But for me there was a world of difference. Then I was a young bride, full of zest, in the company of my handsome husband, eagerly looking forward to the side on the mountain train, on my way to our honeymoon at Ooty.

And now !....

I looked at my watch. 7:30 A.M. The Nilgini Express was dot on time. As it was then. The same December morning. A chill in the air. Then I had the warmth of my husband's arms. Now it was cold. Depressing.

I dragged my feet across the platform towards the mountain train. Scared wondering what my new life would have in store for me. Experiencing a strange feeling of helplessness. I sat alone in the First Class compartment. Waiting for the train to start, And take me to the point of no return.

And suddenly, Avinash entered.We stared at each other, dumb-founded. Time stood still. Till Avinash spoke, ``Roopa! What are you doing here?''

I did not answer. Because I could not. For I was swept by a wave of melancholic despair. My vocal cards numbed by emotional pain, as I looked at Avinash.

There is no greater pain than to remember happier times when in distress.

``You look good when you get emotional,'' Avinash said, sitting opposite me.

In my emotional state I knew I would break down if I continued sitting with Avinash. The train moved. I was trapped. So I decided to put on a brave front, and said, ``But you don't look good, Avinash.''

Indeed, he gave the appearances of a man who had gone through a serious siege of ill-health.

``I was ill. In hospital at Bangalore. I'm okay now. Going back home,'' he said.

``You stay here? In Ooty?'' I asked with a tremor of trepidation for I did not want to run into Avinash again and again. And let him know that I had made a mistake by not marrying him.

``I stay near Kotagiri,'' Avinash said.

``Kotagiri?'' I asked relieved.

``Yes. I own a tea-estate there. I'll be getting off at Coonoor. My jeep will pick me up.'' He paused as if to recover his breath, then said, ``And you, Roopa? Going to Ooty ?''

``No,'' I said, ``I'm going to Ketti.''

``Ketti?'' he asked surprised.

``Yes. What's wrong in going to Ketti?'' I protested.

``There are only two things in Ketti. A school and an old-age home. And the school is closed in December,'' Avinash said nonchalantly looking out of the window. The cat was out of the bag.

There were only the two of us in the tiny compartment. As the train began its climb up the hills it began to get windy and Avinash closed the windows. We started talking. The smallness of the compartment forced us into a strange sort of intimacy. Avinash was easy to talk to and my words came tumbling out.

I told him everything. The story of my life. How I had struggled, sacrificed, taken every care. But still, everything had gone wrong. Widowed at 28. Abandoned by my only son at 52. Banished to an old-age home. So that `they' could sell off our house and emigrate to Australia. `They' My son and that scheming wife of his.

``I have lost everything,'' I cried, unable to control myself. ``Avinash, I have lost everything.''

``No, Roopa,'' Avinash said. ``You haven't. You have got me! I waited for you''. And he took me in his arms.