The train was still rocking steadily when the announcement crackled through the speakers:
"Next station, Agra Cantt. Estimated stop time—five minutes."
The sun had dipped far below the horizon by now. The soft orange glow had turned into an inky blue dusk, broken only by flickering yellow lights speeding past the window. Rishi blinked away sleep and stretched his arms. His phone, resting beside him on the berth, lit up suddenly.
20% battery remaining.
He frowned. That couldn't be right. He had charged it in the morning. He unlocked the screen to check again, swiped down to close background apps, dimmed the screen brightness—but the percentage didn't budge.
A mild panic bloomed in his chest. His charger.
He reached for his rucksack, zipped it open, and started rifling through its compartments—power bank, earphones, toiletries, a paperback novel—but no charger. His heart sank as he realized the truth: it was in the other bag. The one his cousin took on the flight. He had packed it last-minute, thinking he'd grab it on the way. But amidst the shuffle at the airport, it was gone.
He slumped back onto his seat, staring at the dwindling battery icon like it was counting down his last thread of connection to the outside world. No songs. No movies. No games. No messages.
A subtle dread crept over him. Not just because of the dead phone, but because he would now have to do the unthinkable: talk to someone.
He glanced around the coach. Most passengers were quietly engrossed in their own worlds—eating, chatting, or dozing. He spotted a man in his late forties seated diagonally across from him, flipping through a Tamil newspaper. Another was a young guy in tracks, chewing gum and scrolling his own phone. The idea of approaching them turned his stomach.
Rishi stood up, slowly, and walked toward the end of the coach, where the restrooms were. Not because he needed to use it, but to give himself space—to rehearse.
Standing before the small fogged mirror inside the narrow washroom, he whispered to himself:
"Excuse me, do you have a charger I could borrow?"
Too stiff.
"Hey, sorry, my phone's dying… do you have a charger, by any chance?"
Better.
He tried it again, mimicking casual confidence. Then tried it in Tamil. "Anna… unga kitta charger irukka?"
His reflection didn't look convinced.
When he returned to his berth, things had changed. A new group had boarded at Agra—a family, from the sound of it. They spoke a mix of Telugu and Tamil, filling the aisle with the music of conversation, their luggage stowed above and children bouncing with energy.
But more pressingly, someone was sitting in his seat.
A middle-aged Tamil man in a stained white shirt, clearly an unreserved passenger, had slid into Rishi's spot. He had his bag on his lap and was already half-asleep. Rishi stood there, heart pounding. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. His voice died in his throat.
The train began to move again.
He didn't want conflict. He wasn't raised that way. But a storm of discomfort rose within him—part frustration, part guilt.
Just as he was about to walk away and find somewhere else to stand for a while, a clear, firm voice rang out.
"Sir… idhu reserved seat. Avarodiya seat idhu."
(This is a reserved seat. It's his seat.)
Rishi turned to see a woman—probably in her thirties—seated near the window. She wore a simple saree and had a book open on her lap. Her tone wasn't harsh, but authoritative. The unreserved man blinked awake, looked between the two of them, muttered an apology, and moved aside without much resistance.
Rishi blinked in surprise. "Thank you," he said softly, his voice cracking from disuse.
The woman gave a faint smile and nodded.
"I saw you standing outside. I figured it was your seat."
He sat down slowly, adjusting himself against the berth. A moment of silence passed. Then, without thinking, the words escaped him: Do you have a charger?
She tilted her head. What's your phone model?
"Samsung…"
Without hesitation, she reached into her bag, pulled out a charger, and handed it to him. Try this. But might charge a bit slowly.
Relief washed over him like a monsoon rain. "Thanks… romba thanks."
She smiled again, this time more warmly. "No problem. Naanum appadi thaan, charger maranthuduvom-nu bayam."
He plugged the charger into the old socket near the window, adjusted the switch, and his screen lit up with the sweet reassurance: Charging… 20%.
He leaned back, looking out into the darkness beyond the train window. The silhouettes of trees passed like shadows of memory. For the first time since he boarded the train, he felt a little less alone.
Maybe… just maybe… this journey wasn't going to be so unbearable after all.