There’s something deeply unsettling about watching cruelty unfold in real time—especially when it’s served with laughter.
It was just another weekday morning. The same 7:00 AM Gede–Sealdah local, the same drowsy faces, and the same familiar rhythm of wheels against tracks. I’ve taken this train so many times I could probably walk the route in my sleep. But that morning? That one shook me.
I was standing by the door, eyes half-glued to the rolling scenery outside. The coach was filled with the usual crowd, mostly middle-aged men in tucked-in shirts, government ID cards swinging from their lanyards. The kind of people you'd expect to speak about rising fuel prices, government schemes, or office politics. The “educated class,” as we call them.
They looked calm, professional, even polite on the surface.
But the surface lies.
Somewhere in the middle of the compartment, I started hearing loud voices. At first, I thought it was just a group of friends cracking jokes. But as I tuned in, something about their tone made me pause. Their laughter was sharp—too sharp. It wasn’t friendly or light-hearted. It had a bite.
Then came the words.
They weren’t speaking about work or politics or even trivial nonsense. They were shouting—mocking, rather—loud enough for the whole coach to hear.
“HOSPITAL! HOSPITAL! HOSPITAL!”
It sounded almost like a chant. I turned and saw them—five or six men, probably in their forties or fifties, laughing as if they had just discovered the funniest joke in the world. At first, I naively thought they were helping—alerting sick passengers that Kalyani Junction was approaching.
But no.
They were mocking the very people getting down at that stop—people who looked tired, fragile, unwell. You could see it on their faces, in the way they clutched their bags, in the tremble in their legs as they stood up to exit. Some looked physically weak, others visibly mentally distressed. I’ve seen them before on this same route—people going to the hospitals in Kalyani, searching for treatment, hope, or just a little peace.
But to these men?
They were punchlines.
Each “HOSPITAL!” shout was followed by roars of laughter. They nudged one another, mimicking bus conductors calling out stops, but with such exaggerated mockery that even a child could tell—it wasn’t kindness. It was cruelty.
And the train just kept moving.
Nobody said a word.
Some passengers gave an awkward smile. Others just buried their faces in their phones, pretending not to notice. A few even chuckled quietly—either in nervousness or in silent agreement.
That silence hit me harder than the mockery.
I stood frozen, heart thumping, not because of fear—but because of shame. Not theirs—mine. Shame that I didn’t speak up. Shame that I wasn’t brave enough to say, “Stop.” Shame that I was surrounded by people who thought this was okay.
And it wasn’t the first time. I’ve seen this group before. I’ve heard them before. Almost every day, this scene plays out like a tragic ritual. Same jokes. Same laughter. Same indifference from the crowd.
As the train slowed near Kalyani, I watched those patients step off, heads low, their backs carrying more than just bags—they carried a kind of silent dignity. A kind of resilience I can’t put into words. And behind them, those men kept laughing.
I kept thinking:
“Is this the world we’ve built?
Is this what education has taught us—to laugh at the sick?
To mock those who are already suffering?”
Where do we draw the line?
What kind of society lets this pass as normal? A society where the educated behave like this in public, without remorse, without correction, and—worst of all—with encouragement?
Is God watching?
Does He see this?
Or maybe, just maybe, He’s waiting.
Waiting for us to watch.
Waiting for us to do something.
Because kindness shouldn’t be a rare act.
It should be the default.
That morning, I didn’t just get off the train—I got off heavy. Heavy with disappointment. Heavy with the realisation that it’s not just the sick who need healing. Our hearts do. Our values do.
And if we keep turning away, laughing along, or worse—doing nothing—we’re part of the problem.
I may not have had the courage to speak up that morning, but I’m writing this now. Because maybe, just maybe, someone reading this will choose to do differently the next time.
To speak.
To care.
To be human.