View from a train window overlooking golden wheat fields with farmers, bullocks, and distant villages under a blue sky.

Please create image for --Ferozepur-bound train — Summer, 1997 The train to Ferozepur was moving slowly, like an old snake dragging itself through the dry heart of Punjab. The metal creaked, and the people inside sighed with the heat and the journey. It was one of those trains whose name nobody quite remembered, but everyone knew it well enough—the one that took the day to cross the country, stopping at every little station to collect stories along the way. Ranjit hadn’t written a single word in weeks. Since the funeral, silence had settled over him like an old shawl. Delhi was noisy, full of clatter that seemed to push away thoughts. Threads of India 22 So, he decided to come here, hoping maybe the fields would tell him something new—or remind him of something forgotten. The carriage was crowded but not too cramped. There was just enough room to stretch and feel the breeze sneak in through the barred windows. The bars themselves made the outside world look like a flickering film, dust and sunlight playing on the fields beyond. Outside, Punjab stretched on forever—golden wheat, tall sugarcane, and the occasional bright flash of a peacock taking flight. The smell of fresh earth mixed with smoke from little fires burning dung cakes lined up like soldiers on the walls of houses. Bullocks plodded along, pulling wooden ploughs, and the farmers followed quietly, kicking up little dust clouds. At every stop, the train slowed, panting like an old man. Vendors swarmed the windows, See more