The TTE came to check our tickets.

‘They’re on your phone,’ I said to her, as she continued playing with the little boy.

‘No, they’re not with me, Anurag,’ she said, her attention focused on playfully tickling the boy, oblivious to the TTE who was breathing down our necks. She turned to me when the little boy suddenly started crying.

‘Were you asking for the tickets?’ she asked as she showed the TTE the IRCTC message on her phone. I heaved a sigh and said, ‘Thank you, madam!’ Gitanjali just smiled and began consoling the wailing kid. She had this uncanny ability to comfort those around her.

Just as the train left the Anand Vihar station, I went to the toilet to change into comfortable clothes for the long journey ahead since mine were slightly wet from the rain. On returning to our compartment, I saw a beautiful middle-aged woman sitting there, dressed in a floral knee-length kurta and smart trousers. I presumed she had boarded at Anand Vihar. The woman wore spectacles and had green eyes, just like Gitanjali. As she smiled at me, I was struck by an eerie feeling, as though I somehow knew her.

Most of the passengers were going to their home towns for the summer vacations, whereas some of them, like us, were going to Nainital on holiday. We had to get off the train at Haldwani, which was the closest town to Nainital, from where we had to take a taxi or bus to reach the hill station. I gazed at the scenic vistas as the train trundled through the countryside.

In Amroha, we saw farmers harvesting crops and cows grazing in the paddy fields. Little huts made of bamboo and mud dotted the scenes that rushed by. Gitanjali nudged me as I wrote down the plot points for my next book.

‘Have you decided on the theme of the story?’ she inquired loudly.

‘Yes, I’ve been thinking about something . . . but I’m not sure. I want my character’s motives and emotions to be driven by some sort of psychological disorder.’ My words drew the attention of the beautiful woman and she looked up curiously from her book.

‘I don’t know, Gitanjali. I can’t think any more. I am out of ideas,’ I said, frustrated, looking out of the window, hoping the trip to Nainital might clear my mind. A couple of minutes passed as we continued discussing the plot. The woman opposite us occasionally glanced at us, but remained reticent.

‘I just don’t know how to take my idea further,’ I said.

‘Perhaps I could tell you a story?’ The woman finally broke her silence. Her voice had an enchanting inflection.

I wondered if I should squander my time listening to her story but, perhaps, this was the right time, the right place and these were the right people to help me figure out my book. I believe that a story often chooses its writer.

‘Yes, please,’ Gitanjali gleefully agreed on my behalf.