The train from Delhi to Banaras rattled gently as the summer sun dipped low, coloring the fields of Uttar Pradesh in gold and rose. Inside a second-class coach, a young man leaned by the window, headphones around his neck, a half-finished travel diary on his lap. Arjun Mehta, a 26-year-old writer from Delhi. He had been wandering across India for weeks, searching for stories and perhaps for something he could cherish lifelong.
Across the aisle sat Meera Sharma, a 23-year-old literature student from Delhi. She had a small cloth bag filled with books of Hindi poetry and a packet of gujiyas her mother had packed.
When a quarrelling couple nearby grew loud, Meera shifted seats to the empty spot beside Arjun. That small decision changed the night that followed.
Arjun offered her a bottle of water and asked, “Travelling to Banaras for the first time?”
Meera nodded. “Yes, to attend a friend’s wedding. You?”
“I’m here for stories,” he said with a grin. “Banaras is the city of a thousand tales.”
Soon they were talking about everything—books they loved, the chaos of Delhi traffic, favorite street foods. Meera spoke of her dreams of becoming a teacher who inspired children to read. Arjun shared how he left a steady job in advertising to chase writing, despite his parents’ worries.
When the train paused at a small station under a violet dusk, Arjun felt a sudden urge. “I have a strange idea,” Arjun said. “After getting off in Banaras tonight. Let’s spend the night walking through the city. No plans, just conversations. Tomorrow morning, we go our separate ways. I'll be returning to Delhi, and you can continue with your plan of your Friend's wedding."
Meera laughed at the absurdity. Yet something in Arjun’s earnest eyes and her own restless heart made her agree. “Only until sunrise,” Meera said.
The train reached Banaras station and bot of the got off the train, Arjun was not carrying any luggage as he was here for only one night, but Meera had few suitcases and carry bags. They decided to get the luggage deposited in the cloak room of the station.
They stepped onto the ghats as the night air cooled. The Ganga flowed dark and steady, its surface dotted with lamps from the evening aarti. Temple bells rang like distant chimes. They began to walk.
At Dashashwamedh Ghat, they watched sadhus preparing for the last prayers. An old priest offered them prasad and spoke of how the river remembers every soul. “People think memories fade,” he said, “but the river holds everything.” Arjun and Meera exchanged a quiet glance, the words settling into them.
They wandered through narrow lanes of Banaras, sipping kulhad chai, laughing when a mischievous monkey tried to snatch a banana from a vendor. They bought a single diya and floated it on the river, each silently making a wish.
In the hush of Manikarnika Ghat, where funeral pyres burned with steady flames, they talked about life and death. Meera shared how her grandmother’s passing had taught her to value every small moment. Arjun spoke of his fear of living an ordinary life without purpose.
Later, at Assi Ghat, they found a quiet stone step and sat side by side. The moon reflected on the water. Arjun said softly, “Do you think we meet certain people only once, but they change everything?”
Meera smiled. “Maybe some meetings are like shooting stars. Brief but enough to light the sky.”
They recited favourite verses—Kabir for him, Amrita Pritam for her. Words flowed like the river, gentle and endless. Somewhere between laughter and poetry, they felt the warmth of something deeper than friendship.
As night thinned into pale blue, they realized how quickly time had passed. Boatmen prepared for morning rides, and the city stirred awake with temple bells. They walked to the railway station in silence, each step heavy with unspoken thoughts.
Outside the station, they faced each other. Meera said, “Maybe it’s better we don’t exchange numbers or addresses. Let this night stay perfect, like a story without an ending.”
Arjun looked at her, eyes bright yet sad. “Then let’s promise to remember this. Same date, next year, same city?”
She nodded, and they both smiled, knowing life might never allow such a reunion. But the promise felt sacred.
The train whistle blew. Arjun stepped aboard, and Meera stood on the platform as the coach pulled away. She waved until he disappeared from view.
As the train got into its full speed, Arjun opened his travel diary. On a blank page he wrote: “One night in Banaras. A stranger who became the closest companion. Some stories are complete even without forever.”
Meera, sitting on the platform chair, whispered a silent prayer of thanks—for the city, the river, and the unexpected magic of a single night. She got her luggage from the cloak room of the station and proceeded towards her friend's house.