The train platform in Delhi was its usual orchestra of chaos—hawkers shouting, tannoys stuttering names of distant cities, the metallic clang of wheels, the stink of hot food and warm metal. Nikhil walked through it like a man out of time, unbothered. A duffel bag hung from one shoulder, its strap slipping slightly with every step. A guitar case peeked out from it, a notebook tucked beside. Headphones circled his neck, silent now, but still somehow part of him. He watched people, not to judge or interact—just to notice.
In the AC coach, cool air met warmth and movement. Niharika stepped in, sleek and composed in a navy-blue pantsuit, wheeling her compact luggage behind her like a well-behaved child. Her eyes scanned the numbered seats with practiced precision. Seat 22W. Window.
But someone was already there.
A man. Scruffy, too relaxed, legs stretched, watching the blur of the world through glass. He had the stillness of someone who’d made peace with delay.
“Excuse me. That’s my seat.”
He glanced at her, pulled off one headphone. Smiled—not the annoying kind, but annoyingly calm.
“Oh. I’m 24W. Yours is 22W, right? Both window seats. Same view. Does it matter?”
“It’s not about the view. It’s about what’s assigned. You’re in the wrong seat.”
“Technically, yes. Philosophically?” He shrugged. “Just two people watching the same world go by.”
She didn’t smile. “I’d like to sit in my seat. Please.”
He stood with mock formality, bowing slightly. “As you command, madam rulebook.”
She sat, jaw tight. He slid over, unbothered.
They rode in silence, side by side. She typed on her laptop, fingers flying. He scribbled in his notebook, humming softly, rhythmically.
She glanced sideways. “Are you going to keep humming?”
“It’s not humming. It’s composing.”
“Of course. Because everyone composes on trains.”
“Best place for it. People, movement, noise… emotion.”
She sighed. “Some of us are trying to work.”
He looked at her, curious. “Some of us are trying to feel.”
She let out an involuntary chuckle, short and dry. He took that as permission.
At lunch, they both received identical trays. Pale paneer, two rotis, lukewarm dal.
“I always wonder who decides these railway menus,” Nikhil said. “Like… did someone taste this paneer and go, ‘Yes. This will unite the nation.’”
She tried not to laugh. Failed a little. “It’s edible. That’s more than I can say for airplane food.”
“You travel a lot?”
“Back and forth. My fiancé lives in Mumbai. We’re setting up a home.”
“Ah. The domestic dream.”
“And you?”
“Break-up. She cheated. Going to end it… properly.”
She paused, looked at him differently. “You don’t sound angry.”
“What’s the point?” he said. “Some endings are releases. You just don’t know it at the time.”
She nodded, quietly. Something flickered across her face—recognition, maybe.
Later, as evening light flooded the compartment, he strummed his travel guitar gently. The notes were familiar.
“Kishore Kumar?” she asked.
He smiled. “You know it?”
“My dad used to sing it in the shower. I used to hate it.”
“And now?”
She listened for a moment, softened. “Now… I miss it.”
“Funny how songs become people, isn’t it?”
The train hummed into night. Most passengers slept. The world outside was black and unknowable. Inside, the gentle rhythm of steel on steel.
“You seem too easygoing for someone who just had their heart broken,” she said.
“I think music absorbs the pain before I have to.”
“So what, you’re not sad?”
“I am. But sometimes sadness needs music, not logic.”
She stared ahead, quiet. “I keep thinking… what if I’m mistaking comfort for love?”
He didn’t look at her when he replied. “Or safety for connection?”
She watched him now, really watched. Through the dark, his calm was no longer frustrating. It was magnetic.
She shut her eyes, but her ears strained for his humming.
By morning, they sat in a silence that had transformed—no longer awkward, but ripe with something unnamed.
“So, what happens now?” she asked.
“You meet him. I say goodbye to her.”
“And this—whatever this was—becomes a story we don’t tell anyone?”
“Unless,” he said, “we choose a different ending.”
She blinked. “What would that look like?”
“We get off this train. Not for the past. Not for the future. Just… because it feels like the truest thing right now.”
She laughed once, nervously. “That’s crazy.”
“And yet…”
The train slowed at a nameless, early-morning station. He stood, swung the bag over his shoulder, guitar in hand.
“There’s always another train to Mumbai,” he said. “There might not be another moment like this.”
Her phone buzzed. A message from her fiancé: “Can’t wait to see you. Big day tomorrow.”
She looked up.
He was waiting by the door, hand outstretched.
“One wrong train. One right window.”
For a second, the world held its breath.
She stood.
They stepped off together onto the quiet platform. The train rolled away behind them, a steel goodbye.
“What now?” she asked, wind in her hair.
“Now?” He smiled. “We walk. See where the road takes us.”
They did. Towards dawn, and away from everything else.
Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2025. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used
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