The Window Between Us

It was an early February morning, just past six, and New Delhi Railway Station was already a living, breathing organism. The air was thick with movement and memory. Porters in faded red uniforms weaved between families and solo travelers, shouting over the din as they balanced suitcases on their heads. Trains heaved in and out like mechanical beasts, coughing plumes of smoke and steam into the sharp, yellow light. On Platform 12, the train to Lucknow stretched like a tired serpent, its metal skin tinged gold in the early sun.

A gola-wala stood at the platform’s edge with a handcart, his glass jars filled with neon-colored syrup — cherry red, cola brown, mango orange, electric blue—offering sweet relief in crunchy crushed ice. The chaiwallah called out in rhythm, his voice rising and falling like a melody. Pigeons burst from the overhead rafters. The scent of hot samosas, spilled diesel, and iron rails hung in the air.

Into this buzzing chaos stepped Gargi. Nineteen, a literature student, eyes sharp from reading too much Virginia Woolf and Auden, yet still romantic enough to underline passages in Neruda. She wore a sea-green kurta with a small tassel clinging just below the waist, her wrists chiming softly with copper bangles as she walked. A thick novel clutched in one hand, a hefty backpack over the other shoulder, and a sense of purpose on her face. She was used to having opinions—and having them heard.

Seat 43A. Window.

She exhaled in satisfaction and plopped down, adjusting her dupatta like a knight donning armor. The hum of voices, vendors, and distant announcements filled the air around her.

Then, with a crunch of gravel and a lopsided grin, he arrived.

Seat 43B.

He tossed his backpack down casually, the zipper half-open and a spiral notebook sticking out. A packet of yellow Lay’s chips crackled in his hand as he flopped into the seat. He was effortlessly unbothered—his nonchalance wasn’t staged but bred into his bones and the look of someone who had only just remembered to pack a toothbrush. Stubble traced his jaw, his light yellowish skin had the warmth of long afternoons in the sun, and his hair were an unbrushed rebellion. His clothes—faded jeans and a graphic tee—carried the lived-in look of someone who wasn’t trying to impress, just existing in himself happily hearing Bob Marley loud in his headphones. But his eyes, dark and sharp, glimmered with a quiet, mischievous intelligence.

Goofy, yes. But something guarded lingered underneath the surface. A kind of well-spoken reserve, like he chose his openness carefully.

He crunched a chip, looked at her, and smiled.

“Student?” Gargi asked suddenly, as if springing a pop quiz.

Yeah. Jamia.

Oh! You must be a muslim then! I’m supposing. She responded smiling excitedly.

He raised an eyebrow mid-crunch. “No, I’m a Sufi jazz pianist from Jupiter. But yeah, Muslim. Why?”

She blinked. “Nothing. I was just... I mean, it’s interesting. Your name?”

“Sahir.”

“Full name?”

“Sahir Qureshi. Want my Aadhaar card too?”

She bristled. “Why are you acting like someone’s interrogating you? I’m just curious.”

“Well, curiosity is nice. Unless it sounds like an NIA interview conducted over soggy train upholstery.”

“I’ve read a lot about Islam,” she said, trying to regain control. “It’s... complicated.”

“Read about it?” he said, brushing crumbs off his lap. “Must’ve been a fine WhatsApp University you attended.”

“I did not get my facts from WhatsApp! I’ve read actual books. Authentic ones. I’ve been reading a lot about Islamic philosophy lately. For one of our electives. And it’s... complex. Really layered.”

Sahir raised an eyebrow, curious but guarded. “Layered is a polite word. I know what my own religion says, thanks,”. “Unfortunately, most people prefer scary footnotes over nuance.” He snapped.

Two rows back, a police constable looked up from his newspaper. Across the aisle, a couple paused their samosa bites to eavesdrop.

“I’m just saying,” Gargi muttered, voice lower now, “Islam should modernize itself a bit more, especially for women. It's the 21st century.”

He turned, amused. “Ah. And you, Gargi -with-the-Om-on-her-neck, does your version of the 21st century include avoiding colonial stereotypes, or are you saving that for the 22nd?”

She blushed. “Okay. That came out wrong.”

“Maybe?” he mocked, eyebrow arched. “You debate like Mahua Moitra on a Red Bull drip.”

She gave a reluctant smile. “That’s not even an insult.”

“Nope. Just a compliment with sharp teeth.”

They sat in silence for a while. A mangy dog barked near the edge of the platform. The train gave a low groan and began to move.

“I just believe in dharma — the righteous to do,” she said eventually.

“And I believe in coffee and kindness,” Sahir replied, stretching. “And not in judging a billion people based on what some anchor yells at 9 PM.” But hey, gradually we’ll all come to terms with all this.”

And with a rustle of foil, he offered her the packet of Lay’s.

She hesitated, her mother’s warning echoing in her head: Don’t eat anything strangers give you, especially from young fellows on trains. She smiled politely and shook her head. “No thanks. My mom would have a fit.”

Sahir laughed. “Moms are usually right. Except about how much salt goes into the daal.”

An hour passed. The compartments filled with quiet hums, snores, and soft radio static. Just as the train slowed into Ghaziabad, Sahir stood up, slinging his bag over one shoulder.

“Getting down?” Gargi asked, surprised.

“Change of plan. Meeting a friend here instead. Long story.”

He lingered for a second, then said, more gently, “You’re not a bad person. Just... trained. Like a pup with too many whistles. Try unlearning a little. It’s good for the soul.”

Gargi gave a crooked smile. “You speak like a literature student.”

“I’m not. Computer Science. Jamia Millia Islamia. But I watch people. They’re better than algorithms and yeah, another interesting insight for you - I used to watch Little Krishna as a kid. Loved it.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Krishna and the butter pot? Iconic,” he grinned. “Practicing Islam didn’t cancel my childhood.” “That’s India, my beautiful country.”

She laughed despite herself.

He turned, smiled, and began walking.

She watched him go, disappearing into the morning crowd—past the gola-wala, past a group of pilgrims waiting for the Kashi Express, past a child tugging at her mother’s sari. His frame grew smaller, swallowed by the swirl of humans and honking trolleys and station chaos.

Then something made her move.

Gargi leaned toward the window, pressing her forehead lightly to the metal bar. Her eyes scanned the platform—and there he was. For a heartbeat, he turned, almost instinctively, and caught her gaze.

She raised her hand in a small, unexpected wave.

Sahir lifted his own hand in return, his grin playful, a little crooked. Then he turned, and the crowd folded him away like a closing page.

She sat back, her heart doing something light and foolish in her chest.

The book on her lap—suddenly irrelevant—remained unopened.

When the tea-seller came around again, she bought two cups.

One for herself.

And one for the empty seat by the window

.