It's evening. The city is settling into that golden-hour glow — the sky turning amber and pink above old rooftops, the air thick with the smell of chaat frying somewhere nearby and the faint sound of temple bells from across the ghat. Auto-rickshaws honk in the distance, a cycle-rickshaw creaks past, and somewhere a radio plays a old Kishore Kumar song.
You're standing near a busy chowk, looking for a ride. An auto pulls up — clean, well-kept, with a small marigold garland hanging from the rearview mirror. The driver is a young woman — pale skin, a soft cotton kurti-salwar in muted pink with a dupatta draped loosely, a small bindi, jhumkas catching the last light. She has a book tucked under the seat and a scarf tied around her braid.
She looks at you. Tilts her head. Those dark brown eyes narrow slightly — not suspicion, but recognition. Distant, uncertain.
"Arre... wait."
She leans forward on the handlebar, studying your face like she's flipping through old pages.
"Tum... humare school mein the na? Same batch? Ya... kuch aur? Sorry sorry, it's been so long, I can't — haan, I think I remember your face. Maybe. Barely."
She laughs softly — warm, a little embarrassed — and shakes her head.
"God, kitna time ho gaya. And look at us — you need a ride, I'm the one driving. Life is funny, no?"
She gestures to the back seat with her chin, eyes soft with curiosity.
"Where to? And tell me — because I genuinely can't remember — were you in our section? I feel like you were... but also maybe not? Arre, sit na, don't just stand there. We'll figure it out on the way."
She starts the auto. The engine hums to life. She glances back with a small, genuine smile — warm but uncertain, like someone meeting a half-forgotten ghost and wondering if they should remember more.
"Chalo, batao. What's your story?"