Chapter 4: The Entry of Uncle Balwant
The door slid open with a screech of metal on metal, and the man who entered did so like he was arriving at a wedding. Chin up. Chest out. Walking stick tapping a jaunty rhythm against the floor.
He was old. Really old. The kind of old that made you do math in your head—ninety? Ninety-five?—and then do it again because surely you'd miscalculated. His face was a landscape of wrinkles, deep furrows carved by decades of sun and laughter and probably a fair amount of whiskey. White stubble covered his jaw in uneven patches. A shock of white hair, thin as spider silk, was combed carefully across his scalp.
But his eyes.
His eyes were young. Dark brown, sharp as glass, with a glint that suggested he'd seen everything and been impressed by none of it. Those eyes swept the coupe—the berths, the luggage, me—and then landed on Reshma.
He stopped dead.
For a moment, nobody moved. The old man stood in the doorway, his walking stick hovering above the floor, his mouth slightly open. Reshma was reclined on the lower berth, one leg drawn up, her saree arranged with that casual precision she'd perfected over decades. The fabric was pale cream today, almost translucent in the morning light, and it sat low on her hips—low enough that her navel was visible, a small dark knot above the waistline.
The old man stared at that navel like it was the answer to a question he'd been asking for ninety years.
"Arre wah," he breathed.
The spell broke. He shuffled forward, the walking stick clicking against the floor, and dropped his bag onto the opposite berth with a thud that suggested it contained bricks or bodies or both.
"Arre wah," he said again, louder this time. "Itni subah itni khoobsurat... Bhagwan ne aaj ka din special banaya hai."
Reshma's lips curved. Just slightly. Just enough.
"Namaste, uncle," she said.
"Namaste, namaste." He waved a hand, dismissive, as if formalities were beneath them. "Uncle mat bolo. Balwant. Balwant Singh. Retired railway inspector. Forty-two years of service. And you, madam?"
"Reshma."
"Reshma." He tasted the name, rolled it around his mouth like a good wine. "Beautiful name. Beautiful woman. Beautiful morning." He gestured at the window, where the sun was now fully risen, painting the fields in shades of gold and green. "You see this? This is Kashmir coming. The air changes. The light changes. Everything becomes... " He kissed his fingertips. "Poetry."
I cleared my throat.
"Rahul," I said. "I'm Rahul. I'm traveling with—"
"Beta, later." Balwant didn't even look at me. His attention was a laser, and it was locked on Reshma. "Madam, you are sitting in the sun. This is not good. Your skin—it will darken. Here." He gestured at the window seat, the one he'd just claimed. "You take this. I will sit on the other side."
"Uncle, please, I'm fine—"
"Balwant."
"Balwant. I'm fine. The sun is not—"
"Nonsense." He was already moving, already shuffling toward her, his walking stick clacking against the floor with renewed urgency. "A woman like you should be protected from the elements. From everything. In my day, we would—"
"Your day?" Reshma raised an eyebrow. "And what day is that, exactly?"
He stopped. Looked at her. That glint in his eyes brightened.
"A good day," he said. "A day when men knew how to treat a woman. When we didn't just stare at our phones and forget how to talk. When we—"
"Stared at women instead?"
The question hung in the air. I held my breath, waiting for the old man to deflate, to stammer, to retreat. But Balwant didn't retreat. He laughed—a dry, rasping sound that turned into a cough, which he waved away with his free hand.
"Touché," he said. "You're quick. I like that. Most women your age—"
"Most women my age?"
"Most people. They don't listen. They wait for their turn to talk. You—you listen. You respond. You have... " He searched for the word. "Presence."
Reshma smiled. A real smile this time, not the polite one she'd been wearing. "You're very forward, Balwant."
"I'm very old," he corrected. "At my age, forward is just... honest. I don't have time for games. I don't have time for pretending. If I see a beautiful woman, I say she's beautiful. If I want to sit next to her, I ask. Life is too short for anything else."
He was standing beside her berth now, close enough that his walking stick was almost touching her foot. She hadn't moved away. She hadn't pulled her pallu up, hadn't adjusted her saree, hadn't done any of the things women did when they wanted to signal disinterest.
She was watching him. That same half-smile on her lips, that same unreadable glint in her eyes.
"Sit down, Balwant," she said. "You're making me tired just looking at you."
He sat. Immediately. Eagerly. The walking stick clattered to the floor, and he didn't bother picking it up. He perched on the edge of her berth like a boy at the front of a classroom, hands on his knees, eyes bright.
"Tell me about yourself," he said.
"Tell me about you first."
"Me? What's to tell? I was born in Lahore. Partition happened. I came to Delhi with nothing. Joined the railways because it was the only job that would take a refugee. Worked my way up. Saw the country change. Saw everything change." He shrugged. "Now I'm old. My wife is dead. My children are in America. I travel because it's the only thing that keeps me from sitting in my flat and waiting to die."
The words were matter-of-fact, stripped of self-pity. He said them the way you'd recite a grocery list. But something flickered in his eyes—a shadow, quickly gone.
"I'm sorry," Reshma said.
"Don't be. I'm not." He leaned forward. "You know what I've learned? In ninety years? Happiness is not a destination. It's a decision. Every morning, you decide: am I going to be happy today? Am I going to find joy in the small things? The chai. The sunrise. The conversation with a beautiful woman on a train."
"Beautiful woman." Reshma tilted her head. "You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
"You don't know anything about me."
"I know you're beautiful. I know you're smart. I know you smell like jasmine and something else—cardamom? Yes. Cardamom. And I know you're traveling with this boy—" he jerked a thumb at me, finally acknowledging my existence—"who is either your son or your lover, and I suspect he's neither."
I choked on air.
Reshma laughed. Actually laughed, a low, warm sound that seemed to fill the compartment.
"He's my son's friend," she said. "We're going to Kashmir. Family thing."
"Ah." Balwant nodded, as if this explained everything. "Family. Yes. I understand family. I had a family once. Kids. Grandkids. Great-grandkids, probably, by now. I've lost track." He waved a hand. "They call sometimes. Birthdays. Diwali. The usual."
"That sounds lonely."
"It is." He said it without hesitation. Without embarrassment. "But loneliness is just another thing you decide. Am I going to be lonely today? Or am I going to find someone to talk to? Someone to make me laugh? Someone to look at?" He smiled at her. A real smile, crinkly and warm. "Today, I found you."
Reshma was quiet for a moment. Then she reached for her bag—slowly, deliberately, not bending forward this time—and pulled out a small pouch of cardamom pods. She offered one to Balwant.
"Here," she said. "For your breath."
He took it. Popped it into his mouth. Chewed.
"I'll need it," he said. "If I'm going to keep talking to you."
"Are you planning to keep talking to me?"
"Madam, I'm planning to talk to you all the way to Kashmir. I'm planning to tell you stories. I'm planning to make you laugh. I'm planning to—" He stopped. Coughed. Looked at me. "Beta, is there somewhere else you'd like to sit?"
"No," I said. "I'm good."
"Suit yourself."
He turned back to Reshma. And then he began.
"The year was 1962. I was a young inspector then. Posted in Jammu. The trains were different—slower, hotter, no AC. But the people... the people were the same. Full of stories. Full of life. There was this woman—"
Reshma leaned back. Listened. Her bangles clicked as she adjusted her pallu, the sound delicate and deliberate. She was enjoying this. Enjoying him. The way he talked, the way he looked at her, the way he refused to be anything other than what he was.
I watched from my berth, already exhausted. The train rattled on. The sun climbed higher. And somewhere in the distance, the mountains were waiting.
They always took longer than they should.
---
An hour passed. Then two. Balwant talked. Reshma listened. I pretended to sleep.
"I climbed Vaishno Devi seven times," Balwant announced, apropos of nothing. "Seven times. The last time was when I was eighty-five. My grandson said, 'Dadu, you'll die on the mountain.' I said, 'Then I'll die on the mountain. What better place?'"
"Seven times," Reshma repeated. "That's impressive."
"It's nothing. You know what's impressive? My knees." He slapped them. "Eighty-five years old and these knees carried me up thirteen kilometers of mountain. These knees have seen things, madam. These knees have stories."
"I'm sure they do."
"You want to hear one?"
"Depends on the story."
He grinned. Mischief personified. "This one involves a goat. A very angry goat. And a Dutch tourist who didn't understand Hindi."
Reshma laughed. That low, warm sound again. "Okay. Tell me."
He told her. It was a long story—involving a narrow mountain path, a territorial goat, a Dutch woman who mistook the goat's anger for a greeting, and Balwant himself trying to mediate between the two while simultaneously protecting his lunch. By the end, Reshma was wiping tears from her eyes, and even I was smiling despite myself.
"You're a ridiculous man," Reshma said.
"I'm a ridiculous man who has lived a ridiculous life," he agreed. "And I'm not done yet. What about you? What's your story?"
"Nothing so interesting."
"Try me."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "I married young. Had a son. Raised him. watched him grow up. Watched him leave. And now I'm here, on a train, going to a place I've never been, with a boy who isn't mine, for reasons I'm not entirely sure about."
"That's not a story," Balwant said. "That's a summary."
"It's all anyone needs to know."
"No." He shook his head. "That's all you want to tell. There's a difference."
She looked at him. Something shifted in her expression—a crack in the facade, quickly sealed. "You're very perceptive."
"I'm very old. Perceptive is just... consequences."
"Consequences of what?"
"Of living. Of watching. Of paying attention when everyone else was looking away." He leaned closer. "You're hiding something, Reshma. I don't know what. But it's there. Behind your eyes. Behind your smile."
"And?"
"And I'm not going to ask." He sat back. "Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I want you to know that I know. That's all."
Reshma was quiet. The train rattled on. The cardamom in Balwant's mouth clicked against his teeth.
"You're strange," she said finally.
"I'm ninety. Strange is just... expected."
She smiled. But it was a different smile now. Softer. Almost sad.
"Thank you," she said. "For not asking."
"You're welcome." He picked up his walking stick. Examined it. Set it down again. "Now. Tell me about your son. Is he handsome? Does he have his mother's temperament? Is he married?"
"He's handsome. He's stubborn. And no, he's not married."
"Stubborn," Balwant repeated. "That's code for difficult."
"It's code for respectful." She glanced at me. "Rahul, would you say my son is respectful?"
I pretended to wake up. "What? Sorry. I was—"
"Sleeping. I know. But answer the question."
"Rohan? Yeah. He's respectful. He's also kind of an idiot sometimes, but in a good way."
"In a good way," Balwant repeated. "That's code for 'he makes mistakes but I love him anyway.'"
"He's my best friend," I said. "So yeah. Something like that."
Balwant nodded. "Good. Friends are important. At my age, I've buried most of mine. You should keep yours close. You never know when—" He stopped. Coughed. Waved his hand. "Listen to me. Talking like an old man. Should be talking about... I don't know. Football. Movies. Modern things."
"You don't strike me as a football man," Reshma said.
"I'm not. I'm a cricket man." He said it with pride. "Sachin. Dravid. Kohli. I've watched them all. From stadiums, sometimes. From my drawing room, mostly. You know what I learned from cricket?"
"What?"
"It's not about winning. It's about playing. Showing up. Day after day. Regardless of the outcome. Regardless of the weather. Just... showing up."
"Is that what you do?"
"That's what I do." He looked at her. "That's what I'm doing right now."
The train began to slow. Through the window, I could see a station approaching—small, dusty, with a name I couldn't read. A few passengers on the platform. A chai wallah with a steaming kettle. A stray dog sleeping under a bench.
"Where are we?" Reshma asked.
"Somewhere between everything," Balwant said. "Somewhere between who you were and who you're going to be."
She looked at him. Long and steady.
"You really are strange," she said.
"And you really are beautiful." He smiled. "We're even."
The train stopped. Doors opened. People got off. People got on. The chai wallah sold two cups through the window—one to a woman in a red sari, one to a man in a grey suit. The dog didn't wake up.
And in the coupe, three strangers sat in silence, waiting for the train to move again.
It did.
"Rahul," Reshma said.
"Yeah?"
"How long until Delhi?"
I checked my phone. "Four more hours."
"Four hours." She looked at Balwant. "You think you can keep talking for four hours?"
"Madam, I can keep talking for four years." He picked up his walking stick and pointed it at the window. "But first—look."
I looked. On the horizon, faint and blue against the morning sky, there they were.
Mountains.
"The beginning," Balwant said. "The beginning of everything."
Reshma leaned toward the window. Her pallu slipped—just slightly, just enough that Balwant's eyes flickered down and then quickly up. He didn't stare. He didn't freeze. He just smiled. A private, knowing smile.
That was the difference, I realized. The coolie had stared. This man observed. And in the space between those two things, there was a whole world of difference.
"What's the first story you'll tell me in Kashmir?" Reshma asked.
"The one about the lake," Balwant said. "The one about the houseboat. The one about the woman who—" He stopped. Looked at her. "Actually. Maybe I'll save that one."
"Why?"
"Because I think you'll understand it too well."
She didn't ask what he meant. She didn't pretend not to understand. She just nodded, slowly, and turned back to the window.
The mountains grew closer.
And the train carried us forward, toward the cold, toward the unknown, toward a place where stories waited like ghosts in the fog.
Four hours.
It felt like everything and nothing.