“Gomti is coming here?” She demanded (like Gomti was her maid) of nobody in particular, standing by the public bench I was sitting on at the railway platform, immersed in a magazine, awaiting Gomti Express bound for Kanpur. Moments earlier, looking up from the magazine, I had cast a fleeting glance around, and had spotted her descending the stairs, wearing a duffle bag like a rucksack, using the loops meant for holding the bag as shoulder straps. Ingenious, I thought. Looks funny though, I further thought. But, to her credit, the girl doesn’t care if she looks funny; not bad, I concluded and returned to the magazine. Moments later, she had thudded her heavy bag right beside me, and had tossed a question in the air about the platform placement of a particular train that day.
“Sorry?” I looked up at her, trying to make sure if she intended to direct the question at me before answering it.
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