By the time the train crossed Mathura, evening had already begun its quiet descent.
The golden light outside the window softened into amber. Fields blurred into silhouettes. Smoke from distant village kitchens curled upward like fading memories. Inside the coach, conversations grew calmer, children grew drowsy, and steel tiffin boxes clicked shut one by one.
Rishi sat by the window, watching the sun slowly dissolve behind the horizon.
Only then did he realize something else.
His larger suitcase—the one with spare clothes, toiletries, and his charger—was not under his berth.
It was still in Delhi.
In the rush of leaving the house, when relatives were arguing about legal documents and coordinating airport logistics, someone had assumed someone else had loaded his luggage into the car.
No one had.
He had boarded the train with only a small rucksack—the one he usually carried for short flights.
He hadn't checked.
He hadn't confirmed.
He hadn't wanted to inconvenience anyone by asking.
Now the reality sat beside him like an uninvited passenger.
No extra clothes.
No charger.
No backup plan.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Ofcourse.
Darkness arrived fully somewhere after Agra.
The train rocked gently beneath the vast night sky, its motion steady and hypnotic—an endless rhythm of wheels meeting steel. The occasional station light flashed across the compartment like a camera shutter, briefly illuminating tired faces before surrendering again to shadow.
The speaker crackled overhead.
"Next station—Agra Cantt. Halt time five minutes."
Rishi blinked awake from a shallow half-sleep and instinctively reached for his phone.
20% He frowned.
He dimmed the brightness. Closed background apps. Switched on battery saver.
Still 20%.
A quiet dread tightened in his chest.
The charger in his suitcase, not in Delhi station and not in the train. At home.
He let out a slow breath through his nose.
His phone wasn't just a device. It was protection. A shield against awkward eye contact. A substitute for conversation. A socially acceptable way to disappear in public.
And now, that shield was fading.
• Thirty-plus hours.
• No music.
• No distraction.
• No safe hiding place.
And worst of all—the possibility of speaking to strangers.
Restlessness nudged him out of his berth. He walked toward the washbasin area, more to calm his mind than to use it.
Under the harsh fluorescent light, he looked at his reflection.
Tired eyes. Slight stubble. Unpracticed confidence.
He whispered to himself.
"Excuse me… do you have a charger I could borrow?"
Too stiff.
He tried again.
"Sorry… my phone's dying. Do you have a charger?"
Better. Then softly, experimenting—
"Unga kitta charger irukka?"
He winced at his accent.
Why was asking for a charger harder than traveling alone across states?
He sighed and walked back. At Agra, new passengers boarded.
A family entered with coordinated chaos—bags thumping against seats, instructions flying in Hindi and Telugu.
And his berth— Was occupied.
A middle-aged man in a faded shirt sat cross-legged in Rishi's seat, pretending to rest but clearly aware of the situation.
Rishi stopped.
His mind rehearsed sentences.
"Excuse me… that's my seat."
But confrontation knotted his throat. Years of choosing silence over friction pulled him backward.
He was about to step aside.
About to surrender his own reserved space.
When a steady voice intervened.
"Woh reserved seat hai. Inka seat hai."
The man opened his eyes. Reluctantly stood. Shifted away without argument.
Rishi turned. A woman in her early fifties sat near the window, navy shawl draped neatly over her shoulders, reading glasses resting low on her nose.
She hadn't raised her voice. But she hadn't hesitated either.
Rishi swallowed. "Thank you."
She smiled gently. "You were thinking about how to say it for at least thirty seconds."
His ears warmed. "Was it that obvious?"
"I've been a lecturer for twenty-five years," she replied calmly. "Silence speaks loudly."
He managed a small smile.
"I'm Rishi."
"Neeranjana Sharma," she said. "History lecturer. Based in Noida. Traveling to Chennai."
He nodded. A pause.
Then he gathered the courage he had been practicing in the mirror.
"Actually… my charger is in my luggage. Which I left at home." He gave an awkward half-laugh. "And my phone is dying."
She didn't tease him.
She simply asked, "Model?"
"Vivo."
Without fuss, she opened her bag and took out a charger.
"I carry extras. Students forget things. Often."
Relief flooded him—unexpectedly strong.
"You just saved my entire night," he admitted.
She smiled. "Sometimes journeys remove what we depend on… so we learn what we're capable of."
He plugged the charger in.
Charging… 20%.
The tiny lightning symbol felt like reassurance.
Outside, the train accelerated into deeper night. Villages flickered past like distant constellations. Inside, the compartment settled into sleep rhythms—blankets rustling, soft snores, the steady hum of motion.
Rishi leaned back against the berth. He had lost his luggage. Lost his charger. Lost the comfortable illusion of control.
But somehow— He hadn't lost the journey.
And for the first time that night, he wasn't entirely afraid of the dark ahead.