The Man at Platform Nine
They called him many names — the Mad Scholar, Platform Saint. To most, he was just a fixture of the old railway station, like the rusted benches or flickering bulbs. I heard about him during my brief work trip — tales whispered over tea stalls and smoke breaks. They said he had once been a brilliant physicist, a researcher with papers published and awards won, until something snapped. He abandoned everything — academia, family, even his name — and made the railway his home.
Every evening, he washed a single set of clothes in a dented, scorched tumbler under the workers’ open tap. He spoke to the wind in sharp bursts of equations and theories, as if lecturing the trains that howled past him.
Curiosity got the better of me. That evening, I dragged my friend Grover to the station.
We found him easily, crouched near the tap on Platform Nine. His beard flowed like a tangled river, his hair wild, eyes glassy yet alert. He wore nothing but old trousers, his back curved like a question mark as he scrubbed fabric with fervor. Suds foamed between his fingers as he muttered words like “entropy,” “Higgs,” and “quarks,” tossing them into the dusk.
He noticed us. Stopped. Silent.
Grover, half-joking, asked, “What is the definition of God?”
The man stared, face unreadable. Then, unexpectedly, he covered his face with soapy hands. Held them there. Slowly spread his fingers. Peek-a-boo.
He repeated it — cover, uncover. Then, without a word, returned to his scrubbing.
We stood there, puzzled. Grover shrugged. “He’s mad,” he whispered, disappointed.
But something about him held me back as we turned to leave. I placed a hand on Grover’s arm and walked toward the man. He didn’t look up.
“What is life?” I asked softly.
This time, he rose. Slowly. He looked into my eyes with an intensity that made time feel like it had paused. Then, without a word, he bent down, scooped a handful of foamy water, and gently blew into it.
Bubbles floated up.
Dozens of them — iridescent orbs catching the light, some fat and wobbly, others tiny and quick. They rose, drifted, shimmered, and popped — some instantly, some lingering.
I watched in silence.
He watched me watch them.
Then he sat back down and turned his attention to his clothes again.
Grover tugged at me. “Let’s go, man.”
But I couldn’t stop looking at those bubbles. One last large one floated up, hesitated in the warm light of the platform, then burst without sound.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I thought of the man. Of bubbles. Of God hiding behind soapy hands.
Maybe he wasn’t mad.
Maybe life is like a bubble — born of breath, fragile, unique for a fleeting moment, then gone. Some short-lived, some floating longer. The air inside — the same. Only a thin film separates us. And when the film breaks, we return to what we always were.
Connected. Dispersed. Free.
And perhaps God, like the man on the platform, plays peek-a-boo — revealing glimpses, then hiding again, laughing at our confusion, waiting for us to understand the game.
I never saw the man again. But every time I see a bubble, I remember that stare. That silence.
And I wonder.
Was he mad?
Or did he just see more than the rest of us could bear?
Every evening, he washed a single set of clothes in a dented, scorched tumbler under the workers’ open tap. He spoke to the wind in sharp bursts of equations and theories, as if lecturing the trains that howled past him.
Curiosity got the better of me. That evening, I dragged my friend Grover to the station.
We found him easily, crouched near the tap on Platform Nine. His beard flowed like a tangled river, his hair wild, eyes glassy yet alert. He wore nothing but old trousers, his back curved like a question mark as he scrubbed fabric with fervor. Suds foamed between his fingers as he muttered words like “entropy,” “Higgs,” and “quarks,” tossing them into the dusk.
He noticed us. Stopped. Silent.
Grover, half-joking, asked, “What is the definition of God?”
The man stared, face unreadable. Then, unexpectedly, he covered his face with soapy hands. Held them there. Slowly spread his fingers. Peek-a-boo.
He repeated it — cover, uncover. Then, without a word, returned to his scrubbing.
We stood there, puzzled. Grover shrugged. “He’s mad,” he whispered, disappointed.
But something about him held me back as we turned to leave. I placed a hand on Grover’s arm and walked toward the man. He didn’t look up.
“What is life?” I asked softly.
This time, he rose. Slowly. He looked into my eyes with an intensity that made time feel like it had paused. Then, without a word, he bent down, scooped a handful of foamy water, and gently blew into it.
Bubbles floated up.
Dozens of them — iridescent orbs catching the light, some fat and wobbly, others tiny and quick. They rose, drifted, shimmered, and popped — some instantly, some lingering.
I watched in silence.
He watched me watch them.
Then he sat back down and turned his attention to his clothes again.
Grover tugged at me. “Let’s go, man.”
But I couldn’t stop looking at those bubbles. One last large one floated up, hesitated in the warm light of the platform, then burst without sound.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I thought of the man. Of bubbles. Of God hiding behind soapy hands.
Maybe he wasn’t mad.
Maybe life is like a bubble — born of breath, fragile, unique for a fleeting moment, then gone. Some short-lived, some floating longer. The air inside — the same. Only a thin film separates us. And when the film breaks, we return to what we always were.
Connected. Dispersed. Free.
And perhaps God, like the man on the platform, plays peek-a-boo — revealing glimpses, then hiding again, laughing at our confusion, waiting for us to understand the game.
I never saw the man again. But every time I see a bubble, I remember that stare. That silence.
And I wonder.
Was he mad?
Or did he just see more than the rest of us could bear?
