The 9:15 Train

Cold blue daylight. Fluorescent strips hum kar rahi hain. Rattling windows. Nearly empty compartment.

DEVIKA (40), formal office wear, trench coat, watch, handbag, coffee cup, sits upright with practiced calm. She reads a newspaper, then checks her phone.

The train sways.

MRUNAL (29), simple dress, backpack, enters and sits directly across from Devika.

A beat.

Khaali compartment mein bhi seat choose karni hoti hai kya?

Aapko lagta hai yeh seat khaali thi?

Devika looks up. Mrunal’s gaze is steady, unsettling.

Excuse me?

Coffee thandi ho gayi hai.

Main peeti hi thandi hoon.

Nahi. Aaj aap bas peene ka natak kar rahi ho.

Devika’s expression tightens. She folds the newspaper.

Aap kaun ho?

Ek commuter.

Jaise aap.

Devika checks her phone. No signal. The time reads 9:15.

Mujhe office late ho raha hai.

Har roz hota hai.

Har roz nahi.

Har roz. Same watch. Same trench coat. Same seat.

Aur same red pen.

Devika’s hand moves protectively toward her bag.

Aap mere baare mein itna kaise jaanti ho?

Aap newspaper ka corner fold karti ho jab nervous hoti ho.

Aur jab sach se bhaagna hota hai, aap phone dekh leti ho.

Devika forces a laugh.

Bohot observe kar leti ho.

Aap bhi karti thi.

A silence.

Train rattles harder. A station blurs past outside.

Kya chahiye aapko?

Sach.

Kaisa sach?

Wahi jo aapne years pehle platform pe chhoda tha.

Devika freezes.

Mujhe nahi pata tum kis baare mein bol rahi ho.

Baarish thi.

Devika’s breath catches.

Lights flicker kar rahi thi.

Platform pe crowd tha.

Aur ek chhoti ladki aapka haath pakad ke bol rahi thi—

“Mujhe mat chhodo.”

Devika’s face drains of color.

Stop.

Aapne us din office choose kiya.

Apni life choose ki.

Aur uske baad har subah isi train mein baith ke pretend kiya ki kuch hua hi nahi.

Kaun ho tum?

Main woh hoon jise aapne chhoda tha.

Devika stands slightly, panic rising.

Yeh bakwaas band karo.

She grabs her phone, tries calling. No network. The screen flickers back to 9:15.

Nahi... nahi, yeh galat hai.

Galat toh tab tha jab aapne mudkar dekha nahi.

Mrunal slowly opens her backpack and takes out a faded TRAIN TICKET.

She places it on the seat between them.

Aapka ticket.

Devika stares. Her name is visible on the torn, old ticket.

Yeh... yeh mere paas nahi tha.

Hoga.

Main... main bas...

Bas darr gayi thi?

Devika nods, ashamed.

Mujhe laga... agar main ruk gayi toh sab khatam ho jayega.

Aur aap chali gayi.

A long beat.

The train’s lights buzz louder.

Tum kya chahti ho?

Ki aap yaad rakho.

Train hamesha aage nahi jaati, Devika.

Kuch trains seedha us pal mein wapas le jaati hain jahan aapne khud ko bachane ke liye kisi aur ko chhod diya tha.

Devika looks to the window.

Outside: blurred platform signage slowly sharpens.

It reads: 9:15.

Devika turns back. Mrunal is still there, calm as ever.

Yeh... yeh station...

Haan.

The train SCREECHES to a stop.

Devika’s reflection in the window overlaps with a younger shadow for a split second.

Please...

Please kya?

Devika cannot answer.

The fluorescent light flickers.

When it steadies, Mrunal is gone.

Only the backpack remains on the seat.

Devika stares at it, then at the window.

Outside, the platform from years ago waits in the cold blue dawn.