On that scorching summer afternoon in Mukherjee Nagar, destiny brought me face-to-face with Rakesh Kumar.

We were just two of the countless unfamiliar faces gathered in the hall, all fidgety, anxious, and nervously awaiting our turn. This pivotal moment marked the last round of selection for admission to the prestigious Indian Institute of Mass Communication in New Delhi. 

As fate would have it, I arrived a mere 45 minutes late, courtesy of a tardy train from Lucknow, only to discover that my name had already been called. I was instructed to wait until the final candidate completed their interview.

Sitting beside me in that bustling hall, Rakesh and I struck up a conversation. In my attempt to impress, I proudly displayed my collection of newspaper clippings, proclaiming, "I write articles." Impressed by my declaration, he confidently remarked, "Oh, then you are sure to be selected."

Following the interviews, as we met outside the institute, Rakesh introduced me to his friends, who had assembled to provide moral support. 

"He's come all the way from Lucknow," he proudly announced. Our conversation revealed that they hailed from Bihar, drawn to Mukherjee Nagar by the common dream that many young men from modest middle-class families share: to become civil servants. I, on the other hand, disclosed my dilemma about spending the day since my train back home was waitlisted. 

In a gesture of kindness, Rakesh's friends suggested two solutions. The first was to cancel my reserved ticket and travel in the general compartment, which I had reservations about. The second, however, was impossible to resist: staying at their rented accommodation for the afternoon.

"Getting into a general compartment on UP- or Bihar-bound trains is so difficult," I reasoned. "Leave that to us," one of the friends offered. "We will not only get you into the coach but also ensure you travel comfortably."

Together, the five of us boarded a bus for Mukherjee Nagar. Their home, despite the oppressive June heat and humidity, seemed welcoming, with more occupants than usual. The friend who had accompanied me to the IIMC interview suggested I catch up on sleep, reasoning that I wouldn't get much rest on the train. However, I had not eaten since morning, and they had prepared a delicious meal of egg curry with rice, generously sharing it with me.

After the satisfying meal, I dozed off, but it was a deep, sound slumber. I could hear their conversation, which revolved around me. "He will be a great journalist one day," my IIMC mate predicted.

At 6 p.m., they woke me up and served tea. Seven of them decided to accompany me to the railway station: one to cancel my ticket, another to secure a general ticket, and the rest to ensure I had a peaceful journey. One of them even bought me a packed dinner.

On the train, one of them leaned in and whispered, "We've caused a bit of a ruckus here, shouting some choice words. Now, no one will bother you; they know we are with you." Their actions spoke volumes about their concern for my comfort. When I attempted to reimburse them for the dinner, they dismissively retorted, "Saale, bahut paise hain?" 

I may have forgotten their names, but I can never forget that afternoon of selfless hospitality. It's not every day that strangers in Delhi go out of their way to serve you. 

I sincerely hope that they come across this account, wherever they may be, and realize that I have not been ungrateful.        

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