The hum of the Tamil Nadu Express settled into a hypnotic rhythm, merging with the soft clinks of steel lunchboxes and the fading chatter of passengers. A warm trace of lemon pickle and thermos chai lingered in the air. Outside, the last strokes of sunset melted into inky blue, interrupted only by flickering station lights that passed like half-formed memories.
Rishi sat upright, thumb brushing his phone's screen—24% battery. It blinked like a fragile pulse, just barely alive. He leaned back, watching the old ceiling fan above groan with each labored spin. His thoughts wandered to Sriperumbudur—his grandfather's verandah, the red-tiled roof, the smell of sandalwood and ink from his fountain pen. That voice—measured, unshakable. Even now, after years, it felt close.
To distract himself, Rishi bent down to check the trunk box beneath the berth. A dented, grey metal one with a faded number lock. Borrowed from the family storeroom, the box was mostly empty—just a folded towel, a pack of glucose biscuits, and a hardbound diary with yellowed pages he hadn't dared open yet.
The metallic creak of the trunk opening turned heads.
"Oh!" came a voice to his left.
Rishi looked up. A plump middle-aged man in a bright yellow checked shirt, his face shiny with friendliness, leaned over. "Brother… you've got space in your trunk?"
"Uh… yeah?" Rishi said slowly.
"Small request," the man said, gesturing behind him to a loose-knit group: Neeranjana, a young man in track pants, a silent woman holding a cloth bag close, and a few others whose names Rishi had only half-registered.
"We've all got some valuables. Jewellery, documents, mobile phones. These days, trains... you know. Too many thefts. Yours looks safe."
Rishi blinked. "Mine?"
"Yes, yes," the man said, with eager warmth. "Just for a few hours. We trust you. You look like a good one."
Everything in Rishi's instincts urged caution. But he hesitated too long.
"…Okay," he heard himself say.
They passed him small bundles: a few zip pouches, a velvet jewellery case, a passport envelope. Rishi carefully rearranged his belongings and tucked the items into the trunk. He turned the dial on the lock and clicked it shut, sliding it back under the berth.
He didn't ask questions.
Maybe he should have. But he was tired of watching the world from the outside. Maybe this was a small doorway in.
I can certainly help you reimagine the plot of this train encounter!Once the luggage was settled, the man, Rajesh, turned with a broad smile and clapped Rishi heartily on the back.
"Excellent! I'm Rajesh, heading to Hyderabad," he announced.
Rishi, looking around, pointed out, "This train, however, doesn't travel to Hyderabad."
Rajesh let out a hearty laugh. "Ah, but that's the plan! We'll alight at Warangal and catch a bus from there. It's a more efficient and economical route." He gestured towards the quiet woman seated next to him. "This is my wife, Seetha. She's rather reserved."
Seetha offered Rishi a subtle nod, her voice a mere whisper as she murmured, "Hello."
"That's the reason she remains so quiet," Rajesh explained with a playful grin. "She's quite shy."
The rumble of the train was a low thrum beneath the excited chatter of Rajesh. "Good man! I'm Rajesh. Going to Hyderabad." His hand landed with a hearty clap on Rishi's back, a gesture brimming with an almost desperate bonhomie.
Rishi, ever observant, offered a curious tilt of his head. "But this train doesn't go to Hyderabad, does it?"
A broad grin split Rajesh's face, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "Ah, but that's the beauty of it! We'll alight at Warangal, a mere stepping stone to our destination. From there, a bus awaits – faster, you see, and considerably easier on the purse."
He gestured towards the woman seated beside him, a vision in quietude. "My wife, Seetha. She's a touch reserved, you understand."
Seetha offered Rishi a nearly imperceptible nod, her voice a fragile thread in the carriage's hum. "Hello," she whispered, her gaze fixed on some distant point.
"Precisely why she remains so demure," Rajesh added, his grin widening, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Exceedingly shy."
But as the train hurtled onward, the air crackled with unspoken currents. Seetha's shyness seemed less a gentle reserve and more a carefully constructed dam, holding back a turbulent sea of emotion. The shared journey, the forced proximity, was a prelude to a separation far more profound than a mere change of transport, a silent testament to a future diverging under the vast, indifferent sky.
Once the bags were crammed in, this dude Rajesh, totally vibing, slapped Rishi on the back.
"My man! I'm Rajesh. Off to Hyderabad!"
Rishi was like, "Hold up, fam. This train ain't even going to Hyderabad."
Rajesh just cackled, "Nah, nah, we bail at Warangal. Then it's bus time. Way faster, way cheaper, you know the drill." He gestured to the quiet chick next to him. "My wife, Seetha. She's kinda introverted."
Seetha gave Rishi a tiny nod, her voice a mere whisper, "Hello."
Rajesh, grinning like a Cheshire cat, added, "That's why she's not dropping many bars. Super shy, lol."
The others introduced themselves too.
Ajay, a tall, awkward student from Jhansi, said he was headed to Chennai for the IIT entrance exam.
Bala and Suresh, cousins from Agra, were en route to Vijayawada, cracking sunflower seeds and teasing each other in Telugu.
And finally, there was the man who had once taken Rishi's seat.
The unreserved passenger.
He sat just across, arms crossed over his chest, eyes sharp—watchful without being intrusive. His expression gave nothing away.
Rishi cleared his throat, unsure. He spoke softly in Tamil:
"Which station… are you getting down at? So I can return your pouch."
The man didn't blink. He leaned forward, elbows on knees.
"I don't know," he said, in quiet Tamil. "I bought an unreserved ticket to Kanyakumari."
Rishi frowned. "That's… the last station."
"Yes," the man said. "Maybe I'll ride the whole way. Or maybe I'll get off earlier. Depends on something."
"Depends on what?" Rishi asked, almost before he could stop himself.
The man's gaze didn't waver.
"A shoot," he said.
Rishi blinked. "Shoot… what do you mean?"
A long pause. The rattle of the train grew louder, then softened again as if to frame what came next.
The man's voice lowered.
"Can you help me with something?"
There was no threat in his tone—but a gravity that made Rishi sit up straighter.
"…Help with what?" Rishi asked carefully.
The man's eyes met his.
"Not now. Later. Before I get down. Just a favour."
And then he leaned back, the conversation closed.
Rishi sat frozen, trying to suppress the unease curling in his stomach. He didn't even know the man's name.
And yet, the man looked as if something important had just been agreed upon.
Outside, darkness thickened. Stations came and went, blurring into the noise of the wheels. And under the berth, the trunk box sat—silent, locked, heavier than before. Not just with valuables, but with questions.
Rishi glanced toward Neeranjana, who had returned to her book, occasionally sipping water from a steel bottle. She looked up and gave a faint, reassuring smile. But even that comfort now felt thin.
The train clattered on, deeper into the heart of India.
And somewhere between compartments, an invisible thread had been pulled.
One that might be hard to unspool.