The announcement crackled through the loudspeakers of New Delhi Railway Station at 4:47 PM, but Arjun Mehra wasn't listening. He was standing on Platform No. 3 with a single backpack slung over his shoulder, staring at the Rajdhani Express as if it were a door to some other version of his life. The one where he hadn't just walked out of a seven-year relationship. The one where his mother's voice didn't echo in his head every three minutes, asking him what went wrong.
He was twenty-eight. Software engineer at a Bangalore startup. Or rather, ex-software engineer. He'd sent his resignation over email that morning — three lines, no subject — and booked the first train ticket that had a waiting list cleared. He didn't care where it went. The ticket said Jammu Tawi. That was fine. Anywhere that wasn't the apartment he'd shared with Nandini for the last two years was fine.
The platform smelled of chai and diesel. A kid ran past him with a plastic helicopter, nearly tripping over his shoes. A woman in a green saree argued with a coolie about the price of carrying two steel trunks. The world was moving. Arjun was standing still.
He found his seat — 4A, Side Lower — and pushed his backpack under the berth. The coach was half-full. An elderly Sikh couple occupied the berths across from him, already unpacking aluminium containers of parathas and achaar. A college-age boy was glued to his phone on the upper berth, earphones firmly in place. The window seat next to Arjun was empty.
He leaned his head against the window. The glass was warm from the afternoon sun. He closed his eyes.
The seat next to him stayed empty through the first bell. Through the second. The train lurched forward — that familiar metallic groan, the slow pull of weight against inertia — and just as the platform began to slide away, someone appeared.
She was out of breath. A large canvas bag hung from one shoulder, a DSLR camera dangled from her neck, and her dupatta was half-falling off. She practically fell into the seat, dropping her bag on the floor and exhaling like she'd just finished a marathon.
"Made it," she said to no one in particular.
Arjun opened one eye.
She was around his age, maybe a year or two younger. Dark hair pulled back in a messy bun. No makeup. A small nose ring — silver, not gold. She wore a plain white kurta over jeans, and her hands had faint ink stains near the fingertips.
She caught him looking and smiled — quick, unapologetic, slightly crooked. "Sorry. Almost missed it." She gestured vaguely at the receding platform.
"It's fine," Arjun said. He closed his eye again.
That should have been the end of it. Two strangers on a train, separated by the unspoken Indian railway etiquette of minding your own business. But the universe, or the Indian Railways — whichever you believe has more power — had other plans.
Thirty minutes into the journey, somewhere past Ghaziabad, the train stopped. Not the usual two-minute halt at a station. It just... stopped. In the middle of nowhere. Fields on both sides, a distant water tower, and the low hum of the AC cutting out for a second before sputtering back.
The elderly Sardar ji leaned over. "Signal problem hoga, beta. Yeh toh hota rehta hai."
Arjun nodded. He pulled out his phone. No messages. No missed calls. He'd expected Nandini to call, or at least text. She hadn't. That silence was worse than any argument.
