The announcement came at 6:23 AM, delivered in that uniquely Indian Railways mix of Hindi and English that somehow manages to be both urgent and entirely unhelpful.
"Yatriyon ka dhyaan aakarshit kiya jaata hai... due to heavy rainfall and waterlogging on tracks near Pathankot... this train will be diverted via Ambala-Chandigarh route... inconvenience is regretted."
The Sardar ji couple took it in stride — they were getting off at Ludhiana anyway. The college boy didn't even remove his earphones. But Meera sat up with a look that was half-concern, half-curiosity.
"Diverted," she said. "That means we're not going through the usual route."
"That means we're going to be late," Arjun said, checking the running status on his phone. "Probably by eight to ten hours. Maybe more."
"Eight hours." She said it like someone tasting a new word. Then she grinned. "That's a gift."
"A gift?"
"Eight extra hours on a train. Eight hours of new landscapes, new stations, new light. You know how many photographers would kill for unplanned detours?"
Arjun stared at her. "You're actually happy about this."
"I'm actually happy about this."
The train pulled into Ambala Cantonment at 8 AM for what they announced would be a forty-five-minute halt. Meera was off the train before the wheels fully stopped, camera already raised, photographing the platform — the stacked plastic chairs of the waiting room, the peeling paint on a pillar, an old man reading a newspaper with such focus he looked like a philosopher contemplating the cosmos.
Arjun followed her. He wasn't sure why. Maybe he didn't want to sit alone in a stationary coach. Maybe he was drawn to the way she saw things — the way she could find meaning in a cracked wall or a sleeping dog.
"Hold this," she said, handing him her camera bag while she climbed onto a bench to get a better angle of a chai stall where steam rose in perfect spirals.
"You're going to fall," he said.
