From Outer Signal to Wedding Hall: A Trichy Tale at Dawn

A couple of years ago, I received an invitation from my boss to attend his daughter’s wedding in Tiruchirapalli. The muhurtham was at 6.30 am, that special hour when only saints and milk vendors are fully awake.

After weighing my options, I chose the overnight train that would reach Trichy around 4 am. The plan was simple:
Attend the wedding till 8.30–9 am → visit our family deity’s temple 15 km away → return to Bangalore by the 8 pm train.

To ensure this clockwork plan didn’t go off-track, I booked my onward and return tickets in 3-tier AC and even arranged day accommodation through IRCTC. Everything was neatly tied up, the sort of planning that would have impressed even the most demanding project manager.

I boarded the train at Bengaluru City Station at 7.20 pm. It rolled in 30 minutes late, but regulars assured me the train would “make-up” the delay, a phrase only true optimists and Indian Railways loyalists use. Since I secretly wouldn’t have minded a bit of extra sleep, I didn’t complain.

Being a veteran late-sleeper, I scrolled on my mobile till 12.30 am before calling it a night. I set an alarm for 3.55 am, but my internal travel clock woke me at 3.45 am.  My berth,  the famous Lower Berth No.1,  was right next to the toilet, which meant I had front-row view to all nocturnal movements with the associated sounds, that could have been the other reason for beating the alarm. The train was still moving.

Around 4.15 am, the train halted. Two passengers were whispering nearby and told me we were waiting at the “outer”, that limbo land where trains wait for a signal before entering the station. Some were even debating getting down right there.  It was pretty dark outside and I didn't buy that idea.

Since the train normally stops for 10 minutes at Tiruchirapalli, I decided I would simply jump off quickly once we arrived. But three hours of sleep and the stillness at the outer came together to ambush me. My eyes closed without seeking my permission.

When I opened them… the train was moving.
Time: 4.30 am.
Outside: lights that looked suspiciously like a town.
Inside: no trace of the earlier voices.

For a whole minute, I convinced myself that these passengers had actually got down at the outer. Then I checked the GPS : 1.4 km to Trichy. Good, I thought, the train was making up the lost time.

But then the outside lights began thinning out.  GPS now showed 4.5 km away from Trichy.

The horrible truth dawned on me: I had missed my stop.  By the exact few minutes I had closed my eyes.

My heartbeat was now keeping pace with the accelerating train. I desperately needed to know where the next stop was. Just then, a passenger emerged from the loo. He confirmed my worst fear, yes, we had already crossed Trichy, and no, the train hadn’t stopped for the usual 10 minutes. It had halted barely for five.

Determined not to repeat my mistake, I stationed myself near the door, with no idea how far the next halt was or how long it would take to get there.  Seven or eight minutes crawled by, each feeling longer than the entire journey from Bangalore.  The train finally stopped at Thiruverumbur, 13.5 km from where I should have been.

Only two of us got down, and the train immediately took off again.

A new worry now dawned on me: I had technically travelled ticketless from Tiruchirapalli to here. And having dealt with many rule-abiding Tamilians, I was already imagining worst-case scenarios involving fines and explanations in crisp Tamil by a stern ticket collector.  Thankfully, none of that happened.

The other passenger guided me through a narrow path from the “wrong side” of the station to reach the highway. It began as a ten-minute stroll through bushes, eventually opening into a slightly better village road. But at that unearthly hour, my real fear was not the terrain, it was the street dogs.

My heart was firmly in my mouth as I approached a couple of them. For some reason, dogs usually find me far more interesting than necessary, perhaps thanks to my white beard, which must look like an invitation to investigate. But for a change, these two backed away the moment they saw me, maybe they were just as startled to see a stranger wandering about before sunrise.

It was past 5 a.m., and Ola/Uber may as well have been mythological creatures, nowhere close to operational. After a 30-minute wait filled with hopeful refreshing of the app, I finally boarded a bus heading back.

By 5.45 am, I was rolling towards Trichy.
By 6.30 am, I reached my IRCTC hotel.
By 6.45 am, I had showered and dressed.
And by 7 am, after a journey involving missed stations, dark pathways, GPS panic, and an unscheduled 13.5 km detour, I walked into Courtyard by Marriott, the venue.

Only 30 minutes late.  And I counted my blessings. The next station where the train would have halted could easily have been another 40 kilometres away instead of just 13.5. In that case, I would have definitely missed the muhurtham, yet here I was, still finding something to feel grateful about. Doesn’t that demonstrate what a dyed-in-the-wool optimist I am, always searching for a silver lining?

A perfectly planned journey is only as reliable as your eyelids at 4 am.



Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.

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