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The cold whistles through a small crack in my window. It fills the space with a light chill, making goose bumps jump across my forearms. Half-wrapped in a sleeping bag, Arthur sits across from me; his teeth chatter while he reads. Between us is a small table attached to the wall littered with discarded paper cups and half eaten packets of milk biscuits. A trail of crumbs leads its way to me and falls to the ground as I prop myself upright to reach for one more. ‘Save them for chai,’ Arthur tells me, but I ignore him and steal three. I am comforted by the jostling carriage, of the train’s horn when it blares and the rush of noise when heavy doors open and then slam. It is a reminder that I am tucked inside, safe, and away from the outside. I stay awake as I wait, anticipating the only word I have learnt so far; of vendors who sing, Chai! Chai! Chai! Outside my window, along the parallel tracks, are the backyards of family homes, and across them, a scatter of people. There are children who run bare foot, while men sit on plastic chairs, chatting. Beyond the train tracks are houses, all with grey walls and roofs to match, each house mirroring the other. They are small with no windows, slanting from weak foundations, tired and leaning against each other for support. Women hang their laundry along lines of drooping wire, while their neighbours wash clothes in buckets of cold water. The garments that hang across the sunken line are the only colours I see against the otherwise grey landscape. As the man-made landscape shifts, and the train crawls itself away from the slums, the city opens itself to reveal the ever-changing architecture, giving glimpses into India’s colonial history. It is a collision of worlds as though Kolkata, too, has had another life. As I watch the city move to its stop-go rhythm, trees force their way back, sprouting from rooftops, while roots twist and crack through the pedestrian footpaths. The pungent green of trees is a promise of new life, while grey permeates the city. As the sun sets, and the dark creeps its way in, streetlights begin to flicker. With my eyes wide and fixated, I try to catch my thoughts, running my tongue over dry teeth, feeling their brittle chalkiness. The train continues to gain speed and I watch Kolkata recede into the grey. I take a deep breath in and exhale all that I can release. Kolkata is gone. I cosy myself into my sleeping bag, wondering if Arthur reads to avoid talking, or if he enjoys the book more than I tried. He stays focused on the same two pages, while I watch his expressionless face. His hair has grown since I last saw him, natural dreads have formed, and hidden in its mess is the bandana I once gave him. It is almost disguised, blending in with the deep brunette of his hair, the material that was once black and white, has been muddied brown. His complexion is darker now, and the lines under his eyes have deepened and creased in their corners; all evidence of the time spent under the Australian sun, of his time motorcycling the Philippines, and of the treks he took in Myanmar. These are the small changes in his appearance, not enough to make him unrecognisable but the hints which reveal time has passed. I try to have him laugh like we use to, but I know it’s not time that makes him distant; but that our past cannot be carried, not through every country we travel. As we make our way to Varanasi, soon to separate, I wonder how many more lives we both will live, and if we get to keep our memories. As I look away from Arthur, and towards the now bare countryside, the promise of chai carries down from the carriage over. ‘Chai!’ exclaims Arthur. I think about who I am, the woman I am becoming, and where she is going. Then, faintly, I catch hold of a thought, ‘You don’t have to know. You’re in the in between.’