I made a promise to my father, and I meant to keep it. It wasn’t anything grand—just a suit jacket—but to him, it mattered.
My father had spent years dreaming of it, watching my uncle, who often traveled to far-off places on company-paid trips. When he returned from those trips, he always wore a fine suit jacket, carrying gifts, and looking like a man of importance.
My father envied that jacket. To him, it was a symbol of status he could never claim, but he hoped one of his children would someday wear one.
Photo by Nick Karvounis on Unsplash
When I left for Sharjah in 1983, he reminded me about the jacket. “When you come home,” he said, “wear it like your uncle.” Those words stayed with me. I knew it wasn’t just about the jacket. It was about dignity, pride, and the fulfillment of a dream he’d long held.
Two years later, as I prepared to return to India, I made sure to honor that wish. I didn’t just buy one jacket—I bought two. A black one, sharp and formal, and a brown three-piece suit, the kind I’d seen in old English novels and admired. I even had them tailored to fit me perfectly. By July 1985, they were ready, and I was sure I’d make him proud.
But in August, everything changed. My father passed away. The news didn’t reach me in time for the funeral, and by the time I found out, it was too late. I rushed home to Bombay, heartbroken and guilt-ridden. The weight of the loss was overwhelming, but amidst the sorrow, I carried the jackets. A promise is a promise, and I was determined to keep mine.
When I visited relatives in Bombay, I wore the jackets, just as I’d planned. The black one, especially, seemed to draw attention. People noticed me. On the streets, in buses, and on the trains, crowds parted to make way for me. Strangers glanced at me with quiet respect, and I thought to myself, The jacket works. This is what my father wanted for me—a touch of importance, a little bit of his dream.
Later, I traveled south to Kerala to visit my paternal relatives. The black jacket stayed on. At the Ernakulam South railway station, I arrived early for my train to Thrissur. It was a humid morning, but I kept the jacket on. I wanted to maintain the dignity it seemed to grant me.
Once I boarded the train, I found my seat—a window seat, solitary, and on its own side of the aisle. I settled in, grateful for the space. As passengers moved up and down the aisle, they gave me a wide berth. Some even paused to ask questions.
“Saarre, when does this train depart?” one man asked. His tone was polite, deferential even. I smiled, surprised by the respect, and replied, “I’m sorry, I don’t know.” He looked annoyed but moved on. Another passenger, an older gentleman outside my window, leaned in and asked, “Are there any empty seats or no-shows in this compartment?”
I frowned. How would I know? “I’m sorry, I don’t know,” I said again. The man’s face darkened with frustration as he walked away. A hawker carrying a basket of baked goods on his head entered my compartment, but when he saw me, he stopped short. He turned around and hurried out, muttering something under his breath. I was perplexed.
The interruptions continued. An older woman paused by my seat and asked, “I have an unreserved ticket. Will this seat become available soon?”
“Not until Thrissur,” I replied. Her lips curled into a sneer, and she walked away, shaking her head. Across the aisle, passengers murmured among themselves, occasionally glancing in my direction. Their expressions ranged from curiosity to annoyance. I couldn’t understand it. Why did they all keep asking me these questions? What was it about me that made them think I had the answers?
When the train finally departed, I was relieved. I opened a book, hoping to enjoy the journey in peace. But even as the train sped through the Kerala countryside, the interruptions didn’t stop. Passengers continued to approach me with questions about the train’s schedule, the availability of seats, and other bits of information I didn’t have. Each time, I answered politely, “I’m sorry, I don’t know.” Each time, they left looking annoyed or disappointed. I began to grow irritated myself. What was going on?
At Aluva, the train paused, and a few more passengers boarded. One of them, a middle-aged man, asked me a question as soon as he saw me. I snapped, “I’m not from here. I don’t know.” He frowned and moved on. Around me, I heard faint chuckles and whispers. I ignored them, burying myself in my book. The sooner this journey ended, the better.
It was during the final leg of the trip, somewhere between Chalakudy and Thrissur, that the truth revealed itself. I was gazing out the window when I noticed a man moving through the aisle. He wore a black jacket, black trousers, and polished black shoes, much like my own outfit. But he also wore a badge. As he walked, he stopped at each seat, examining tickets and stamping them. The sound of his stamp echoed through the compartment.
When he reached my section, I got a clear view of his badge. It read, “Indian Railways.” He was a ticket checker. He looked like me, or rather, I looked like him. Except for the badge and a tie, we were dressed almost identically.
When he reached me, I handed him my ticket. He glanced at it, stamped it, and nodded with a polite smile before moving on. That’s when it hit me. The black jacket wasn’t a symbol of status here. It wasn’t the mark of importance I’d thought it was. It was a uniform. To everyone on the train, I must have looked like a ticket checker. The questions, the respect, the wide berth people gave me—it all made sense now.
Quietly, I unbuttoned the jacket. My cheeks burned with embarrassment as I slipped it off and folded it neatly. I unzipped my bag and slid it inside, trying to appear casual. Around me, I heard snickers—soft at first, then growing louder. I kept my head down and said nothing. The truth stung, but I couldn’t deny it. I’d misread the situation entirely.
As the train neared Thrissur, I reflected on the journey. I’d worn the jacket to fulfill a promise, to carry my father’s dream. And for a while, it had worked. People had noticed me. They’d treated me with respect, even if for the wrong reasons. I’d kept my promise, and that was what mattered. My father would never know about the misunderstanding, but I hoped he would have been proud anyway.
When I finally reached my grandmother’s house, I unpacked the jackets and hung them up carefully. They weren’t just clothing; they were symbols of love, ambition, and a connection to the man who had believed in me. The black jacket might not have made me the man of importance my father had imagined, but it had carried his dream, and for me, that was enough.
