There is something deeply human about sharing a journey with someone you’ll never meet again. On Indian trains, intimacy arrives unannounced. A child leans on your arm as she sleeps. A grandmother unwraps homemade parathas and insists you eat. A college student, eyes full of ambition, tells you everything he’s afraid to tell his family. These are not rehearsed conversations; they are raw, accidental, beautiful. The rhythm of the train makes philosophers of us all. You speak of love, of loss, of cities that don’t feel like home. You find humor in things that shouldn’t be funny. You offer advice like old friends, hold silences without needing to fill them. You speak in broken Hindi, English, Tamil, laughter. For a brief span of hours, you’re each other’s world. And then, a gentle nod, a rushed farewell, a smile from the door. They step off, or you do. No numbers exchanged, no promises made. Just a strange ache; soft and grateful. Years later, you won’t remember their names, but you’ll remember how the light fell on their face. How they made the train feel like a story. That is the romance of Indian trains: strangers who walk in and out of your life like characters in a short story. And you carry their fragments forever.