The rain had been falling since before dawn. Not the sudden, furious kind that sweeps through in bursts, but a long, patient downpour that seemed to have forgotten how to stop. The world had turned to water — roads swallowed into mirrors, rooftops dripping endlessly, trees bowing under the weight of it.
By the time I reached the station, the sky was a seamless grey, without shape or edge. The air smelled of wet iron, damp earth, and faintly of coal smoke — a scent that felt both old and familiar, like something from a half-remembered dream.
The station was small, more a pause in the journey than a place of arrival. Its roof leaked in places, forming small puddles that reflected the dim yellow lights above. A line of wooden benches stretched under the awning, their paint peeling, their surfaces slick with moisture.
A handful of people waited, scattered along the platform like punctuation marks in a long sentence. A man in a crumpled shirt held a steaming cup of chai, the thin paper trembling slightly in his hand. A woman with a red umbrella sat near the edge, her gaze fixed on the tracks disappearing into the mist. A stray dog slept near a column, curled tight, its fur darkened by rain.
The announcements came and went in faint echoes, distorted by static. They spoke of delays, of arrivals postponed, of destinations blurred by weather. No one seemed surprised. The rain had that kind of authority — it made waiting feel inevitable.
I found a seat beneath a flickering light. The hum of it mingled with the steady drumming of rain on tin, a rhythm that filled every pause. The smell of chai drifted through the air — sweet, spiced, warm — carried from a stall at the far end of the platform where a man stood pouring from one metal cup to another, the motion practiced and unhurried. The steam rose in delicate threads, catching the light like smoke.
When the wind shifted, it brought with it the sharp scent of rusted tracks and wet gravel. Drops slid from the edge of the roof in uneven intervals, splashing onto the platform with quiet insistence. Somewhere nearby, a pigeon cooed softly, hidden under the rafters.
I watched the tracks stretch into the mist — two dark lines vanishing into a soft blur. The rain fell so steadily that even the sound of the world seemed to dissolve. The horizon had no edge; the sky and the earth had merged into a single, breathing presence.
A child ran past, barefoot, chasing a paper boat that danced along the shallow gutter at the edge of the platform. His laughter cut through the monotony of the rain, sharp and bright, echoing once before fading. The boat caught in a small puddle, spun once, and sank. The child crouched beside it for a moment, staring silently, then smiled — as though it had completed its voyage.
I bought a cup of tea from the stall. The glass was too hot to hold at first, the rim fogged by steam. The first sip was sweet, scalding, alive — the kind of warmth that travels deeper than skin. The rain hissed louder for a moment, drumming on the tin roof as if answering the sound of boiling water.
Beside me, the man with the crumpled shirt spoke softly to no one in particular. "It always rains hardest when you have nowhere urgent to go," he said. His voice was calm, without complaint, as though he were simply observing the law of nature. I smiled without replying. There was nothing to add; he was right.
The train arrived not with a rush, but with a sigh — headlights blooming faintly in the mist, wheels clattering softly against wet rails. Its arrival felt more like an apparition than an event. The air filled with the smell of diesel, wet metal, and human breath.
People stirred, gathering their bags, adjusting umbrellas, straightening clothes. The rhythm of the rain shifted slightly as doors opened and closed, as voices echoed and footsteps crossed puddles. The station, for a moment, was alive — then settled back into its slow breathing.
I didn't board. My train was later, or maybe I didn't have one. The idea of moving felt unnecessary — the world was already moving enough, right there in the rain.
As the train pulled away, the mist swallowed it almost instantly. The sound of its departure lingered a while — a fading hum, a distant whistle, a vibration through the wet ground. Then silence again, vast and absolute.
The chai stall owner refilled his pot, humming softly. The child had gone. The woman with the red umbrella was still watching the tracks, her reflection trembling faintly in the puddle at her feet.
I sipped the last of my tea. It had cooled, its sweetness subdued, leaving behind only warmth and the faint taste of ginger.
The rain showed no sign of stopping. The station lights flickered, their glow stretching long over the wet platform. A wind stirred briefly, carrying the smell of distant smoke and wet leaves. Somewhere, far away, thunder rolled — not near, but close enough to remind the world that the rain had only just begun.
I leaned back against the cold wall, letting the sound of the storm fill the silence inside. Every drop that hit the roof, every echo from the rails, every wisp of mist that curled past felt like part of the same slow conversation between sky and earth.
And there, between them, the small, soaked station waited — unhurried, glowing faintly beneath the weight of the monsoon sky.