Lost Connections

The train rocked gently beneath the night sky, a rhythmic lullaby of wheels on steel. The announcement crackled above:

"Next station, Agra Cantt. Estimated stop time—five minutes."

The world outside had sunk into shadow. Flickering yellow bulbs zipped past the window, casting brief halos on Rishi's face as he stirred from light sleep. He reached for his phone.

20% battery remaining.

His brows knit together. He had charged it in the morning, hadn't he? He tapped through the settings, closed background apps, toggled on battery saver—but the number didn't move.

Then the realization hit.

His charger. It was in the other bag. The one his cousin had carried onto the flight. Packed in a rush, left behind in the shuffle. Gone.

He dug through his rucksack—twice. No charger. No power bank, either. A soft sense of dread settled in his chest. His phone was his only entertainment, his link to the world. Now he'd be stuck in a sleeper coach for more than a day with no music, no messages, no movies.

And worse—he might actually have to talk to someone.

He stood and wandered toward the restroom, not because he needed it but because he needed space. In the grimy mirror above the steel basin, he whispered to himself:

"Excuse me, do you have a charger I could borrow?"

Too formal.

"Hey, sorry, my phone's dying—any chance you've got a charger?"

Better.

He practiced a few variations, even trying a Tamil version just in case:

"Unga kitta charger irukka?"

He didn't feel convinced by any of them. He sighed and walked back.

When he returned, the atmosphere in the coach had subtly shifted. A new family had boarded at Agra—chattering in a blend of Telugu and Hindi. Children climbed onto berths, luggage bumped into knees, voices filled the space.

But his seat was now occupied.

A middle-aged man in a faded white shirt sat cross-legged in Rishi's berth, half-dozing with a bag on his lap. Clearly an unreserved passenger hoping to blend into the crowd. Rishi froze. He opened his mouth to speak, but hesitation gripped him.

Just as he turned to step away—choosing quiet over confrontation—a clear, authoritative voice rang out.

"Woh reserved seat hai. Inka seat hai."

"That's a reserved seat. It's his."

Rishi turned. A woman, maybe in her early sixties, sat by the window. She wore a navy blue shawl over a soft grey kurta, a thick paperback open on her lap. Her salt-and-pepper hair was tied in a loose bun, and her glasses glinted slightly in the overhead light. Her tone wasn't loud, but it had clarity.

The unreserved man blinked, glanced at her, then Rishi, muttered an apology, and vacated the berth without a fuss.

Rishi nodded, surprised. "Thank you," he murmured, voice cracking slightly from the tension.

The woman gave a small smile. "I saw you standing there rehearsing in the mirror. Figured you'd need a little help."

He blinked. "You… saw that?"

She gave a light laugh, not unkind. "I've been a teacher for thirty years. I've seen every kind of nervous energy."

Rishi managed a sheepish smile. "Rishi, Engineer."

She extended her hand gracefully. "Neeranjana Sharma. Retired History lecturer. I live in Noida. But…" — she smiled now with something like nostalgia — "I studied in Chennai. Class of 2006, Madras Christian College. Heading back for a college reunion."

Rishi looked surprised. "South India? You don't sound like you're from there."

"Born in New Delhi," she said, adjusting her glasses. "But four years in Chennai during college does something to you. Still remember where the best filter coffee is."

He chuckled softly. "That's rare."

She gave a gentle shrug. "People are always more layered than we assume."

He hesitated a moment, then asked, "Do you… by any chance… have a charger?"

She tilted her head. "Phone model?"

"Vivo."

She reached calmly into her canvas tote bag, sifting through organized pockets. "I carry extras. Just in case," she added. A moment later, she handed him a slightly worn charger. "Might charge slow. But it works."

Relief flooded through him. "Honestly… thank you. This just saved my whole night."

"Happy to help," she said, settling back with her book. "Besides, you're lucky I'm headed to Chennai too. You've got someone to talk to if the boredom gets brutal."

Rishi plugged in the charger and the screen lit up: Charging… 20%.

He exhaled, more grateful than he expected to be. As the train picked up speed again and Agra fell behind them, he leaned back in his berth, the lights outside melting into streaks of yellow and black.

He glanced once more at Neeranjana, who had already returned to her book.

Somehow, this journey didn't feel quite as lonely anymore.