It was Patiala Junction

The kind of cold that made the air feel heavier, sharp against your skin. Each breath fogged the air, little clouds that vanished as quickly as they appeared. The night was alive in its own subdued way. A chaiwala shuffled between benches, balancing his battered kettle, calling out, “Chai garam! Chai le lo!” (Hot tea! Get your tea!) His voice cracked with effort, but no one seemed to notice, too wrapped in their scarves and their impatience.

I stood near the edge of the platform, hands shoved deep into my jacket pockets, watching the faint glow of the distant signals. The announcement blared again, jolting me out of my thoughts:

"Yatri kripya dhyan dein. Gadi sankhya 14816, Shri Ganganagar Intercity Express, apne nirdharit samay se teen ghante vilamb se chal rahi hai."
(Attention, passengers. Train number 14816, Shri Ganganagar Intercity Express, is delayed by three hours from its scheduled time.)

I sighed, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. The platform clock read 10:37 PM, its red digits glaring back at me as if mocking my impatience. The Dadar Express was my ride home, but home could wait. Right now, it felt like even the universe wanted me to stay here a little longer.

That’s when I saw her.

She walked onto the platform, cutting through the haze of fog like a quiet revelation. She wasn’t hurried, wasn’t flustered by the cold or the chaos around her. A white shawl wrapped loosely around her shoulders caught the faint, flickering light from the overhead lamps. Her duffle bag swung casually by her side, and there was a certain calmness to her movements, like she belonged here—like this moment had been crafted just for her.

“Ek dam gori-chitti, dudh wargi.”
(Fair and glowing, like milk.)

The words echoed in my head, a phrase my grandmother used to say about women with porcelain skin. But it wasn’t just her complexion—it was the way she carried herself, an effortless grace that felt out of place in a setting like this.

I watched her stop near a bench at the far end of the platform. She set her bag down, rubbed her hands together, and glanced around like she was searching for something—or someone. My eyes followed her movements, but I stayed rooted where I was, unsure if I should approach or just let her be.

The chaiwala passed by, his cries cutting through the quiet hum of the station. “Ek chai dena, bhaiya,” I called out, my voice cracking slightly. (One tea, brother.)

The warmth of the glass cup felt good against my frozen fingers. I took a sip, watching the steam curl upwards as I turned back toward her. She was sitting now, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp, scanning the platform as if taking it all in.

The silence between us wasn’t just silence; it was charged, as though the cold air carried something unspoken.

Then, before I knew it, I was walking toward her. My feet moved on their own, and the tea sloshed dangerously close to the rim of the cup as I got closer.

“Train’s late,” I said when I was finally near enough to speak.

She turned her head, her eyes meeting mine with a curious, steady gaze. “I know,” she said simply, her voice as calm as she looked.

I hesitated, unsure how to keep the conversation alive. But she didn’t seem uncomfortable; she just turned back toward the tracks, her shawl slipping slightly off one shoulder.

“What about you?” she asked after a moment, surprising me. “Is your train late too?”

I nodded. “Three hours.”

She gave a soft laugh, shaking her head. “That’s Indian Railways for you.”

“Yeah,” I said, smiling despite myself. “You get used to it.”

The announcement crackled again, this time for her train:

"Yatri kripya dhyan dein. Gadi sankhya 56789, Amritsar Shatabdi, apne nirdharit samay se 14 ghante deri se chal rahi hai. Yeh gai platform number teen par aa rahi hai."
(Attention, passengers. Train number 56789, Amritsar Shatabdi, is running with a delay of 14 hours and is arriving on platform number three.)

She stood, brushing off invisible dust from her shawl, and reached for her bag.

“That’s me,” she said, her tone light but final.

“Where are you headed?” I asked, my voice softer now, as if trying to delay her departure.

“Home,” she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

“And where’s home?”

She paused, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Just a small town. You wouldn’t know it.”

“I could guess,” I offered, hoping to make her linger just a little longer.

She laughed, the sound warm against the cold. “Maybe next time.”

She turned toward the train that had just pulled in, its windows glowing faintly against the foggy backdrop. The doors hissed open, and passengers spilled onto the platform, their voices blending into a symphony of hurried farewells and directions.

She took a step toward the train, then stopped, glancing back at me.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

I told her, and she nodded, repeating it softly under her breath as though committing it to memory.

“I’m Priya,” she said.

Priya. The name felt like it belonged to this night, to the cold, to the silence that had hung between us like an unspoken promise.

“Maybe I’ll see you again,” she said, her voice almost lost in the noise of the boarding passengers.

And just like that, she turned and climbed onto the train.

I stood there, the warmth of the tea long forgotten, watching as her silhouette disappeared into the coach.

“Priya,” I whispered, the name feeling strange and familiar all at once.

The train began to move, its wheels groaning against the tracks, and her window passed by me, blurring her face into the fog.

I stayed on the platform long after the train was gone, the words she’d left me with replaying in my mind.

“Maybe I’ll see you again.”

I clenched the empty tea cup in my hand, feeling the cold seep back in, and whispered to the quiet night:

“I want to see you again.”