The morning sun had just begun to melt the mist draped over Bhopal Junction, casting long amber shadows across the platform. The scent of chai, damp newspapers, and distant samosas hung in the air like a memory that refused to fade.
Inside Boggie Ac1 of the Nagpur Express, Sanjay Mehra had already taken his seat—lower berth 24. A slim black duffel bag rested beside him, its contents folded with the precision of a man who liked things in order, even if his life wasn't.
He wasn't the kind of man people expected to find alone.
At fifty-five, Sanjay still carried the aura of his younger years. He had aged like a well-aged whiskey—strong, smooth, and complex. His face bore lines, yes, but none of them diminished the striking handsomeness that still clung to him with quiet pride. Silver strands peppered his thick, well-combed hair, and his jaw—still sharply cut—was clean-shaven. He had the posture of someone who had spent his life carrying responsibility, and the eyes of someone who had grown tired of it.
It was hard to guess his age at first glance, and even harder to look away once you did.
But no amount of good looks could hide the fatigue that lived in his soul. His smile had become something rare, almost antique—brought out only when absolutely necessary, and never for himself.
The train hadn't moved yet.
With a quiet sigh, Sanjay stepped down onto the platform, away from the buzz of passengers. He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a cigarette. The lighter clicked. A flame flickered. A curl of smoke rose lazily into the sky—a silent rebellion in a life full of restraint.
His marriage was still intact on paper, but everything else had faded.
She lived in Delhi with their children. He had chosen to remain in Nagpur, with his aging parents and long, echoing evenings. Their calls were short, dry, almost transactional. What once was a union of admiration had become a battlefield of suspicion and bruised egos. His wife had a sharp tongue, and Sanjay—once a man of reason—had grown weary of constantly defending himself.
There were no more arguments. Just silence. And silence, he had learned, could be far more violent than words.
He took another drag from the cigarette, its bitterness matching the one in his throat.
And then he saw her.
A woman—not too young, not too old—grappling with a suitcase that clearly had no intention of cooperating. Her salwar-kurta, a soft shade of peach, clung to her gracefully. A matching dupatta kept slipping from one shoulder as she bent down repeatedly, trying to balance her cloth bag and the stubborn wheels of her suitcase. Her short, wavy hair had a streak of silver that caught the light just right.
Without thinking, Sanjay dropped the cigarette and crushed it beneath his shoe.
He walked toward her, his stride steady, his voice calm. "Let me help."
The woman looked up, startled, her eyes meeting his. There was a hesitation—a widow's instinctive caution—but then something softened in her face.
"For once," she said quietly, "I'll say yes."
He didn't know why, but the words felt like a privilege.
She was Sunita Deshmukh, and her presence—simple, unadorned, grounded—felt oddly familiar. He picked up her suitcase and followed her to the train without speaking further.
"Seat 25," she said, reading from her slightly crumpled ticket.
Sanjay blinked. "I'm 24."
Fate smiled. Perhaps, not so subtly.
They sat across from each other. Her dupatta was now draped neatly, her handbag placed delicately in her lap. She didn't fidget, didn't check her phone like most people. She simply watched the world through the dusty window, as if she'd grown used to watching life pass by.
"I'm Sunita," she said after a short pause. "Sunita Deshmukh."
"Sanjay Mehra."
The train gave a gentle jolt and began to roll forward. It was a seven-hour journey from Bhopal to Nagpur, but neither of them knew that the real journey had already begun.
They exchanged nods, the quiet acknowledgment of two lives bruised by time.
"I guess we're neighbors for some hours," she said, stretching her legs slightly.
He gave a mild smile. "Seems so."
As the train shuddered to life and pulled away from the platform, they fell into an odd but comforting rhythm. For a time, only the lull of metal and wind spoke.
But Sunita, with the ease of someone who understood human silence too well, began to talk. Not with force, but with natural curiosity. She spoke of random things—weather in Nagpur, people who don't know how to pack, and how Indian Railways had a personality of its own.
Her presence reminded Sanjay of something he hadn't felt in years—ease.
She wasn't trying to impress him. She wasn't prying. She was just… being.
Sunita shifted slightly, adjusting her dupatta as the train swayed with a gentle rhythm. "I'm heading to Nagpur for my nephew's engagement," she said, smiling faintly. "I'll be staying there for three days."
Her voice had a natural warmth, the kind that settled softly in the air. She wasn't trying to impress—she simply spoke like someone at peace with being alone.
Sanjay turned a little toward her, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "You live in Nagpur?"
She shook her head. "No. Bhopal is home. Has been for years."
He gave a slight nod, the conversation flowing more naturally than he'd expected. "And what do you do?"
"I work as a job placement counselor," she said, her expression brightening slightly. "Mostly with young adults—college students, vocational trainees. I help them figure out what they're good at and guide them toward career paths that suit them."
There was a flicker of pride in her eyes, but it was quiet—humble. "Sometimes I think I do it more for myself than for them. After my husband passed… I needed something to wake up for. Something that gave my days meaning."
The mention of her late husband wasn't coated in sorrow—it was said with acceptance, like someone who had lived through the ache and kept walking.
"I don't think I ever really got used to the loneliness," she admitted after a beat. "But I've learned how to live with it."
Sanjay looked down at the floor of the compartment. Her words struck something inside him—not a wound, exactly, but a familiar silence he often chose to ignore.
She didn't ask about his family.
But he felt the need to tell her and he did.
"My wife and I live separately," he said. "She's in Delhi… with our children. I… stay with my parents in Nagpur."
There was no pity in her eyes. Only a pause. And then: "Sometimes, being around people who raised you is a kind of grounding."
He exhaled. "Sometimes it's a mirror I avoid."
She smiled faintly. "Mirrors are never kind. But they're honest."
After an hour later, as the train swayed gently, Sanjay leaned back against the cool metal wall, fatigue pulling at his limbs. Fever had been clinging to him for two days. Hunger followed, as it always did with weakness.
Without much thought, he reached into his bag and pulled out his old companion—bread and butter. Dry. Simple. Reliable.
But before he could tear a slice, Sunita opened her tiffin. The scent of homemade aloo sabzi and parathas filled the air—warm, maternal, unapologetically inviting.
"Don't eat that dry nonsense," she said, half-chiding. "Here."
She tore a piece and handed it to him. No expectations. No assumptions. Just kindness.
He hesitated for a breath. Then took it.
They ate quietly, the clink of steel containers the only sound between them. In that small shared meal, something intangible passed from hand to hand.
Comfort. Connection. The beginning of something neither of them had words for yet.
Outside, the train slipped brighter into the heart of the warm light.
Inside, two strangers sat side by side, holding the warmth of parathas and the fragile hope of not being entirely alone.
——————————-
For the first time in what felt like decades, Sanjay Mehra felt something stir inside him. Not just warmth, not just comfort—but aliveness. That peculiar sensation of being seen without needing to speak, of being fed not for sustenance alone but for soul repair.
The aloo sabzi and paratha Sunita had handed him were simple, humble, everyday things. Yet each bite softened something hardened within him. The flavors didn't just coat his tongue—they dissolved years of bitterness, silent grudges, and the metallic taste of his own loneliness.
He closed his eyes briefly, chewing slower now. Not because he was savoring food, but because each bite made memories surface. Uninvited. Unrelenting.
Years ago, he had left India—on work, on principle, and eventually, on exhaustion. Not for weeks or months like most business executives, but for years, setting up offices in Singapore, Dubai, London. He had convinced himself it was ambition. But somewhere along the way, it had become escape.
He remembered the way his wife used to look at him—not with admiration, but suspicion. The constant accusations, the never-ending quarrels, the bitter silence that came after the shouting.
They had lived under the same roof but as two islands separated by sharp waters. Respect—something Sanjay once held sacred—had vanished. She had a tongue like flint, and each conversation became a minefield. Her words, sharp and often cruel, left wounds that didn't bleed but never healed either.
And yet, here he was—on a moving train, beside a stranger—and he felt seen.
He exhaled quietly, the ghosts of memory pulling at his ribcage, until a soft voice snapped the thread.
"You didn't say much about your work," Sunita said gently, adjusting her dupatta as she placed the tiffin back into her bag.
Sanjay opened his eyes, blinking away the storm. The train rocked gently in rhythm, like a cradle inviting confessions.
He looked at her—really looked this time.
There was something quietly dignified about Sunita. Her eyes had laugh lines, yes, but behind them were chapters of unspoken survival. She had a softness that didn't come from weakness, but from choosing not to harden.
And before he could stop himself, the words slipped out.
"What about your life?" he asked, voice lower than intended. "You said your husband passed… but, if you don't mind—how did you come to be traveling alone? Counseling? All this?"
Sunita's eyes widened slightly, not out of offense but out of surprise. She gave him a look that hovered between amusement and thoughtfulness.
"You don't seem like the kind of man who asks personal questions."
"I'm not," Sanjay replied truthfully. "But… somehow, with you…"
He didn't finish. He didn't need to.
Sunita's lips curved into a faint smile. She looked out the window for a few seconds, as if collecting the right words from the night itself.