Sneha's brother—a looming figure standing by the door, surrounded by a few big, silent boys.
An idea sparked—as vivid as any action scene I'd watched in films. I recalled the confidence and swagger of the gangster heroes, the way they owned space with quiet nerve.
Taking a deep breath, I walked straight up to a group of local boys nearby—rough-looking but familiar faces from the neighborhood. I greeted them like an old friend and spoke with an assertiveness I didn't quite know I had.
Sneha's brother's eyes narrowed, uncertain at first. He whispered, "Who do you know?"
"They know me," Kaustub said quietly.
I noticed the shift—the tense atmosphere softened as these boys exchanged looks. Her brother's stance faltered, doubt flickering through his rage.
For a moment, I was playing a role too big for me—the unexpected "gangster" who belonged to shadows and unspoken streets. But it worked.
Her brother eventually backed down, realizing I wasn't the easy target he'd imagined.
That night, as I walked home alone, the weight lifted just a little. The game had changed.
The week slipped by in a haze of routines and restless anticipation. One morning at the coaching center, as the clock neared 10:30 AM and my class ended, I gathered my things and started to leave, but then Gayatri stopped me in the hallway by the stairwell.
"I'm coming with you," she said softly. "Wait for me outside."
Curious and cautious, I hesitated. After a minute, she joined me. "I want to visit a friend in Pune today," she explained, "and I'd like you to come with me."
My heart sank at the thought—my evening batch awaited, the pressure was mounting, and every hour mattered. "I don't think I can," I murmured, but she smiled, eyes sparkling with gentle insistence. "You can bunk the evening class just this once. Please?"
Reluctantly, I nodded, partly to avoid disappointing her, partly to steal a break from my overpacked days. "Okay, but I'll be late coming back."
She nodded, "I'll wait till 4."
The hours ticked by slowly as I decided to avoid her and attend my classes at evening batch, then i reached at classes, i thought she will wait and go when i reached till 5 pm, outside the center around almost around 5 PM, there she was—Gayatri, dressed neatly with a shy smile, waiting just as she promised.
She said "I got your ticket," ,
pulling out a small bundle of papers. She said, "Come on, I'll show you the station."
We made our way to the train station, the sky cloudy with soft whispers of rain. Drops began to fall gently as the platform bustled with people hurrying past in umbrellas and scarves.
It was my first time in a train in my life. The experience was a whirl of unfamiliar sounds—the shrill whistle, the clatter of wheels, the calls of porters—and the feeling of stepping into a moving world.
The rainy clouds broke briefly into a warm light as the train began to glide forward. In the carriage, people were lost in their own worlds—some tapping furiously on phones, others chatting quietly, a few gazing blankly out the windows.
I rose from my seat and wandered toward the open door, feeling the wind's cool touch. Outside, the landscape unfurled like a living painting—lush trees glistening in the after-rain freshness, river bends shimmering in the distance, and bridges stretching like veins across the land.
Gayatri noticed me standing quietly. She came close and asked, "Why are you standing out here?"
"I just wanted to see," I replied softly. "Everyone's busy with their own lives—their phones, their worries, their stress. But the world outside… it's different."
I gestured toward the river crossing the bridge, where mist hovered lightly over the water. "Look at how the breeze plays through the leaves, how the clouds drift lazily. No rush, no noise—just life happening quietly."
She leaned closer, taking in the scene through my eyes for the first time. I could see her breath catch. A serene smile spread across her face, as if she was seeing the world anew.
For a moment, we stood side by side—two souls connected by this fleeting, beautiful silence on a moving train.
The train rumbled to a gentle stop at Pune Junction, releasing a swirl of sounds—the chatter of passengers, the distant calls of vendors, and the soft hiss of brakes settling. Stepping onto the platform, the air was heavy with the scent of wet earth and chai spices, mingling with cities' hustle and hurried footsteps.
Gayatri led me through the busy streets, weaving between crowds until we arrived at her friend's modest home nestled in one of Pune's leafy lanes. The door opened to warm light and animated voices, filling the room with energetic laughter and quick exchange.
Her friend glanced up, eyes immediately catching sight of me—an unfamiliar figure in a world of chatter and color. I lowered my gaze instinctively, finding a quiet corner to spread my notes and books. The hum of voices became a backdrop as I lost myself in formulas and careful writing.
But it was impossible to escape observation. From her seat on the worn sofa, Gayatri's friend watched me in quiet fascination—the way my pen barely faltered, the sincerity etched softly in my face, and the earnest devotion in my silent study.
Later, when she caught Gayatri alone, she leaned in close and whispered, almost conspiratorially, "Don't ever leave him, Gayatri. He's a very nice guy—loyal and true. You can see it just by looking at him. He's quiet, yes, but there's a strength in him that not many have."
Gayatri's eyes widened in quiet surprise. The words hung in the air—a tender promise whispered in warm confidence—and I remained unaware that in the quiet room, a new chapter of trust and friendship was being silently written.
The sun was dipping low when Gayatri and I arrived back at Pune railway station, the air thick with the hustle of thousands of passengers trying to catch their respective trains. The platform overflowed with a throng of restless bodies, voices rising and falling like waves, luggage bumping and rolling in every direction. The sky wore clouds heavy with the threat of rain, adding a dull gray wash to the scene.
We had to catch our train before 8 pm, but navigating through the surging crowd felt impossible. Holding hands tightly at first, I found myself pressed by the tide of people, every step becoming slower as bodies squeezed past, shoves gentle and rough alike. My heart hammered faster—not with excitement but with a growing dread.
The moment Gayatri slipped away in the crush of the crowd, a cold wave of panic swept through me. It was as if the air itself had thickened, closing in on my chest, squeezing breath from my lungs. I spun around helplessly, my voice swallowed by the roar of thousands, the sea of bodies moving like a living, unmoving wall.
Every face around was a blur—strangers, hurried and intent on their own journeys. No friendly eyes, no familiar presence to anchor me. The sharp sting of isolation gnawed deep. The weight of solitude pressed down, dragging my thoughts into a fast, dizzying spiral of fear.
I was cut off, stranded alone in a world too vast, too loud, and in this public chaos, I felt smaller than ever—an invisible speck lost to the enormity of the moment. My pockets felt empty, the ache of no money a cold reminder of my helplessness.
The train's whistle pierced the noise, signaling departure, stiffening my dread. The doors began to close, and in that instant, I was paralyzed—not by what lay ahead, but by the sudden realization that I was truly alone.
My heart thundered wildly, each beat echoing in my ears like a frantic alarm. Sweat broke cold on my forehead; my hands trembled uncontrollably. The world warped into a vortex of confusion and terror, and my mind scrambled for solutions, for something—anything to hold on to and then, like a beacon in the storm, a familiar voice called my name a voice cut through the noise—soft, familiar. "I was in the washroom," Gayatri said with a smile, stepping beside me.
Relief flooded me, overwhelming and instant. I nearly fell into her arms. "I thought you left me..." I whispered.
She shook her head gently. "Never. I'll never leave you."
The train's final whistle echoed. "We need to move—together," she said, grabbing my hand firmly.
The two of us wove through the crowd, the merging bodies like tides shifting endlessly. She disappeared again—the chaos swallowing her. But then her hand found mine once more, warm and steady.
That hand-holding, through fear, noise, and confusion, became the anchor for my trembling soul—a silent promise that no matter how overwhelmed the world outside, I was not alone.
The train rocked gently beneath us, a steady rhythm that echoed the beating of my heart. Inside the crowded carriage, bodies pressed close, voices murmured softly, and around us, the hum of countless lives passing by filled the air like a living river.
Through it all, her hand held mine—warm, unwavering, a lifeline that tethered me to the moment. I could feel the light pressure of her fingers, the reassuring grip that spoke silently louder than words.
In that small, simple touch, my world stopped spinning its chaotic whirl. It was as if life itself had folded into a single heartbeat, a sacred pause where nothing else mattered but the here and now.
Outside the window, the landscape blurred—a dance of trees, rivers, and distant hills—but inside me, everything sharpened. Thoughts slowed. The noise dimmed. Fear and anxiety that had clung so stubbornly began to dissolve into a fragile calm.
I remembered every small detail—the grain of the window pane beneath my hand, the soft rustle of fabric as the train swayed, the faint scent of rain mixed with the worn leather of my seat.
Her presence was a silent promise—an unspoken vow that even in the crush of strangers, in the vast unknown of the journey, I was seen, I was held, I was not alone.
In that hand-holding, I found strength I didn't know I had. The courage to breathe, to endure, to move forward.
For hours, we stood together, bound by a quiet trust, her fingers entwined with mine—a simple touch that became my sanctuary amidst the endless motion and restless crowd.
Even after reaching home, the warmth of Gayatri's hand holding mine during the train journey lingered vividly in my mind. It was a moment unlike any I had ever experienced—a quiet reassurance amidst chaos, a simple connection that seemed to slow time itself. Whenever my thoughts drifted, I found myself returning to that touch, the softness of her grip anchoring me through the storm inside.
But as much as the memory comforted me, it also stirred a restless unease deep within. The intensity of that closeness, unexpected and new, unsettled my focus. My mind became a battleground, caught between the longing for that quiet companionship and the crushing expectations pressing down from home and coaching classes.
The once steady rhythm of my studies began to falter. Thoughts of notes and formulas tangled with questions I wasn't ready to answer. Slowly, my performance slipped further, and the cracks grew wider beneath the surface.
One day, the call came—my coaching teachers reached out to my parents with concerns. "He's repeatedly failing the Sunday tests," they said. "He doesn't seem serious. The focus just isn't there."
The weight of their words crashed down on me like a sudden storm. I saw the worry in my parents' eyes, felt the unspoken disappointment in their silence. The pressure tightened—more than ever before.
Determined, I made a hard choice. To regain control, to prove myself, I would have to push away the distractions—even if that meant distancing myself from those who mattered most. Gayatri, with her gentle strength, suddenly felt like a risk to my fragile focus.
So I withdrew. I stopped attending the 4 to 7 batch and began going consistently to the 5 to 8 batch, trying to carve out a space where I could pour every ounce of my willpower into my studies. The road ahead remained tough, but I promised myself that this time, nothing—not even the warmth of a hand touching mine—would deter me from the fight.
The weight of my parents' words lingered long after the call ended—"This is your last chance. If you fail now, it's the end. Only one shot left." Their voices echoed in my mind, a relentless drumbeat pushing me forward.
I buried myself in my studies, determined to break free from the cycle of failure. Yet one night, as exhaustion claimed me, my dreams caught fire with a sudden, vivid image—a sharp, snapping sound breaking through the silence.
A soft voice echoed, "I will never leave you," and in that moment, I felt her hands—Gayatri's hands—holding mine, steady and warm.
The dream faded, and I woke with my heart pounding, the echo of that promise lingering in my thoughts like a fragile hope.
The year had changed. It was now 2023.
To be comtinued....!