The morning sun had the color of honey.It poured over the land in wide, golden sheets, making the rails gleam like lines drawn in fire. The platform shimmered faintly, still wet in patches from the night's dew. Somewhere, a rooster crowed, its call lost in the hum of cicadas that had already begun their song.
The train waited with the stillness of a patient animal, sighing occasionally as steam escaped from its sides. Its metal body glowed faintly in the sunlight — dull silver, streaked with rust, yet alive. A line of open windows caught the light, each framing a glimpse of life: someone folding a newspaper, someone arranging baskets of fruit, someone gazing out at nothing in particular.
I boarded without hurry. The compartment smelled of iron and dust, of warm fabric and distant journeys. The seats were faded blue, their edges frayed, the floor marked by years of footsteps. Outside, a man walked along the platform selling guavas and spiced peanuts, calling out his wares with the easy rhythm of someone who's done it every day of his life.
The train lurched softly, then began to move — slow at first, almost hesitant, before finding its pace. The platform slipped away; the town blurred into fields. The sound of the wheels settled into a steady rhythm, like a long, measured heartbeat.
The countryside opened wide.Rows of mango trees stretched into the distance, their branches heavy with green fruit that swayed gently in the breeze. The scent drifted through the open windows — sweet, thick, unmistakable. Beneath the trees, the earth was dark and soft, carpeted with fallen leaves. Here and there, farmers worked with slow, practiced movements, their silhouettes small against the vast expanse of land.
A child pressed her face to the window beside me, eyes wide at the passing blur of color — yellow fields, red earth, blue sky. Her mother handed her a slice of mango wrapped in paper; she ate it slowly, letting the juice drip onto her hands, smiling without care. The air inside the compartment filled with the fragrance of ripe fruit, salt, and the faint tang of iron.
The train passed through a cluster of small villages — each one marked by a few thatched roofs, a narrow lane, a well under a tree. Goats scattered as the train roared by, and children waved from the edges of the tracks, their laughter swallowed by the wind. Smoke rose from cooking fires, curling upward in thin, blue strands.
I leaned against the window frame, feeling the warm wind on my face. It carried everything — the scent of mango blossom, the dry dust from the road, the faint sweetness of sugarcane. The rhythm of the train matched the rhythm of thought — steady, endless, impossible to pin down.
At one bend, the fields gave way to a shallow river, its surface flashing silver in the sun. Women stood knee-deep in the water, washing clothes that shone like flags when wrung out. The sound of the train echoed across the valley, scattering flocks of white birds into the sky. Their wings caught the light like shards of glass.
Inside, a vendor moved through the aisle, balancing a metal tray of tea glasses. The air filled with the smell of cardamom and milk. I took one — the glass hot against my palm — and watched the landscape roll by, blurred by heat and motion. The first sip burned slightly, then soothed, its sweetness cutting through the dry air.
The train slowed near a small station — just a platform, a single bench, a sign half-hidden by vines. No one got off. A man on the bench lifted his head briefly, watching the carriages pass, then lowered it again. A dog trotted along the platform, tail wagging lazily. The station disappeared as quietly as it had appeared.
The journey stretched on, unhurried.The sun climbed higher, turning the fields into a sea of gold. Heat shimmered above the tracks; the air inside grew thick and heavy. Someone opened a window wider, and the smell of the world flooded in — dust, fruit, metal, life.
I thought of how many such journeys were happening at that very moment — people crossing places they'd never remember, landscapes slipping by unseen, moments collecting quietly between stations. There was something comforting in that — the knowledge that movement itself was enough, even without destination.
As afternoon settled, the light softened.The mango trees grew denser, their leaves darker now, the fruit glinting in muted shades of green and gold. The shadows stretched long and slow across the fields. Somewhere, a radio played a song that floated faintly through the carriage, its melody old and familiar — something about rain, about waiting.
The train slowed again, this time at a larger junction. The platform was lined with stalls — baskets of ripe mangoes piled high, their skin glowing in the late sunlight. The air buzzed with voices, haggling, laughter, the hiss of oil meeting batter. The smell of frying bread and ripe fruit mixed in the air, dizzying and sweet.
I stepped out for a moment. The platform was warm underfoot. A man handed me a slice of mango sprinkled with salt and chili — the first bite sharp, the next impossibly sweet. The taste lingered long after I boarded again.
By the time the train moved on, the sky had begun to fade into rose and lavender. The trees outside stood dark against the horizon, their tops glowing faintly in the last light. The wind had cooled, carrying the scent of night — dust, smoke, and something floral from far away.
The rhythm of the wheels slowed, matching the deepening quiet. Inside the compartment, people dozed. The child by the window had fallen asleep, her hand still sticky with mango juice. The mother gently brushed her hair away from her face, her eyes fixed on the fading sky.
The sun slipped below the line of trees, and the fields turned to shadow. A single star appeared above the horizon, trembling faintly. The last of the day's light clung to the rails like memory, then vanished.
The world grew softer.Only the steady hum of the train remained, carrying us through the dark — through the scent of fruit and earth, through the silence between towns, through the unbroken rhythm of distance.
And somewhere far behind, the mango fields shimmered in moonlight, holding the warmth of day long after it had gone.