A poignant tale of ritual, remembrance, and unprocessed loss.

 
The 6:05 to Nowhere

By Reshmi | Learning Writer

It’s not the train I take. It’s the hour.

✍️ Reshmi | Storyteller

Every Friday, Mrs. D’Silva — oh, she was a fixture by now — claimed Seat 12A on the 6:05 train, a line that didn’t go anywhere special, not in the grand scheme. It was her ritual, carved into her bones like the creak of her old joints, starting the second that station clock nudged toward dusk. No suitcase, no fuss — just a thermos of tea, dented and loyal from years of service, two Marie biscuits tucked in a napkin she’d washed too many times, and a photo of a boy in his school uniform, folded just so down the middle where her thumb had worn it smooth. That picture? It was her lifeline, edges frayed like an old love letter, his grin catching the light from the day he lost a tooth — tripped off his bike, bless him, and laughed through the blood.

The conductor? He’d given up asking. Back when she started, he’d tilt his head, uniform all pressed and proper, and say, “Ma’am, same seat again?” with that clipboard of his. Now? A tip of the hat, a quiet nod, and he left her be — knew better, I suppose. The other passengers, they’d grown used to her too — this silver-haired soul slipping in like clockwork, hands steady as she sank into her spot by the window. They didn’t pry — couldn’t, really — but you could see it in their eyes, the weight she carried, the way she stared out as the train jolted forward, like she was waiting for someone who never showed.

By the window, she sat, always, where the world outside melted into tales she spun in her head. Hills rolled by like tired shoulders holding up the sky, their green dotted with eucalyptus trees that swayed the way he used to — that little hand flapping goodbye from the school gate — oh, how it stung to remember. Clouds sometimes tricked her, shaping his face or her own from decades back, hair dark and laughter free before life turned heavy. The tracks stretched on, a silver thread weaving memories she couldn’t release, and the train’s hum? That was her pulse — steady, dragging her through fields that shifted with the seasons but never her reason for being there.

One day, a young chap with a backpack and a nosy streak leaned over from across the aisle. “Why take the same train if you never get off?” he asked, voice cutting through the carriage’s drone. Mrs. D’Silva turned slowly, her eyes soft — too soft, maybe, for a stranger — and gave a small smile, the kind that hides more than it shows. “It’s not the train I take. It’s the hour,” she murmured, almost to the glass itself. He nodded, puzzled, and went back to his book. But later, I heard him whisper to a mate about the “old woman with stories in her gaze” — made me chuckle, that did.

Some Fridays, she’d close her eyes, press her cheek to the window — warm from the sinking sun — and swear she felt him there. His schoolbag’s weight against her side, straps biting her shoulder from those walks home, his voice chattering about schoolyard wins. That cheap hair gel he loved — sharp and fake — mixed with the coconut oil she’d rub into his scalp on Sundays, her fingers gentle as she hummed. “Are we there yet?” he’d pipe up, even when they were just wandering — now it echoed, a child’s nag turned to her quiet yearning. Her hand would brush the empty seat, and for a fleeting second, she’d feel his small fingers in hers — gone too soon.

She lost him on a train, a different one, years back when the world roared with chaos. Tuesday, not Friday, and it comes in pieces: brakes screaming, voices shouting, then silence so thick it hurts. A bomb, they said later — some faceless hands she’d never curse. His bag vanished, but those shoes — small, scuffed black leather — sat by the door like he’d just stepped off. The police mumbled sorry, closed the case quickly, and left her with that photo, that endless ache. She still keeps the ticket stub, crumpled in her purse, a scrap she can’t throw away.

At 6:32 PM, the train’s rhythm shifted — just a nudge, but she knew it by heart. She’d unscrew the thermos, that metallic clink her cue, and pour tea into the cap, steam rising like a prayer. The Marie biscuit snapped in two, sharp against the hum, and she’d whisper, “Half for you, like always” — a habit from when he’d demand his share. Her sip was bitter; his imagined one was sweet with the sugar she’d sneak in for him. She’d set the other half on the napkin, crumbs spilling like a quiet offering.

Grief hadn’t lightened — no — but it had molded her. It lived in her hands’ lines, in the careful fold of that napkin after each ride, in the steady look she gave the blur outside. The train wasn’t a place to arrive; it was a lifeline, holding him close in that hour that felt like his. Fridays were holy now — a pilgrimage to when his laughter rang through their house, when she’d pack his lunch with extra mango pickle — he’d lick his fingers after — and they’d sit on the veranda, fanning away flies as he spun tales.

Passengers came and went — students with earbuds, suits with laptops, a lady knitting a scarf that never ended. They didn’t ask again, but their glances lingered, full of questions she didn’t owe them. Let them guess, she thought. This was hers, built from that Tuesday’s ruin. The photo stayed in her lap, creases growing — a map of love and loss. Once, a kid dropped a pencil near her — his eyes met hers, wide and bright — and it hit her, what might have been if fate had been kinder.

The train rolled past playgrounds, children’s shouts slicing through the glass. She watched, seeing him in their wild runs. A girl with pigtails waved once, and Mrs. D’Silva waved back, hand shaky — felt like a thread to a life that could’ve been. Did he chase kites too, shout into the wind? She remembered him sprinting after one, voice lost in the breeze — a memory she clutched tight.

As the sun dipped, golden streaks lit the fields. She recalled their rituals — his messy rice eating, those off-key Konkani songs she taught, his voice wobbling on the high notes. Those were hers, held in the thermos’s heat, the biscuit’s crack, the photo’s faded lines. The whistle moaned, matching the ache in her chest, and she smiled at the blur — sorrow and grace tangled together.

At 7:00 PM, the train eased back to the start. She gathered her things — thermos, napkin, photo — and stepped off. The platform was still, rain-scented air wrapping around her. No rush. No point. This was about staying on his hour. Walking home, she pressed the photo to her heart, his absence a shadow she’d learned to walk with. Past the market, she saw the jalebi stall — sticky fingers, his laugh — and paused, letting the memory settle.

Next Friday, she’d be back. Seat 12A would wait, the conductor would nod, and the 6:05 would take her again. Not for ending, but for being — with him, in the silences and sounds. With wind in her hair, grief unchanged, she smiled at the blur, knowing no stop awaited her. Not yet.

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