The hum of the Tamil Nadu Express deepened into a steady, hypnotic rhythm—a soft chorus of wheels on polished steel, punctuated by the clink of tiffin carriers and the murmur of settling passengers. The faint scent of lemon pickle, steel thermos chai, and a hint of diesel hung in the air like the aftertaste of countless journeys. Outside, the last blush of sunset dissolved into an ocean of indigo, broken only by erratic station lights that flashed past like ghosts of forgotten towns.
Rishi sat upright in his berth, brushing his thumb across his phone's screen.
24% battery.
The number pulsed weakly, like a fragile heartbeat. He sighed, leaning back as the ancient ceiling fan groaned overhead, its blades slicing the air with arthritic reluctance. Sriperumbudur drifted into his thoughts—the cool stone of his grandfather's verandah, red-tiled roofs glistening after rain, the lingering aroma of sandalwood, and the quiet scratch of Rajasekhar's fountain pen on paper. His grandfather's voice—calm, measured, unshakeable—felt oddly present, as if it had stowed itself among the train's rattles and vibrations.
Trying to distract himself, Rishi bent down and pulled out the trunk: a dented grey metal relic with a faded number lock and rust creeping at the hinges. Borrowed hastily from the family storeroom, it held only a few modest items—a folded towel, a packet of glucose biscuits, and a hardbound diary with yellowed pages he hadn't yet dared to open.
The metallic creak of the trunk pivoting open turned several heads.
"Oh!" exclaimed a voice to his left.
Rishi looked up.
A plump, middle-aged man in a bright yellow checked shirt leaned over the aisle, shiny-faced and smiling as if perpetually lit from within. Behind him stood his wife, a quiet woman with a cloth bag clutched to her chest. Neatly poised, her eyes flicked toward Rishi once, then returned to whatever small comfort she had found in her seat.
The man's voice boomed with friendly urgency. "Brother… you have space in your trunk?"
Rishi hesitated. "…Yes?"
"Small request," the man said, motioning to the space beneath the berth. "We have some valuables—jewellery, documents, phones… These days trains are risky. Too many thefts. Your trunk looks strong. Very safe."
Mine? Rishi thought, bewildered.
He opened his mouth to refuse—but his own politeness trapped him.
The man pressed on, cheerful and relentless. "Only for a few hours. We trust you. You have a good face!"
Rishi blinked, torn between caution and his long-standing desire not to seem difficult. "…Okay," he heard himself say.
In moments, small bundles were placed in his hands—zippered pouches, a velvet jewellery case, an envelope holding a passport. He rearranged his simple belongings, tucked their items inside, then closed the trunk with a muffled click. The lock turned. He slid it back beneath the berth.
He didn't ask questions. Perhaps he should have.
But for once, he didn't want to stand at the periphery of the world. Maybe this was a doorway in.
The cheerful man clapped him on the back with startling force. "Excellent, my brother! I am Rajesh. We are heading to Hyderabad."
Rishi frowned lightly. "But… this train doesn't go to Hyderabad."
Rajesh laughed as if the confusion were charming. "Ah, that is the secret! We get down at Warangal. Then take a bus. Faster and cheaper. Smart, no?"
He pointed to the quiet woman seated next to him. "This is my wife, Seetha. Very shy."
Seetha lifted her eyes just long enough to offer a soft, almost vanishing "Hello." Her hands clutched her cloth bag as though it contained something fragile enough to shatter on contact with the world.
Rajesh nodded proudly. "See? Shy as a sparrow."
Rishi nodded.
Across the aisle, the unreserved passenger—the man who had earlier occupied his seat—sat with arms crossed, eyes calm, unreadable. Unlike Rajesh, his composure wasn't cheerfulness. It was focus, like someone living half inside his own thoughts.
Curiosity nudged Rishi forward. He leaned slightly toward the man and spoke in gentle Tamil. "Which station… should I return your pouch at?"
The man did not blink. His voice was low, steady.
"I don't know yet."
"You don't know?" Rishi asked.
"I bought an unreserved ticket to Kanyakumari."
"That's the last station," Rishi said.
"Yes," the man replied. "Maybe I'll get off earlier. Maybe not. Depends."
Rishi swallowed. "Depends… on what?"
The man leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes were unsettlingly calm.
"A shoot," he said.
The word hung in the air like a dropped coin.
Rishi stared. "A… shoot? As in… a film shoot? Photography?"
The man's silence stretched.
His voice, when it came, was almost a whisper. "Not that kind."
The train rattled louder for a long moment, as though trying to drown his words.
Then, in the same calm tone, the man added, "Can you help me with something?"
Rishi's spine stiffened. "…Help with what?" His voice was barely audible.
"Not now," the man said, sitting back. "Later. Before I get down. Just a favour."
And just like that, the conversation closed—like a door gently, decisively shut.
Rishi remained frozen, mind spiraling. He didn't know the man's name, story, or intentions. And yet the tone carried the weight of an agreement he had never consciously made.
Under the berth, the trunk lay still. Locked. Heavy.
No longer holding just jewellery and documents—but questions.
He glanced at Neeranjana. She was back to her book, taking occasional sips from her steel bottle. When she caught his eye, she offered a small, reassuring smile.
But it felt thin—fragile against the dark tide edging into the compartment.
The Tamil Nadu Express clattered deeper into the heart of India, carving its way through towns and farmlands swallowed by the night.
Somewhere in the shifting shadows of the sleeper coach, an invisible thread had been pulled taut—connecting strangers, secrets, and a trunk heavier than it should have ever been.
This journey, Rishi realized, was changing shape.
And he wasn't sure he was ready for where it was heading.