The Tamil Nadu Express had now crossed into Madhya Pradesh. The landscape outside had become a darker hue of green, a blur of shadows beneath the night sky. Inside the sleeper coach, it was surprisingly warm—like a little world of its own, built on shared destinations, second-hand conversations, and the soft rustle of passing time.
Rishi sat quietly again, watching the interaction unfold near him. Someone had vacated a corner seat, and the unreserved man who had earlier spoken mysteriously now shifted to take it. As he settled, he let out a long sigh, stretching his legs with the ease of someone who had carried weight—on both his back and mind—for far too long.
Then, he spoke.
"I'm an assistant director," he said, almost absentmindedly, his Tamil sharp and casual.
Rishi glanced up.
"I had gone to New Delhi… to meet a big star," the man continued, eyes staring into the floor as though he was still halfway there. "Wanted to pitch a script. Something I've been working on for three years."
Now the others leaned in slightly, interest piqued. Ramesh, the Telugu man, grinned. "Big star-aa?"
The man nodded. "Yes. Shooting happening in Noida outskirts. Action film. I had a contact… someone promised a small chance to meet."
Rishi, who rarely initiated conversations, found himself asking, "But… couldn't you do this in Tamil Nadu? You're from Chennai, right?"
The man gave a bitter chuckle. "Meeting a big star in Tamil Nadu is like asking a tiger for directions in the jungle. They're always surrounded. Security, managers, 'sir is busy', 'send email'—always a wall."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"In Delhi, the hope was that I could catch him off guard. In a neutral zone. But…" He let the words trail off.
"But?" asked Ajay, the student, softly.
The man exhaled again, slower this time. "I didn't do it. I stood outside the set for hours. Watching him come and go. I had the script, yes. I memorized the pitch. But every time I stepped forward… something held me back. What if it's not good? What if it damages my chances forever? What if I become one of those fools on social media that fans rip apart?"
His voice had dropped now, heavy with self-doubt. "In this industry, one mistake is all it takes. Fans… they're not always fans. Sometimes they're wolves waiting to pounce. Artificial hype, blind hate, tribal loyalty... It destroys everything."
Silence followed. Even the sound of the train seemed to lower itself in respect for his honesty.
Then Ramesh broke the quiet.
"Why are you thinking like that, brother?" he said gently. "If your script is good, then the movie will be good. The rest—fan fights, toxic reviews—those are just background noise. Story matters."
Revathi nodded. "Right. And you won't know if it's good or bad unless someone hears it. Sometimes we're our own worst enemies."
There was a pause. Then the Tamil boy, Bala, leaned forward with a grin.
"If you don't mind… narrate the story to us."
The man blinked.
Bala continued, "Really! Narrate it here. Right now. If there's something wrong, we'll tell you. You don't have to take our word, but maybe it helps. We're strangers. No bias."
Ajay clapped softly. "One free test screening!"
Everyone chuckled, but Rishi felt something shift. The coach, once a string of separate passengers lost in their devices or daydreams, had become a small circle around this man. They weren't judging. They were simply curious.
The assistant director hesitated, then reached into his bag and pulled out a crumpled notebook. The pages were filled with lines, underlines, dialogue drafts. He held it like a lifeline.
"Okay…" he said quietly. "The title is 'Kuruthi Mutham'—Blood Kiss. A revenge thriller. But it's not about violence. It's about silence."
He took a breath. Then, voice steadying, began to narrate.
As his story unfolded—about a man seeking vengeance not through weapons but through systemic unraveling, set in a misty hill town with layers of betrayal and politics—the passengers listened with rapt attention. His voice, uncertain at first, gained confidence with each line. The rhythm of the train blended into the pacing of the tale.
Rishi, without even realizing it, found himself pulled into the story too. Not as a critic. But as a listener. And somewhere, as the coach rocked gently southward through the night, it felt less like a journey on rails—and more like a moment suspended in time.