Chapter 2: Gali Mein Nazar
The compartment air was a solid thing, thick with the smell of stale sweat, rust, and the sweet, cloying odor of marigold garlands from departing pilgrims. S-4 was a non-AC sleeper, and the morning sun hit the side of the train, baking the metal and turning the interior into a humid cage.
Ruby found their berths—two lower seats facing each other. She gestured for Chhote Baba to take the window seat. He climbed up, his small frame nearly vanishing against the dark blue upholstery, his eyes avoiding her as she stowed the suitcase under the seat. The motion required her to bend deeply, the saree’s pale yellow back stretching taut across the full, round expanse of her hips. A man sitting diagonally across froze, a half-peeled banana forgotten in his hand.
She settled onto the facing berth, arranging the pallu with a careless flick. The overhead fan did little but push the hot air around. The sheer fabric of her saree fluttered faintly against her skin, clinging intermittently to the damp curves of her breasts and stomach. She was aware of the eyes. The compartment was filling up—a family with two wailing children, a pair of college students sharing earphones, an old woman wrapped in a grey shawl whose gaze felt like a dry, judging leaf scraping against her skin.
Chhote Baba cleared his throat, staring fixedly at the passing slums outside the window. “Beta… thandak lagi toh shawl nikaal loon?” he mumbled, not looking at her.
“Nahi, Sasurji. Mujhe garmi lag rahi hai,” Ruby said, her voice bright. She leaned forward to pull a water bottle from the bag, and the neckline of her saree gaped open, offering the man with the banana an unavoidable, shadowed glimpse. He coughed and turned violently towards the corridor.
The train jolted into motion, the station sliding away. The rhythmic clatter of wheels on tracks began, a sound that promised hours of confined, swaying intimacy with strangers.
A ticket collector in a faded uniform moved through, clipping and muttering. When he reached them, he took their tickets, his eyes performing a slow, practiced sweep of Ruby from head to waist before snapping back to the paper. “Dilli tak?” he grunted.
“Haan,” Ruby said, meeting his gaze squarely. He moved on faster than he’d arrived.
Chhote Baba seemed to shrink further into his seat. The unspoken question—why are you dressed like this?—hung between them, louder than the train’s noise. Ruby ignored it. She pulled out a small magazine, fanning herself with it, the movement making the thin fabric of her blouse-less choli flutter against her body.
About an hour in, a man paused in the aisle. He was maybe forty, with a carefully trimmed moustache and a phone held up as if studying a map. His eyes, however, were not on the screen. They were on the deep ‘V’ of Ruby’s back, where the saree’s low waist revealed the soft, dimpled skin and the knot of her petticoat.
“Bhabhi,” he said, his voice smooth. “Yeh seat khali hai?”
Ruby looked up. She saw where his attention had been. A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. “Nahi. Meré sasurji baithe hain.”
“Ah.” The man’s eyes finally rose to meet hers. They held a glint of audacity. “Aap akeli travel kar rahi hain? Husband nahi hain?”
Chhote Baba stiffened. Ruby’s smile didn’t waver. “Hain. Dusre compartment mein hain.”
“Accha.” The man took a half-step closer, bracing himself against the upper berth. The train swayed, and he used it as an excuse to lean slightly into their space. “Aapki saree… bahut unique hai. Vrindavan ki khaas hai kya? Itni… hawa-daari.” Airy.
The old woman across the aisle sucked her teeth in clear disapproval. The college boys had now noticed, their music forgotten.
“Sab hawa-daari saree pehnein toh train mein AC ki zaroorat hi nahi pade,” Ruby replied, her tone light, almost teasing. She didn’t look away.
The man laughed, a short, surprised bark. “Sahi baat hai! Aapka sense of humor bhi unique hai.” He was lingering, his gaze dropping again to her neckline, emboldened by her lack of recoil.
That’s when Shyam appeared.
He was flushed, his hair disheveled from fighting his way through three crowded compartments. His eyes found Ruby first—calm, smiling, engaged with a stranger—and then the man, whose posture was all predatory ease. The coil of anxiety in Shyam’s gut pulled wire-tight.
“Kya ho raha hai yahan?” The words came out sharper than he’d intended, cracking through the compartment’s ambient noise.
All eyes swung to him. Ruby’s smile softened, turning placid. “Arré, Shyam. Aap? Kuch nahi. Yeh sahib puchh rahe the seat khali hai ki nahi.”
The stranger straightened up, his own smile turning placating, oily. “Haan ji, bas yahi poochh raha tha. Aap hi husband honge? Aapki wife bahut humorous hain.”
Shyam’s jaw tightened. He saw everything: the man’s lingering eyes, the old woman’s scorn, his father’s silent mortification, and Ruby, sitting there like a queen on her sun-yellow throne, utterly unperturbed. The visual proof of his fear was standing right in front of him, complimenting her.
“Hmm,” Shyam grunted, not accepting or denying the humor. He looked at Ruby. “Sab theek hai?”
“Bilkul.” She patted the space beside her on the berth. “Aap baithe? Kitni der aayenge?”
“Lunch time tak nahi aa paunga. Checking hai,” Shyam said, the bureaucratic detail sounding pathetic even to him. He was making excuses to stay, to stand guard, and they both knew it.
The stranger, sensing the changed temperature, gave a slight nod. “Theek hai, theek hai. Aap log enjoy kijiye.” He slid his eyes over Ruby one last time—a slow, deliberate scrape—before moving down the aisle.
Shyam watched him go, a hot, sour anger rising in his throat. He turned back to Ruby. The sunlight from the window was directly on her now, turning the nylon saree into a pane of glowing amber, her body a dark, detailed sculpture behind it. He couldn’t breathe for a second.
In a low voice, meant only for her but loud enough for Chhote Baba’s straining ears, he hissed, “Yeh tum kya kar rahi ho, Ruby? Puri compartment dekh raha hai.”
She looked up at him, her kajal-rimmed eyes wide, innocent. “Kya kar rahi hoon? Baithi hoon. Sasurji ke saath train journey enjoy kar rahi hoon.” She leaned forward slightly, lowering her own voice to a intimate murmur that didn’t match her words. “Aap hi toh keh rahe the, darr mat. Main kuch galat nahi kar rahi, babu. Bas… baithi hoon.”
The train hit a curve, and she swayed. Her shoulder brushed against his arm. The contact was electric, a bolt of the familiar intimacy that now felt charged with conflict.
Shyam had no retort. She was, technically, just sitting. He had approved this. He had been complicit in her rebellion the moment he walked out of their bedroom without demanding she cover up. His anger had no safe target except the leering stranger, who was already gone.
“Lunch time milte hain,” he finally muttered, defeated. He couldn’t stay here. The sight of her, the palpable attention she was drawing, it was choking him.
He turned and pushed back into the crowded, anonymous corridor, leaving her in the spotlight. As he walked away, he heard her laugh lightly at something Chhote Baba hadn’t said, a rich, warm sound that drowned under the train’s roar but echoed in his head.
Back in S-4, Ruby smoothed her pallu. She could feel her father-in-law’s silent, shame-filled tension. She could feel the other passengers’ stolen looks. She took a slow sip of water, her hand perfectly steady.
The man with the banana finally finished it, still avoiding her direction. The old woman closed her eyes, pretending to sleep. The college boys had resumed their music, but their glances kept sneaking back.
Ruby opened her magazine. She didn’t read a word. She sat in the heart of the quiet storm she had created, feeling the power of her own stillness, and waited for the next thing to happen.