Lost & Found at Platform No. Zero Short Story
Genre: Comedy | Sarcasm | Drama | Life Lessons
Dead Phone & Dead Hopes]
Rhea sat heavily on the iron bench, dumping her overstuffed backpack with a thud. Sweat clung to her neck, her hair stuck to her forehead, and her phone? Of course—2% battery. Classic.
Her cameraman, Rahul, dropped his tripod beside her, stretching his arms.
“Well,” he said, wiping his forehead, “another award-winning documentary on nothingness.”
Rhea groaned, rubbing her eyes.
“I can already hear my boss yelling. ‘Where’s the story, Rhea? Where’s the emotion? Where’s the viral?’” She mimicked in a fake deep voice, then slumped back, sighing.
“This town’s drier than my love life.”
Rahul chuckled. “You need chai. Stat.”
They looked around. One tiny chai stall stood in the far corner. A lanky teenager waved from behind it.
“Bhaiya, do cutting!” Rahul called.
Rhea shook her head.
“Two days here, Rahul. I’ve interviewed exactly one goat and three uncles who only talk about their joint pain. Even the goats had better stories.”
[ The Man with the Whistle]
Just then, a loud whistle pierced the quiet. An old man in uniform, probably in his 60s, walked onto the platform, hands behind his back, chewing paan like it was a full-time job.
His name tag read: Sharma Ji – Ticket Collector.
He eyed them with amusement and sat two benches down.
“Another influencer documentary?” he asked, a smirk creeping into his voice.
“Let me guess… ‘Untold India’? ‘Voices of the Soil’? ‘Train of Emotions’?”
Rhea blinked. “Um… ‘Real India, Raw Hearts.’”
Then she added under her breath, “which is now officially a disaster.“
Sharma Ji chuckled.
“You city kids run on battery and burnout. You think stories only come with sobbing violins and dramatic drone shots. But sometimes… the real ones sit quietly on Platform No. Zero.”
Rhea looked up, curious.
“You mean this platform?”
Sharma Ji nodded, spitting his paan expertly into the corner.
“There was a boy. Aman. Around 25. Showed up every evening at 5 PM sharp. Sat right there” — he pointed to the cracked bench across — “with a radio and a tiffin box. Didn’t speak much. Just… waited.”
“For what?” Rahul asked, intrigued.
Sharma Ji’s eyes softened.
“For a girl who never came.”
[ The Past on Platform 0]
Sharma Ji leaned forward, lowering his voice like he was telling a secret.
“Aman was supposed to get married. They’d run away, catch the train from here. But she didn’t show. He came anyway. Every day. For a year.”
Rhea blinked, stunned.
“He waited… every day?”
Sharma Ji nodded.
“Even on Sundays. Same time, same place. He said, ‘A promise is a promise.’ The town called him mad. I called him brave.”
Rahul:
“Where is he now?”
Sharma Ji smiled faintly and pulled out a crumpled chit from his shirt pocket.
“One day, he just stopped coming. But before he left, he gave me this. Said, ‘If someone ever wants to tell my story, give them this address.’“
He handed the paper to Rhea, who took it like it was a treasure map.
[Shift in the Air]
For the first time in days, Rhea’s eyes lit up. Her voice had energy again.
“Rahul, pack up. We’re going.”
Rahul looked surprised. What ! “Now?”
Rhea:
“Yeah. Trains can wait. This story can’t.”
Sharma Ji, grinning wide now, stood up.
“Good. Go. Find your story. Who knows? You might find yourself too.”
Just then, Chintu the chaiwala appeared, holding two paper cups.
“Didi! Interview mila kya?”
Rhea took the chai, smiling.
“Not yet. But I found something better. A reason to keep going.”
Rahul, watching her with quiet admiration, grabbed the camera.
“You look different. Like… hopeful.”
Rhea turned and smirked.
“Hope’s underrated, Rahul. Let’s catch this train before it disappears again.”
🎭 Life Lesson:
Sometimes you don’t find the story you came for. You find the one you needed. On forgotten platforms. In faded voices. From people the world stopped noticing. Life doesn’t always give you the answers. But it gives you signs. All you have to do… is notice.