Seetha glanced at Narain, curiosity soft in her eyes. "Who inspired the Padmavathi character?"
Narain exhaled, leaning back in his seat. "My real aunty," he said quietly. "She was an air hostess. When she stopped working—because she left India and settled abroad—that's when the story took shape in my mind. I imagined her life, her choices… it became Padmavathi."
The air inside the coach hung heavy with reflection. Narain's candid confession and Seetha's attentive presence, combined with the quiet attentions of the other passengers, had reshaped the atmosphere. Storytelling, Rishi realized, wasn't just about words—it was responsibility, awareness, and empathy.
Narain then slid a folded script across to Rishi. "Here," he said. "Pass the time. See what you think."
Rishi picked it up gingerly, the pages soft under his fingers. He tried to imagine the protagonist—Padmavathi—as Narain had conceived her. He read, paused, reread—but the images remained stubbornly vague. The character felt half-formed, floating somewhere between Narain's intention and Rishi's imagination.
"I… I can't quite picture her," Rishi admitted softly, looking up. "I see moments… dialogue… gestures… but the whole… the person… she's blurry. I can't make her real in my head."
Narain gave a rueful smile, leaning back. "That's part of the journey," he said. "Sometimes you create, sometimes you see only fragments. That's why I gave it to you—to experience it differently, to feel the gaps."
Rishi nodded slowly, tracing the folded edges of the script. "Stories change when they meet a mind willing to imagine—even if it can't picture everything perfectly. Maybe that's the point."
The train slowed, wheels whining as it approached Bhopal Junction. Through the window, a small film crew bustled - cameras, lights, extras milling about. Narain stiffened.
"That's my stop," he murmured. "I have to get off."
The group stirred, murmuring quiet goodbyes. Narain paused by Rishi, giving him a brief, thoughtful look.
"Keep the script," he said simply. "Even if it confuses you or feels incomplete. It's not about reading it perfectly—it's about letting it live in your mind, however vaguely. That's the only way it becomes real."
Rishi nodded, touched. "I'll try."
Narain stepped onto the platform, disappearing into the bustling crowd as the crew surged around him.
As the train lurched forward, Rishi unfolded the script again. The words seemed to hum faintly under his fingers. He tried once more to picture Padmavathi, to see her walk and speak, to inhabit her choices. But the image refused to solidify.
He smiled softly to himself. Not clarity—but imagination, alive in fragments. Enough to keep the mind moving, enough to pass the hours, enough to make the journey feel less empty.
Neeranjana reached out, brushing his hand lightly. "Sometimes stories aren't meant to be fully seen," she said.
Rishi glanced at her, smiled. "Maybe that's the point. To leave space… for ourselves."
The Tamil Nadu Express rolled onward into the night. Its passengers remained bound—not by destination—but by the unspoken weight of stories, imagination, and shared moments that lingered long after the train had passed.