No. 18 on Platform 7, under the rusted loudspeaker that still occasionally croaks a wrong train number.

A dented steel bowl rests near his crossed legs. His sleeves are folded and empty.

Coins clink. Sometimes a half-eaten banana. Sometimes a stale puri. Sometimes just silence.

Old friends still stop by—Ratan the coolie, Salim the book-seller, and the same GRP constable who once shooed him off.

“Are Meghu, ek cup cha de! Eto din pore elam!”
(“Hey Meghu, give me a cup of tea! Been a while since I came by!”)

He laughs.
Short. Dry. Familiar.
Like train brakes on a winter morning.

Then he looks away—watching the 13105 Sealdah–Ballia Express roll in, wondering if someone onboard might still remember his chai.

Still, some say if you stand near Platform 7 on a misty morning—right as the first EMU rattles in, its air brakes hissing like memory—
you’ll hear it.

“Cha garam… chaaiii…”

Not from a vending machine.
But from the past.
From a boy who once poured warmth into steel cups, with his hands.
And with his heart.