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 Narain, 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. Rajesh, the Telugu man, grinned. "Big star-aa?"
Narain 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?"
Narain 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.
Narain 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 Rajesh 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."
Neeranjana 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 Bala leaned forward with a grin.
"If you don't mind… narrate the story to us."
Narain 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! It'll entertain us."
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.
Kuruthi Mutham: The Tale Within the Journey
"As the story opens," Narain began, his eyes no longer tired but sharp, "a man sits amid celebration. His daughter's wedding. Laughter, jasmine garlands, sparklers. But behind his smile—there's something hollow. His eyes scan the crowd. They linger a bit too long on certain faces."
"The next morning, she's found dead. Hanging in her bridal saree. The report says suicide. A closed case within two hours."
Gasps escaped from someone nearby. Even the kids who had been playing on the adjacent berth had gone still.
"But the father doesn't scream. He doesn't fight—not yet. He quietly begins walking. From police stations to registry offices, from a sub-registrar's desk to a rural NGO's protest file room. Every place he visits peels back one more truth. His daughter was caught in something bigger. A battle for land, for political votes, for control."
Ramesh whistled softly. "I know places like that. Near Ongole. Big projects come, people vanish."
Narain nodded slowly. "Yes. And in this story, it's not just the villain who hides. The villains are institutions. Systems. And the father's revenge is not bloodshed. It's exposure. One calculated leak at a time. A forged affidavit here, a bribed official there. He's a schoolteacher, but with a mind for order, discipline. He uses what he knows—persistence."
"Does he win?" Neeranjana asked, genuinely moved.
"He does… but not in the way we expect," Narain replied. "By the time he brings down the minister, the constable, and the corrupt tahsildar—all through anonymous tips, RTI files, and secret video footage—he's lost everything else. The respect of his family. His job. His health."
He flipped a page and read, "'The truth came to light. But by then, he had already faded into its shadow.'"
A silence fell again. But this time it was filled with reverence. Thought.
Bala clapped first. Slowly. Then Ajay joined. Neeranjana looked visibly emotional.
"Brother," Rajesh said, leaning in, "This is not just a film. This is a statement."
Narain's shoulders finally relaxed. Maybe it was relief. Or maybe something else had loosened—the years of doubt, the suffocating weight of silence he had carried alone. Here, on a moving train filled with strangers, he had been heard.
Rishi, who had said little throughout, finally spoke. "Don't waste time on fear again. You missed the big star, but maybe this train… was your real pitch."
Narain smiled. "Maybe this coach was my test audience."
As the train rolled forward deeper into the heartland of India, the group dispersed slightly, but not fully. The circle wasn't broken, just paused. Neeranjana offered him a thermos of coffee. Ajay had already begun sketching a possible poster design in his notebook.
Somewhere in the night, the wind whispered outside, sweeping through mango orchards and silent villages. But within the train, the warmth endured. A story had been told. And something had shifted—not just for Narain, but for everyone who had listened.
Because on this journey, under flickering lights and the soft rattle of the rails, a film had already begun to live.