Chapter 1: The Mirror Before the Journey
The hallway smelled of old incense and mothballs, the kind of scent that soaked into the walls of buildings that had survived three generations of monsoon rot. The tube light above flickered once, twice, before settling into a steady hum that matched the low buzz in my skull from barely four hours of sleep.
I shifted the suitcase from my right hand to my left. It was heavier than it looked, stuffed with god knows what—silk saris, probably, enough to clothe half of Srinagar. My own backpack sat at my feet, a sad little lump of three t-shirts and a toothbrush.
"Rahul, beta, one minute."
Her voice drifted through the half-open door, soft as ghee melting on a hot tawa. I checked my watch. Four thirty-two. Our train left at six fifteen, and the cab was already waiting downstairs, its driver honking every forty-five seconds like the world would end if he didn't announce his presence to the entire building.
"I'm coming, Aunty."
"Arre, come inside na. Just see if this is sitting properly."
I pushed the door open with my free hand.
Reshma Shetty stood before the full-length mirror, her back to me, one hand at her waist adjusting the drape of her saree. The fabric was deep maroon shot with gold thread, the kind of saree that cost more than my monthly salary. It sat low on her hips, the waistline kissing that precise point where the small of her back began, where two soft folds of skin formed parentheses around her spine.
No blouse under the saree. Just the fall of silk against bare skin, held up by some engineering miracle I'd never understand.
"The pin is loose," she said, not turning around. "Can you see it? Just here?"
She pointed to a spot near her left hip where the fabric seemed fine to me. But what did I know about sarees? I was a man who owned exactly two formal shirts and considered ironing optional.
"It looks okay, Aunty."
"Okay is not good enough." She turned her head slightly, profile catching the dim yellow light from the single bulb overhead. "We are going to Kashmir. Everyone will be watching."
Her tone carried that particular blend of complaint and pride that Indian aunties had perfected over centuries. The implication was clear: she was not just traveling; she was performing. And I was the audience.
I set the suitcase down and walked closer. The floor creaked under my bare feet—I'd left my chappals at the door because that was the rule in her house, always had been, even at four in the morning when nobody would have noticed.
"Here," I said, reaching for the loose fold. "If you just tuck it under—"
My fingers brushed the fabric, and through it, the warmth of her skin. She didn't flinch. Didn't move away. Just watched my reflection in the mirror with those dark eyes that always seemed to know something you didn't.
"There," I said, stepping back. "Fixed."
She smiled then, a slow spreading thing that started at the corners of her mouth and didn't quite reach her eyes. She turned fully to face me, and I got the complete picture: the low-cut neckline that showed the soft curve of her breasts (no bra, she'd told my mother once, in a conversation I wasn't supposed to overhear, because it made her uncomfortable, because the straps cut into her shoulders, because at her age a woman was allowed certain freedoms), the bare midriff where the pleats of her saree separated just enough to expose her navel, a perfect little whirlpool of shadow.
"Tell me something, beta." Her voice dropped, the way it did when she was about to say something she'd deny later. "Kashmir mein thand hogi... ya sirf nazrein?"
Will it be cold in Kashmir, or only stares?
The question hung in the air between us like smoke. I felt the pink creep up my neck, knew she could see it, knew she was waiting for it.
"Both, probably," I said, trying to keep my voice light. "You packed for both, right?"
She laughed, a sound like wind chimes in a thunderstorm. "You are so young, Rahul. So innocent."
"I'm twenty-three."
"Exactly." She picked up her handbag from the bed, a leather thing that matched the saree. "At twenty-three, my husband thought he knew everything too. Then he met me."
She walked past me, close enough that I caught the scent of her—jasmine oil, sweat, something underneath that was purely human and entirely impossible to name. At the door, she paused.
"Your friend is very lucky," I said, because I didn't know what else to say. Because my brain had short-circuited somewhere around the word "husband" and was refusing to reboot.
She turned, one hand on the doorframe. The pose did something to her posture, pushed her chest forward, elongated her neck.
"My son?" She tilted her head. "Yes. He is lucky. But he also worries too much. That's why I asked you to come, you know. Not just for the bags."
"Aunty—"
"Call me Reshma." Her eyes held mine. "We are going to be on a train for eighty-four hours. 'Aunty' will start to sound strange, don't you think?"
I swallowed. "Reshma."
"Good boy." She reached up and patted my cheek twice, her palm cool against my flushed skin. "Now come. The cab is waiting. And I don't want to miss this train."
She disappeared into the hallway, and I stood there for a moment, listening to her footsteps descend the stairs, the click of her heels against marble. The suitcase sat at my feet, patient and heavy.
Eighty-four hours.
I picked it up and followed her down.
The cab driver had the radio on—some old Kishore Kumar song that my father used to play on Sunday mornings, the kind of music that made everything feel slower and sadder than it needed to be. Reshma slid into the backseat first, graceful as water pouring into a glass, and I followed, careful to leave a respectable distance between us.
She immediately closed it.
"This early in the morning," she said, settling against my side, "one needs warmth."
The driver glanced at us in the rearview mirror. I saw him see us—a young man and an older woman, their thighs pressed together, her head almost on his shoulder. I saw him make an assumption. I saw him look away.
"It's June," I said. "It's Mumbai. It's already thirty degrees."
"Exactly." She closed her eyes. "So why do I feel so cold?"
I didn't have an answer for that. I stared out the window instead, watching the city slide past—the chawls and the slums and the half-built highrises, the stray dogs nosing through garbage piles, the early morning vendors setting up their stalls of marigolds and bananas. Mumbai at four thirty in the morning was a different animal. Quieter. More honest. The city with its makeup off.
Reshma shifted beside me, and I felt her hand find my knee. Not in any deliberate way—just resting there, casual, like it belonged. Like we'd been doing this for years.
"Rahul," she murmured, eyes still closed. "You have a girlfriend?"
"No."
"Good."
I waited for her to elaborate, but she didn't. The radio played on. The city kept moving. And somewhere in the back of my mind, a small voice whispered that this trip was already spiraling into something I hadn't signed up for.
The train station was chaos. It always was. Porters in red shirts swarmed the platform like ants on a dropped laddoo, fighting over suitcases and passengers with equal enthusiasm. Vendors pushed carts of chai and samosas and cheap plastic toys that would break before the train left the station. Announcements crackled over the loudspeaker in three languages, each one more incomprehensible than the last.
I carried both bags because Reshma had disappeared somewhere, swallowed by the sea of bodies. I found her five minutes later at a bookstall, flipping through a Hindi film magazine with a picture of some young actress on the cover.
"Should I buy this?" she asked, not looking up. "For the journey."
"As if you don't have a hundred of them at home."
"One hundred and forty-seven." She smiled and handed the vendor a fifty. "I counted yesterday."
The vendor gave her two rupees change. She left it on his counter and walked away. That was Reshma—careless with money but careful with everything else, as if the universe owed her exact change and she was keeping score.
Our compartment was at the far end of the platform. Second class AC, because Reshma claimed she needed to "experience real India" and also because first class was sold out. The compartment had four berths—two lower, two upper—but no side berths, which meant we'd have the whole thing to ourselves unless someone else showed up.
"They said it was fully booked," I said, checking my ticket. "But maybe—"
"Maybe nothing." Reshma had already claimed the lower right berth and was arranging her saree pallu like a woman who had done this a thousand times. "The chain goes across. No one else is coming."
She was right. The confirmation slip showed only two passengers in our bay. I wondered if she'd paid extra to make that happen, or if my friend had. Either way, it felt like being handed a key to a room I wasn't sure I should enter.
The train jolted forward at exactly six fifteen. I was in the upper berth by then, lying on my back, staring at the ceiling fan that didn't work. Below me, I could hear Reshma settle in, the rustle of her saree, the click of her bangles as she set the alarm on her phone.
"Rahul."
"Yes?"
"You're not sleeping?"
"Trying to."
"Come down."
I leaned over the edge of the berth. She was lying on her side, facing the edge, one arm tucked under her head. The dim light from the corridor caught the curve of her shoulder, the slope of her waist, the shadow between her breasts.
"I'm comfortable here," I said.
"I need water." She said it like an order, not a request. "It's in my bag. The blue one."
I climbed down, trying not to wake the passengers in the next bay. Her bag was under the berth, a small blue purse crammed with god knows what. I fished out the water bottle and handed it to her.
She didn't take it.
"Sit," she said, patting the berth beside her. "Just for a minute. My legs are cramped."
I sat. The berth was narrow, built for one person, and my thigh pressed against hers. Through the saree, through the folds of silk, I could feel the heat of her body. Or maybe that was just my imagination. Maybe that was just me.
"You know what I liked about you?" she said, taking the bottle finally and unscrewing the cap. "The first time I met you. Do you remember?"
"The Diwali party. Two years ago."
"Three." She drank, slow, deliberate, water glistening on her lips. "You helped me find my husband's car keys. Everyone else was watching the fireworks. You were looking under the sofa."
"It was nothing."
"It was something." She capped the bottle and set it aside. "You looked at me like I was a person. Not just someone's wife. Not just someone's mother. A person."
The train swayed. Her shoulder brushed mine. Neither of us moved away.
"I don't know what you want me to say," I said.
"Nothing." She lay back down, closing her eyes. "I don't want you to say anything. I just want you to know."
The silence stretched between us, filled with the rhythm of wheels on tracks, the distant snoring of some uncle in the next compartment, the whisper of the AC that didn't quite cool the air.
"Goodnight, Rahul."
"Goodnight."
I climbed back to my berth. But I didn't sleep. Not for a long time. Not while I could still feel the ghost of her thigh against mine, still smell jasmine and sweat and something forbidden, still hear her voice in my head.
Kashmir mein thand hogi... ya sirf nazrein?
Eighty-four hours. We were barely one hour in.
I closed my eyes and counted the minutes until dawn.