It was Kavya who brought it up, in the end. She had been patient for three weeks, which was a very long time for her, and one Wednesday she sat down and accepted her small portion of tea and then said, very directly: "Masterji. Aapki patni ke baare mein batao."
He looked at her. "Kisne bataya?"
"Suresh bhaiya ne. Chai waale. Unhone kaha ki aap akele rehte ho. To lagta hai aapki shadi hua tha aur phir kuch hua. To batao."
He looked at the tracks for a moment. Then he said: "Uska naam Meena tha."
"Tha?"
"Haan. Woh ab nahi rahi."
Kavya was quiet. She had the instinctive sensitivity of a child who has spent two years managing one absent parent and one distracted one — she knew when to be still.
"Kab?" she said, softly.
"Gyarah saal pehle. 2013 mein. November mein."
"Bimaar thi?"
"Haan. Achanak. Heart. Woh ek dum theek thi, aur phir—" He stopped. Restarted. "Teen hafte ka problem raha. Uske baad woh chali gayi."
Kavya sat with this for a moment. Then she asked: "Kaisi thi woh?"
He turned to look at her. Nobody — not his son, not the station staff who had known him for decades, not the neighbours who brought food on festival days — nobody had ever asked him that. They asked if he was okay, they asked if he needed anything, practical things and careful things. Nobody had asked kaisi thi woh.
"Bahut bolne wali thi," he said. "Main chup rehta tha — jaise abhi bhi rehta hoon — aur woh bol deti thi jo main nahi bol pata tha. To hum dono milke ek pura insaan bante the."
Kavya considered this image — two incomplete people who fit together to make one complete person. She found it both beautiful and sad in equal measure, which she was learning was the quality of most true things.
"Woh yahan aati thi? Station par?"
"Haan. Kabhi kabhi tiffin dene aa jaati thi. Kabhi aise hi. Usse trains pasand thi — sound, the feeling. Kehti thi ki station mein sirf zindagi dikhti hai — log mil rahe hain, log juda ho rahe hain, log aa rahe hain, log ja rahe hain. Pure duniya ki photo hai ek station."
