
The oracle sat in the train. She had always known she’d get the side upper berth.
She still had a few hours before she’d have to clamber up. No point asking the young boy opposite her to exchange his lower berth for her upper one.
It was destined that he would refuse. Just as it was destined that he’d pass the exam he was going to give with flying colours. Unfortunately he’d lose his seat to a quota candidate. But he didn’t know any of that just yet. And he was busy on his laptop, not even bothering to glance at the fat Punjabi lady in a loose salwaar kameez in front of him.
The oracle felt a burp rising. She opened her bag and pulled out some churan.
As she sucked on her churan, and felt her stomach slowly secrete the juices needed to digest her evening samosa, she looked around.
The mother with her two sons. The oracle knew this was the summer holiday where the husband would cheat on his wife. The wife fortunately didn’t. And cooed away on the phone, while the boys pulled each other’s hair out.
The oracle's eyes slid over the boys, nothing interesting, nothing spectacular, till they rested on a girl on one end of the berth. A magazine open on her lap, the girl’s head was against the glass as she dozed.
Kleptomaniac. And rabble rouser. From college politics to party politics. This girl would treat her friends and enemies alike – with ruthlessness.
The oracle shivered. Maybe it was the AC. Why did they always keep it so high?
She wished she had bought a Filmfare. Sure, that Kareena Kapoor would finally marry a fat Punjabi industrialist, but at least it would have been time pass to read about her and Saif declaring their undying love for each other.
The oracle belched, and looked around the compartment. Wife beater. Dead at 42. Spinster. Bright future. Lakhpati. Car accident. Guilty. Three marriages.
“ Madam, dinner?”
The oracle, her reverie broken, looked up.
“ Uh...khane mein kya hai?”
“ Rajma.”
The oracle sighed. She knew she was beaten. How could you tell what Rajma would do? Especially after Ghasitaram ke do garm samose.
Gas ya acidity?
The oracle had no answer.






