I had boarded the wrong train. I sat on an empty berth, hoping to get down at the next station. The evening breeze suppressed my apprehensions of travelling ticketless and I dozed off, leaning against the window.
“Is this your seat?”
I woke up. There was a bespectacled girl looking over me.
“No… no…” I stammered, springing up.
“This is mine. But, you can rest. I am at another compartment with friends.” She gave an assured smile and left.
She was back in a few minutes. “Friends are playing cards, which I dislike,” she announced. “Can I sit here?”
I was surprised, pleasantly though. Who asks permission to sit in her own seat? Decency personified.
I shifted to one side of the berth as she sat down and took out a Sherlock Holmes.
“Do you like fiction?” I asked.
“Not of all types. Do you?”
“Not complicated genera like yours. I prefer simple ones; to both read and write.”
We spoke for the next few hours. We were opposites. She was a focused medico; I was a confused engineer. She was meticulously organized and I a complete mess. I noticed how neatly she wiped each finger with a handkerchief after washing her hands post-dinner, while I dried mine cramming them deep into my jeans pant pockets.
“This my gift to you.” I put an envelope on the seat before alighting. “To me, this is my best fiction piece so far. But I will not publish it. This is exclusively for you.”
I was gone before she could react.
I got an email a week later.
“I loved the story. I sent it to my uncle who runs a national magazine. Your writing deserved publication. This is my return gift.”
Our story had begun.
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