It was the time of year when the post monsoon heat is waning, giving way to the earliest signs of winter. One could feel a very slight nip in the wind as the sun went down in the capital. It was late in the evening, when most have reached home for dinner with the family, and some would already be settling on the couch for the primetime shows. The evening metro rush was over, and now it was filled with the crowd-haters, the ones who leave their offices late just to avoid the rush. It was a fairly empty train, and a fairly minor station. The few who got off had already scurried off towards the stairs leading down to the exit. She was probably the last one of them.
She was wearing a black top and a long, white and pink, creased skirt, a blend of the east and the west. Her hair was short, with just the little bit of styling that would make one look elegant, but not draw attention to itself. Her hands were bare, but around her neck was a single black thread, with a small, silver pendant hanging from it. A small bag hung at her shoulder, the kind that would be just enough to carry basic necessities. Not too small like the ones the big brands make. And not big like the ones that those who like to carry their world with them indulge in. She walked confidently. She clearly knew where she was going, though she wasn't even looking up. It was evident why she was the last one to get off at that stop. Her head was bent down. She was reading a book.
The book was a white paperback, an average sized novel. Fiction, definitely, he thought, for she seemed oblivious to her surroundings. It must have been an engaging book, and clearly she was appreciative of that, judging from how engrossed she was in it. And yet her steps were sure. She was dusky, and a slight outline of kohl accentuated her eyes, which looked intently into the book, which she held in both hands, not wanting to let go, nor wanting to harm its spine by stretching it too far.
He first saw her walk past the open doors of the compartment he was in. She must have been in the next one. He was leaning against a pillar, holding a hand-rail hanging from the top. All he got was a fleeting glance, but instantaneously, almost instinctively, he straightened up, and waited for her to appear again as she walked past the window. It took a fraction of a second, and in that moment, his thoughts went from all the times he had felt there was no such thing as fate, destiny bringing two people together, to all the movies that so emphatically claimed otherwise. He remembered a blogpost he'd once read about dating girls who read, and how much he felt he agreed with it.
He knew what he had to do. Which was surprising, because he would never know, around girls. But it could not have been more perfect. In a movie, all he'd have to do would be go up to her and say "Hi". She would look up from the book, the background scores would rise to a crescendo, and the camera would go around the two of them in circles. They'd just stare into each other's eyes. A moment of pure connection.
He took a step towards the door, eyes still glued to her, as she walked past the next window, her back straight but head bent down, still reading.
