The Train to Jodhpur

The platform was alive with the late-evening chaos of Delhi Junction. The air buzzed with vendors calling out for chai, the smell of roasted peanuts drifting over the metallic tang of iron tracks. The old blue express train heaved like a tired animal, waiting for its passengers to board. Aman adjusted the strap of his worn leather bag and climbed into his coach. He hadn’t been on this route in years—the Delhi-to-Jodhpur Express, a journey that had once been more than just travel. He found his seat, by the window, and dropped into it with a sigh. He expected the usual: families juggling tiffin boxes, children darting around the aisles, and old men with newspapers folded like weapons. What he did not expect was her. Meera stood at the opposite end of the coach, struggling to lift a suitcase onto the rack. Her hair was shorter now, tied loosely, strands falling over her face as she fought with the stubborn weight of the bag. Aman froze, watching as though the years between them had collapsed into this one impossible moment. Finally, she turned. Their eyes met. For a second, the noise of the train station dissolved into silence. She blinked. “Aman?” He nodded, his throat dry. “I didn’t think…” she started, then stopped, her suitcase finally settled. “Neither did I,” he said quietly. They ended up seated across from each other. It felt like some cosmic joke—two people who hadn’t spoken in eight years now trapped in the same compartment, facing each other for the overnight ride. The train jerked forward, pulling them out of the station and into the dim, rust-red twilight of North India. For a while, they sat in silence, the rhythm of the wheels on the tracks filling the void. Then Meera opened her flask, pouring chai into two small steel cups. She slid one across the table. “You still drink it without sugar?” she asked, her tone casual, but her eyes searching. Aman half-smiled. “You remember.” The conversation picked up slowly, like old instruments tuning themselves. They spoke of jobs, cities, mutual friends. But beneath each word was the echo of what was unsaid—the years they’d been in love, the years they’d been apart. Outside the window, the landscape blurred: mustard fields, lone trees, and villages lit by flickering lamps. Inside, memories returned like ghosts. “I kept the postcards,” Meera said suddenly. Aman looked up. “The ones you sent from Manali, from Udaipur… I kept them all.” Her voice was steady, but her fingers twisted the edge of her dupatta. Aman’s chest tightened. He wanted to say he had kept things too—the faded kurta she once bought him at a flea market, the silly doodles she drew in his notebooks. But he swallowed the words. Halfway through the night, a boy selling samosas came down the aisle. They bought a packet, breaking the crispy triangles in silence, the smell of fried potato and spice warming the compartment. It felt like old times—until Meera spoke. “Do you ever wonder if we could have… tried harder?” The question hung heavy in the dim light of the compartment. Aman looked out at the dark horizon. “I do,” he said finally. “But we were young. Stubborn. And maybe… scared.” Meera nodded. Her eyes glistened, but she quickly looked away. The train rattled on. Outside, the desert night stretched endless, stars scattered like spilled salt. Around midnight, as most passengers slept, Aman and Meera remained awake. The compartment was cloaked in shadows, punctuated by the glow of passing station lights. Meera leaned closer. “I should tell you something,” she whispered. “I’m getting married.” The words cut through the night like a blade. Aman felt his heart stumble, but he kept his face still. “Congratulations,” he managed. She smiled faintly, though her eyes betrayed her. “He’s kind. Good. My parents like him.” A pause. “But he’s not you.” Silence. The train thundered across a bridge, echoing like a heartbeat. Aman’s hand tightened around his cup. He wanted to reach across, to take her hand like he used to. Instead, he whispered: “And I’m not yours anymore.” The air between them was thick with everything they couldn’t say. By dawn, the train was slowing near Jodhpur. The desert sky glowed orange, bathing the compartment in light. Aman and Meera sat side by side, quiet, the years between them heavy but oddly softened. As the train pulled into the station, she stood, adjusting her bag. For a moment, she hesitated. Then, she placed a small folded paper on the table. “For the postcards,” she said softly. He picked it up after she left. It was blank—except for a small line at the bottom in her handwriting: *“Some journeys never end, Aman. They just change tracks.”* Aman stepped off the train, the crowd swallowing him, the paper tucked safely in his hand. He knew they would not meet again—not like this. But as the whistle blew and the train pulled away, he realized something: endings could also be beginnings, even if only within the heart.