As the crowd moves in and out of the perpetually busy Nizammudin railway station, the dark clouds, taking advantage of the dense fog, ready to spring a surprise onto the oblivious passersby underneath, stealthily accumulate in the troposphere . Here, in the troposphere, away from the prying eyes, the layers of the clouds nudge each other, rumbling and emitting flashes of light; before long it starts to rain.
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Winter rain: the weirdest of all rains. Those who love rains enjoy winter rains for its mild intensity -it's almost never a downpour- and its rarity. But rain lovers are almost always privileged rich with heated houses. The poor and the homeless usually don't like any kind of precipitation, but they despise winter rains. Then there are the mystics, the writers and the poets, who love to romanticise winter rains. They believe that unexpected things happen in its presence.
She runs toward the pakoda shop. The silver dangler in her right ear flails dangerously-like a swing in a storm. There is a storm ongoing on its surface too. A silver crack flashes in the sky all of a sudden which reflects off of the dangler in her right ear, bedazzling everyone around her. A thunder ensues which almost stops the time - like a full stop at the end of a sentence. Then a new sentence begins.
No dangler hangs from her left ear. She doesn't know it. Yet.
Under the awning jutting out of the roof of a pakoda shop outside the station, among many men trying to take shelter from the rain, she struggles to stay put.
She is the only woman there.
Being wise enough to know that straight men-regardless of their age, social status or educational background - can, at the first opportunity, start behaving in a manner that would absolutely infuriate their mothers, she notices the men around her- all appearing to be participating in some weird sort of solidarity exercise - start turning their gaze at her.
Their collective gaze burns on her skin. What is this sort of violence called? Maybe it doesn't have a name because men don't experience it.
She has no right to stand among them. She doesn't belong there. She is weaker and will be reminded that. They will feel powerful in the whole process.
This animalistic display of aberrant social behaviour normalised by generations of men elicits no emotions from her except for what one may call slight amusement.
One random young man comes closer and starts sneering and singing a hindi song out loud. " Tip Tip barsa paani.....paani main aag lagaai. Hai!!! aag lagi Dil main..."
" Dill ko Teri Yaad aayi . Teri Yaad Aaye toh JAL utha Mera bhiga badan, " She starts humming the same song under her breath.
Thunder rumbles. The world stops. The world starts again. A new paragraph.
" There is an important announcement kindly pay attention; if someone has lost a dangler, please report to the lost and found and claim it." suddenly she feels the absence of the dangler in her left ear. Her left hand palpates her ear lobes. She pushes herself into the rain and runs toward the lost and found section.
"Are they fake ? " asks the person incharge of the lost and found while carefully comparing the right to the left one in order to make sure they both belong to the same pair, " looks like aluminium! ."
" They are platinum, " replies Devika. "What's that? Is it expensive? " asks the incharge.
"Veryyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!" says someone from behind her.
She turns to find the source of the voice and her gaze stops at his big hooded eyes. He towers over her. A goofy adorale smile is plastered on his face and his skin is made of the conspiring dark clouds from the troposphere.
She stares at him.
He looks back defiantly, Smiling.
There are questions in her gaze; there
is kindness in his.
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" Ahem!" the incharge tries to bring their attention back to him. He hands her both the danglers and says, " he found your danglers, madam. It isn't mandatory , but if they really are expensive, you should reward him. Bye." " Thanks." She says and starts walking away.
"Coffee, " the guy shouts from behind her. she stops and turns to find him standing only a few inches away from him. she steps back and says, "Excuse me ? "
" I will take my reward. Buy me a coffee?" He says, squinting his eyes.
She silently observes his confidence, put on charm and adorable goofiness fading away as he stands there waiting for an answer.
She feels powerful. Relinquishing control, she decides to oblige.
" Yes. let's go. I know a place nearby."
Almost immediately he becomes his cocky, charming self again.
" I am Charlie Augustine. "
" Well ,Charlie Augustine, I am Devika and, for my sake, I hope you are not a serial killer. "
On the tracks adjacent to the platform along which they are walking a train stood a few minutes ago which is now on its way to Allahabad.
Kartik is in that train.
Devika sees the tracks and thinks about Kartik.
She glances at Charlie and wonders if Kartik was destined to meet Charlie and just missed.
