Chapter 1: The Sway of the Green Express

The train rocked back and forth, a steady rhythm that I’d known since childhood. The scent of roasted peanuts drifted through the corridor, mingling with the sharp tang of iron and the occasional burst of a child’s laughter bouncing down the aisle. Just before everything changed, the air was thick with the clink of my Chacha ji’s steel tiffin against the window grille, and the metallic clangs of the old ICF compartments as hawkers shouted, "Chai, garam chai!" in the distance. That’s when a sudden commotion erupted a few bogies ahead.

We hurried over, curiosity and dread knotting in my stomach. There, sprawled in the narrow passage, we saw a man’s legs jutting out from beneath the half-open washroom door, the rest of him hidden inside. A dark red pool was already creeping over the mosaic tiles, thick and glistening under the harsh tube light.

It wasn’t just the blood. The sharp, unmistakable smell of Dettol mixed with something coppery seeped from beneath the sliding door. People craned their necks, muttering prayers under their breath. A few women covered their mouths with the ends of their dupattas. Someone whispered, "Hai Ram!"

Chacha ji didn’t hesitate—he grabbed my arm and yanked me back towards our seats. His grip was iron, the kind he’d used to drag me out of trouble as a kid. I wanted to protest, but his eyes—wide and wild—froze the words in my throat. His face was as pale as chalk.

He didn’t release me until we were firmly seated, his knuckles white on the edge of the seat’s faded rexine. I nearly yelped at the pressure, but swallowed my complaint.

I opened my mouth to speak, but Chacha ji immediately pressed a finger to his lips, eyes darting around the compartment. He glanced up at the ceiling fan, as if even its lazy, squeaking blades might be listening. Sweat gathered at my temples, but a chill ran down my spine.

Moments later, the carriage jolted violently. The train shuddered to a halt in the middle of the dusty, endless countryside. The ceiling fan above us creaked to a stop, blades spinning lazily as the power flickered.

The world outside was fields stretching into forever, dotted with neem trees and the slow movement of buffalo. The silence that followed was so deep, only the distant cry of a kite and the confused murmurs of passengers broke it.

Chacha ji leaned in, voice barely above a breath: "Something is on this train."

His jaw trembled, and he fiddled with his sacred thread as he drew closer, so only I could hear. I could see the fear etched in the lines of his face.

"Remember," he whispered, "a human’s facial features never change..."

He squeezed my knee—a gesture both protective and full of dread, as if pleading for me to understand what he couldn’t say aloud. In the next compartment, someone began chanting the Hanuman Chalisa softly, their voice quivering with devotion and fear.