He was at the station at nine in the morning, which was earlier than she had expected. She arrived at nine-fifteen — her father had walked her to the entrance and handed her a small cloth bag with two parathas wrapped in foil and a bottle of water and a fifty-rupee note folded very small — and found Masterji already sitting on bench number seven, in his white kurta, with his cloth bag, his thermos, and his newspaper.
"Aap toh bahut pehle aa gaye," she said.
"Kya karta ghar mein."
She sat down beside him. The train didn't leave until two forty-five, which was five hours away. She had not planned for five hours. She looked at him. "Pehle kuch karte hain?"
"Haan. Tum kya karna chahti ho?"
So they walked the station together. This was something new. In all the weeks she had been coming to Platform 9, they had always sat on bench number seven. Walking with him through the station was a completely different experience — she understood immediately that this was his place in the way that a familiar street is yours, not because you own it but because you have known it long enough that it holds your history.
He walked slowly and she matched his pace. He showed her things without pointing — she simply found that she was looking where he was looking. The old announcement booth, now locked, where he had sat for thirty-eight years. The particular light fixture on Platform 3 that had been replaced three times and was still slightly the wrong shade of white. The spot on Platform 1 where the tea stall used to be before it moved — you could still see the slight discolouration of the floor where the stove had stood.
"Yeh stain kab se hai?" she asked.
