Mumbai Local 9:04 from Dadar

The 9:04 from Dadar

The year was 2003. Mumbai’s air was thick with humidity, hope, and the unspoken camaraderie of millions living, loving, and struggling side by side.

Every morning, Dadar station swelled with a sea of people — office-goers, students, hawkers, dreamers — all merging into the heartbeats of Mumbai’s lifeline: the local trains.

Among them was Arjun Shetty, a 29-year-old junior accountant at a textile firm in Fort. With a mother, a younger sister studying law, and dreams bigger than his paycheque, Arjun’s life was stitched together with the discipline of the 9:04 fast train to Churchgate.

Arjun had a small ritual — he boarded the second-class compartment near the front, always pushing through the sweaty crowd to snag the same window seat. That window was his precious slice of the city: frames of cricket matches in the bylanes, food stalls puffing steam into the morning, kids balancing on one foot to tie their shoelaces, beggars weaving through the crowd, lovers sharing shy glances — a kaleidoscope of Mumbai life.

The 9:04 was not just a train to him. It was a moving universe.

And like any universe, it had its cast of characters.

There was Uncle D’Souza, a retired railway ticket collector who still traveled every morning just for the conversations. Lanky Prem, a delivery boy with wild Bollywood dreams, often seen scribbling dialogues on old newspapers. Mrs. Kapoor, an elderly woman selling homemade snacks out of a tiffin carrier — and then there was Meera.

Meera Deshmukh, a junior copywriter at an ad agency, had joined their compartment about six months ago. Sharp-tongued, always buried in a battered red notebook, she was unlike anyone Arjun had ever met.

And though words between them were few — mostly exchanged in hurried nods and half-smiles — something about her stirred a restlessness in Arjun that even the sweaty chaos around them couldn’t douse.

One Wednesday, the monsoon came crashing down on Mumbai.

The city drowned in its stubbornness. Rickshaws floated like paper boats. Roads morphed into rivers. Office workers waded through waist-deep water, holding laptops and purses over their heads like fragile offerings to the rain gods.

That morning, Arjun’s 9:04 train was delayed by forty minutes. As he stood on the soaked platform, water trickling down his spine, he spotted Meera — stranded at the edge of the platform, shielding her notebook with her dupatta.

Without thinking, Arjun elbowed through the crowd.

“You’ll ruin that thing,” he said, pointing at the drenched notebook.

“It’s seen worse,” she smiled, surprising him.

A rare conversation started — stilted, awkward, but real. They talked about the rains, about how Meera’s boss was a “bloated walrus,” about Arjun’s dream of starting his own accounting firm someday. For the first time, the train was not just transport; it was a witness to something new taking root.

When the 9:04 finally screeched in, nearly an hour late, they boarded together.

It was packed beyond imagination — more bodies per square foot than a can of sardines. But somehow, as if by conspiracy or destiny, they found themselves squeezed into the same corner.

Over the next few months, the 9:04 became their tether.

They would meet every morning, Meera sometimes handing him a cutting chai she picked up from the stall, Arjun occasionally carrying spare newspapers for them to sit on when the seats were wet. Slowly, the easy banter grew. She laughed at his cautious nature; he admired her reckless optimism. They shared their failures, their tiny triumphs, their unspoken fears.

Yet, outside the confines of the 9:04, they were strangers.

No phone numbers were exchanged. No promises made. It was as if their friendship had a boundary defined by the geography of the train — from Dadar to Churchgate and back.

One morning, as the Ganpati festival approached, Mumbai wore a fresh face. Gigantic idols passed by on trucks, drums thundered, streets throbbed with life. The city had slipped into one of its annual states of frenzy.

That day, Meera was different.

Quiet.

Fidgety.

When Arjun asked, she hesitated before saying, “I might be shifting.”

“Shifting?” Arjun echoed, heart dropping.

“Yeah. Delhi. My agency’s opening a new branch. They want me there.”

The words crushed the rhythm they’d built together.

“But…what about Mumbai?” he asked, hating how small his voice sounded.

She smiled, a little sadly. “Mumbai will always be home. But sometimes, you have to chase the next train.”

The announcement echoed across Dadar station, pulling their conversation apart.

The 9:04 was arriving.

They boarded, but everything felt heavier. The compartments, the noise, the air between them.

Meera’s last day arrived faster than Arjun could bear.

He thought of what to say, how to say it — but when he saw her on the platform, she was already surrounded by the regulars. Uncle D’Souza handed her a packet of homemade sweets. Mrs. Kapoor slipped a small Ganpati idol into her hands for luck. Even Prem, the aspiring actor, had written a ridiculous goodbye poem.

When it was Arjun’s turn, words failed him.

He simply handed her a folded sheet of paper.

Inside was a sketch — crude, childish even — of the 9:04 train, with all of them inside, smiling. At the window, he had drawn Meera, her red notebook clutched to her chest.

She opened it, smiled, and — for the first time — hugged him.

No words.

None were needed.

The train pulled in. She got in, turning to wave from the door as the train pulled away. Arjun stood there long after she disappeared, feeling as if some part of the city had shifted ever so slightly out of place.

Weeks passed.

Life filled back in — as it always does in Mumbai.

The 9:04 still ran. New faces boarded. Old ones drifted away. Arjun found work enough to save for his own small accounting agency. The monsoon returned, furious and relentless, drenching the city in fresh dreams and regrets.

Yet every morning, as he boarded the train, he’d glance at the window seat where she once sat — half expecting, half hoping.

One rainy morning nearly a year later, Arjun, now carrying a thermos of tea instead of a newspaper, boarded the 9:04 as usual.

And froze.

There, sitting by the window, was a battered red notebook. Alone.

Pinned under it was a note:

“Some stories never end. They just take the long route home.”

He spun around.

Through the throng, past Uncle D’Souza’s amused smile, past Prem’s frenzied waving, he saw her — standing a few feet away, bag slung over one shoulder, grinning that crooked grin he thought he’d only ever see in dreams.

She had come back.

Mumbai had pulled her back.

And Arjun realized, with a racing heart and a grin of his own, that sometimes, the 9:04 didn’t just take you to Churchgate.

Sometimes, if you were lucky, it took you exactly where you were meant to be.