Chemistry Curd and Crunchies Story By A.K.H
I hadn’t slept much the night before.
Grief doesn’t follow a clock, and neither does death. My grandmother passed away early this morning. The kind of call you never want to get had come, and in a haze of tired limbs and a heavy chest, I packed a bag and left for the railway station.
The platform was quiet – not silent, just the way Indian mornings are. Birds called softly, chai vendors moved like routine ghosts, and voices echoed off distant walls. I sat on a cold bench, alone with my thoughts, staring at the dull parallel lines of the track, each one stretching ahead with the kind of certainty I no longer felt inside. My mind was scattered – grief-struck, yes -but also strangely blank. The world around me had tilted slightly.
And then she sat beside me.
She didn’t hesitate or fumble. Just settled next to me on the bench like it was the most natural thing. She turned and asked, “Which train are you waiting for?”
Her voice was soft. Not uncertain – just calm.
“Sabari Express,” I replied, still half-lost in thought. “To Thiruvananthapuram.”
She smiled – a light curve of the lips that reached her eyes. “Same here.”
There was something about her presence – immediate and easy. Like a warm breeze in midwinter. The train at last arrived, 25 minutes late. We both ran through the thick crowd towards the TTE, hoping to convert our general tickets to sleeper class. In that brief hustle, something clicked – not a spark, not a dramatic moment – just a comfort. Familiarity in a stranger.
She was 21. I’m 27. That became a point of teasing between us.
“Such a kid,” I called her, half-laughing.
She gave me a mock glare. “And you’re what? A fossil?”
The way she spoke – sharp and witty – matched her eyes: a little messy, almost sleep-drenched, but filled with curiosity. There was something in her gaze – like she noticed things most people didn’t. Not just with her eyes, but with her entire being.
She wasn’t traditionally dolled-up. In fact, that was what made her so quietly stunning. Her hair was loose, unbrushed in that windblown kind of way that looked almost cinematic without trying. She had a small mole near her left cheekbone – I noticed it when she smiled. There was a wild honesty to her – nothing filtered, nothing rehearsed. And in that authenticity, I saw a kind of beauty I couldn’t unsee.
She had a background in chemistry. Mine was biotechnology.
Naturally, the jokes began.
“So technically,” I said, “you’re more unstable than me. Chemists work with reactive substances.”
She grinned. “At least we don’t sit around analysing other people’s genes.”
“Oh please,” I replied. “Your whole field would fall apart without hydrogen bonding. That’s biology’s gift to you.”
She rolled her eyes. “There’s too much chemistry here already,” she said, feigning exasperation. “I might explode.”
We laughed. Not because the jokes were brilliant – but because sharing them felt so easy. We stood near the open door, leaning slightly out as the train sliced through sunlight and villages. Her hair danced in the wind, and I found myself stealing glances – not in a way that expected anything. Just… drawn in.
There was something delicate about the way she moved – casual, unbothered, like she belonged in the moment and nowhere else. She wasn’t trying to impress. She didn’t need to. And I admired that – deeply.
Later, near our seat, four boys – full of energy – were on their way to Polytechnic Kalolsavam. One of them brought out a cajon and with my request they began singing Sundariye Vaa. It echoed softly through the compartment.
She sat near the window, with a crunchie on her wrist. The golden light fell across her face, and I turned toward the glass – not to see the scenery, but to see her reflection.
And there it was – half-faded by light, framed by the motion of the train – her image, calm and lost in thought, reading. I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath. There was something sacred in that stillness. Like the world had slowed down just long enough for me to memorize her.
She was hungry. Ordered a curd packet from a vendor.
One bite and her face scrunched – lips puckered, eyes closing slightly in betrayal.
“Sour,” she muttered.
Her expression – half-annoyed, half-defeated – made me smile. There was innocence in that small reaction. The kind that catches you off guard.
Somewhere between anime, chemistry jokes, and shared chocolate coffee, she showered me with calmness that revealed more of her than any words could.
And then it was almost mid noon. She climbed to the upper berth. I stayed below.
For the first time since that call about my grandmother, I felt… still. Not healed, but lighter. Like the train was carrying something away from me. Maybe sadness. Maybe loneliness.
When we woke up, we went to the washbasin and stood at that door, coffee in hand. Her eyes were still drowsy, hair even messier, and I swear – I had never seen anything more beautiful. Not flawless. Not glamorous. Just… her.
And in that moment, I felt something I didn’t know how to name – admiration, peace, something like affection, yes – but more than that, gratitude.
Gratitude for a stranger who made the journey easier. For the way she listened. For the way she smiled at jokes. For the comfort she didn’t even know she was giving.
The last stop came.
No long farewells. No promises to meet again. Just a soft goodbye – the kind that stays with you for years.
We both stepped off the train, took the stairs and reached the exit, she went right, I was supposed to go left. I stood and watched her melt into the crowd, like she had appeared from nowhere, and now returned to it.
But she left something behind – a quiet impression on my heart. A little space now filled with warmth. Not a love story. Not quite. But something close. Something real.
I was simply thankful that, on a day of loss, life gave me her.