Part One — The Third Row
By Saurabh Kumar Dey
I should probably tell you the story doesn’t start with a girl.
Everyone assumes it does. I assumed it too, for a while, because the girl part is louder, and pain is loud, and loud things are easier to blame. But if I’m honest with you — and I’m going to try to be, even in the places where honesty makes me look small — this story starts on a plastic chair in the third row at an Independence Day function at BLW, years before either of the women who broke me had a name.
I was sitting where I wasn’t supposed to sit. The first two rows were reserved for “officers.” I was in the third. A man came and told me to move.
“There aren’t even that many officers to fill two whole rows,” I said, because I was a child with more mouth than sense.
“Keep sitting,” he said. “I’ll call the RPF and they’ll remove you.”
I remember thinking — with the total, humiliating clarity that only a child gets — that the Railway Protection Force sounded, in that moment, less like protection and more like gundas. Somebody’s hired muscle for a folding chair.
Here’s the part I didn’t tell anyone for years: I come from an officer family myself. My father’s post could have gotten me back into that row in about four seconds. A man on that same organizing committee actually walked over, found out whose son I was, and told the first man to let me sit. Problem solved. Chair reclaimed.
Except it wasn’t solved. Because for the rest of that event, something in me was quietly detonating. Who am I without my father’s name attached to me? And underneath that, a worse question: who are these officers, exactly? Not gods. Not devi devatas. Public servants. People who, every Independence Day, every Republic Day, stand up and take an oath to serve with honesty and loyalty — and then spend the rest of the year deciding who’s allowed to sit in the first two rows.
We respect the post, not the person. That person exists because of the post they hold — a post they probably got, in this country, by licking someone else’s boots, not because they were worthy or capable of it. I know how that sounds. I was a child forming an opinion about institutional India from a folding chair, and I’ve never fully talked myself out of that opinion since.
Here is the thing nobody tells you about a moment like that: it doesn’t stay a memory. It becomes a lens. For years afterward, I couldn’t watch anyone defer to a title — a rank, a surname, a designation stitched onto a uniform — without some old, stubborn part of me quietly asking the same question I’d asked at nine or ten years old on that chair. What did this person actually do to deserve the way you’re looking at them right now? Most of the time, the honest answer was nothing. They inherited the deference the way I’d nearly inherited my seat — not through anything they’d built, but through proximity to something that had already been built for them.
I want you to hold onto that boy on the plastic chair, because he shows up again. Years later, holding a confirmed 2AC window ticket, he’ll get told by a ticket examiner — a man who’d just taken twenty-five thousand rupees under the table to hand two genuinely vacant 2AC seats to someone else — “teri aukat hai 2AC mein travel karne ki?” Do you even have the status to travel 2AC?
My father, hearing about it, made a call to a Divisional Railway Manager he happened to know through a contact of a contact — the ordinary, unglamorous machinery of Indian influence, tail-pani, nothing more dramatic than that. And somehow, by the time that same TTE reached my seat, word had already spread through the train that someone connected to the DRM’s office was on board. He treated me, for the rest of that journey, like royalty. When he finally understood who I actually was and tried to apologize, all I said was something like come to Banaras, I’ll show you whose status is whose — and he got off at the very next station.
My father isn’t a DRM, by the way. He just knows someone who knows a DRM. That’s the whole machinery: not power, just proximity to power, laundered through favors and tail-pani. And the man who’d told me I didn’t have the aukat to sit in a seat I’d legitimately paid for left the train the second he learned who I might be connected to. Which means, if you follow that logic all the way through, that I was never actually anyone at all. I was a name attached to a name attached to a favor.
I think about that train ride more than almost anything else in this book, actually, because it’s the cleanest demonstration I have of a lesson that took me another decade to apply to my own relationships: people will treat you exactly as well as they believe your position requires them to, and not one inch better, unless something in them chooses generosity on its own terms. The TTE didn’t discover I was a good person somewhere on that platform. He discovered a rumor about my father. My worth, in his eyes, never moved. Only his estimate of the consequences did.
You’re going to meet this pattern again and again in this book, wearing different clothes: the gap between what someone actually is and what people decide to treat them as, based on nothing but a name, a rumor, a ticket class, a title. I built an entire nervous system around noticing that gap. And — this took me a humiliatingly long time to understand — I also built my entire self-worth on the wrong side of it. I spent years needing to be treated as valuable by people who had already decided, quietly, that I wasn’t, and mistaking the sudden change in their behavior for a change in how they actually saw me.
We’ll get there. First, you need the rest of the wreckage.
