WL 9
Ankit Verma's sister was getting married in Patna on Sunday morning. On Friday evening, at Secunderabad station, his ticket still said WL 9.
That means waiting list nine. Nine people had to cancel before he got a berth. He had checked the number every day that week, and it had only moved from 14 to 9.
He was the only brother Pooja had. If he missed the wedding, she would forgive him in a week and he would never forgive himself.
“Chart is made,” the ticket checker said at the door of coach S5, without looking up. “Go in, stand near the door, and hope.”
So Ankit stood, with his bag, a gift box for Pooja, and twenty-four hours ahead of him.
A girl with a laptop bag was standing next to him, also staring at her phone. “WL 10,” she said, and showed him the screen. “I'm Meghna. I'm going to Nagpur. My father has an operation tomorrow morning. I have to get there.”
Her voice shook a little. Ankit felt it too: the same fear of arriving late for the one morning that mattered.
“I'm just ahead of you,” said Ankit. “I hope one of us gets a seat.”
The train began to move. On berth 23, an old woman waved at him. “Standing the whole night? Come, sit here till the checker finds you a place.” She made room and held out a steel tin. “Take a laddu. Nobody should stand hungry.”
Ankit sat and ate the laddu. Then he took out his phone and pulled the screen down, because that is what everyone does. The ticket changed.
WL 8.
He smiled and looked up. The seat beside him was empty. The tin lay open with one laddu left, and the old woman's shawl was folded on the berth.
He thought she had gone to the toilet. Then he touched the shawl. It was still warm.