The train was almost ready to leave the platform.
Seats that had been lying empty when I first boarded were now filled — some with sleepy faces, others chattering, already busy with their own small worlds.
Right on schedule, without a minute’s hesitation, the train groaned into motion, pulling itself away from Ahmedabad with a metallic sigh.

At first, I didn’t feel like doing anything.
My mind was still lingering somewhere between dream and morning, so I simply leaned against the window and stared out, earphones tucked in, music flowing quietly into my half-sleeping brain.
The city slipped past in a slow-motion blur — old shops waking up, sleepy rickshaw drivers, deserted streets just starting to breathe.

I don’t like to sleep when I travel alone.
You never know when your bag might decide to find a new owner — and I’ve never been brave enough to test my luck.
So I stayed awake, drifting between songs and lazy thoughts.

By the time the clock slipped past nine, two hours had already disappeared without a trace.
I pulled out my novel to kill time — Norwegian Wood by Murakami.

Next to my seat, a mother and her son had settled in — a boy of maybe nine years old, and a woman who couldn’t have been much older than her early thirties.
For a long moment, I found myself watching them from the corner of my eye.
Their small talks, the way she adjusted his collar, the soft scolding, the easy laughter — all of it stirred something in me.
Old memories, soft and golden, memories that would never return to be lived again.
It was a quiet ache, one that sat heavily but didn’t hurt.

Sometime later, a man approached me politely, asking if he could take my seat for a while. His own berth was one of those middle ones — the ones you can’t really stretch out on during the day.
I agreed easily, gathering my book and moving to the side lower berth, already too lost in Murakami’s world to care much.
I read there for a long time, letting the train rock me gently, letting the hours bleed into each other.

Around 1:30 PM, I paused.
There were still a few hours left before my destination would arrive.
I unwrapped the lunch my mother had packed earlier that morning — simple, warm food.
After eating, I leaned back again, the novel reopening easily on my lap, ready to take me back where I had left off.

The world outside the window had changed —
Dry fields now stretched under a punishing sun, the occasional tree bending under hot winds.
It was no longer morning.
The day was heavy and full and beating down on everything with a quiet violence.

Fifteen minutes before the final stop, I pulled out my phone and called my friend. I told him, half shouting over the noise of the moving train. “Get ready. Don’t make me wait in this heat!”

He laughed on the other end and promised he was already on the way.

The train crawled into Jodhpur station fifteen minutes behind schedule.
I stepped down with my bags slung over my shoulders, my shirt already sticking lightly to my back from the dry heat. It was midday now.
The sun sat high and merciless in the sky, and even the occasional gusts of wind carried the temperature instead of relief.

I made my way through the crowds toward the exit, the heavy air wrapping itself around me like an old, dusty blanket.
Now all that was left was to wait for my friend —
Standing there, sweating under the hard blue sky, with the road ahead already waiting for the next part of the day to begin