The train rocked gently beneath the vast night sky, its motion steady and hypnotic—an endless lullaby of wheels kissing steel. The coaches creaked in familiar rhythm, as though humming an age-old tune known only to long-distance trains. Above Rishi's head, the tinny speaker crackled to life.
"Next station, Agra Cantt. Estimated stop time—five minutes."
The world outside had dissolved into darkness. Only passing streaks of yellow bulbs—lonely guardians of the railway stations scattered across northern India—flashed by the window. Each flicker cast a brief halo across Rishi's face, illuminating the faint crease in his brow as he stirred from a half-dream.
He blinked awake and reached instinctively for his phone.20% battery remaining.
A frown formed. He could have sworn he charged it before leaving Delhi. He swiped through the settings, terminated background apps, dimmed the brightness, toggled on battery saver—but the number stayed stubbornly low, like a bad omen refusing to leave.
Then reality dawned on him.
His charger wasn't in his rucksack.
It wasn't even on the train.
It was in his other bag—the cabin luggage his cousin had carried to the airport. In the frantic packing, in the storm of relatives shouting instructions, in the emotional haze of departure, he had forgotten to shift it over.
He checked his pockets anyway. Then the rucksack again. Then—just to be sure—emptied every compartment, even the one where he kept emergency snacks.
Nothing. No charger. No power bank.
A hollow dread settled under his ribs. His phone was more than a device—it was his window, his distraction, his emotional escape hatch. Now he was staring down the barrel of a thirty-plus-hour journey with no music, no messages, no movies, no anchor to the world he understood.
And even worse—he might actually have to speak to strangers.
Feeling a sudden restlessness creep beneath his skin, Rishi slipped off his berth and wandered toward the restroom area. He didn't need the bathroom; he needed psychological distance from his own anxiety.
Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, giving the grimy steel surfaces a sickly glow. He stared at his reflection—a tired man with messy hair and awkwardly rehearsed social courage—and whispered softly to himself:
"Excuse me, do you have a charger I could borrow?"
Too formal.
He tried again.
"Hey… sorry to bother you… my phone's dying. Do you have a charger?"
Better. Less robotic. Less like an automated voicemail.
And then, because desperation breeds creativity, he attempted a Tamil version.
"Unga kitta charger irukka?"
He winced at his own accent. Not terrible. But definitely not confident. He sighed and shook his head at himself. Why was asking for a simple charger suddenly a Herculean task?
He walked back to his berth.
But something had shifted.
A new family had boarded at Agra—a burst of noise and movement. Their voices mingled Telugu and Hindi with affectionate chaos. Children scrambled onto berths, bags bumped into elbows, and adults issued instructions with the urgency of battlefield generals.
And his berth—his berth—was now occupied.
A middle-aged man in a faded white shirt sat cross-legged in the seat assigned to Rishi. The man's eyes were half-shut, pretending to nap but actually scanning his surroundings with the practiced subtlety of an unreserved passenger trying to blend in.
Rishi froze mid-step.
He opened his mouth to speak—but his voice tangled in hesitation. Confrontation was not his strong suit. A lifetime of avoiding conflict pushed him backward, urging him to simply stand aside, to let things resolve themselves, to not make a fuss.
He was about to step away—conceding defeat—when a calm yet firm voice cut through the air.
"Woh reserved seat hai. Inka seat hai."
"That's a reserved seat. It belongs to him."
Rishi turned.
A woman in her early fifties sat by the window, draped in a navy-blue shawl over a soft grey kurta. Her reading glasses reflected the overhead lights, and a thick paperback rested open on her lap. Her voice was not loud, yet it carried the weight of someone used to being obeyed.
The unreserved passenger looked from her to Rishi, muttered an apology, and slid away with minimal protest.
Rishi stared, slightly stunned. "Thank you," he said softly, his voice cracking from the tension.
The woman offered a small, knowing smile. "I saw you practicing in the mirror. Thought you might need a bit of assistance."
Rishi blinked. "…You saw that?"
Her laugh was warm, not mocking. "I've been a teacher for years. Nervousness is practically a dialect I'm fluent in."
Rishi gave a shy, self-conscious grin. "I'm Rishi. Engineer."
She extended her hand with calm grace. "Neeranjana Sharma. History lecturer. Based in Noida. But—" She paused, her eyes briefly brightening with nostalgia— "I studied in Chennai. Madras Christian College. Class of 2006. I'm heading back for a reunion."
Rishi raised his eyebrows. "Chennai? You don't sound like you're from the south."
"Born in Delhi," she replied, adjusting her shawl. "But living in Chennai for three years changes you. I still remember where the best filter coffee is."
Rishi chuckled softly. "Not many people say that."
She shrugged lightly. "People are always more layered than they appear."
He hesitated for a beat, then decided to dive in. "Do you… possibly… have a charger?"
Her eyes sparkled with recognition, as if she had expected the question.
"Phone model?"
"Vivo."
Without a fuss, she reached into her canvas tote bag, rummaged through carefully organized compartments, and pulled out a slightly worn charger.
"I carry extras. Occupational habit. Students are always losing things." She handed it to him. "This one charges a bit slowly. But it works."
Relief washed over him, warm and overwhelming. "You may have just saved my entire night."
"Glad to be of service," she said, returning to her book. "And since I'm going all the way to Chennai too… you have company if boredom becomes unbearable."
Rishi plugged the charger in.
Charging… 20%. Thank God.
He exhaled deeply, allowing his shoulders to relax for the first time in hours. Outside, the train picked up speed, swallowing the shadows of Agra as the night stretched ahead, long and mysterious.
He glanced sideways.
Neeranjana was already absorbed in her book again, her presence calm and quietly reassuring.
For the first time since the journey began, the train didn't feel quite so lonely.
Nor, for that matter, did he.