One Tuesday, while eating a soggy sandwich at his desk, Raj realized he had not felt a single genuine emotion in 847 days. Not sadness. Not joy. Not even the mild annoyance of a fly buzzing near his ear. He had become a well-dressed, tax-paying, child-sponsoring ghost.
Raj Sharma did something uncharacteristic. He bought a train ticket to nowhere in particular—a sleeper class seat on the Rewa Express, departing at 11:45 PM. He told Neha he had a late meeting. She didn’t ask which meeting. That hurt more than an argument would have.
The story of Raj Sharma is not one of tragedy. No one died. No one left him. He did not lose his job or his house. That was the strange part—everything was fine. And that was precisely the problem.
She smiled. “That’s the best answer I’ve heard all year.” Raj Sharma Ki Kahani
“The washing machine is also making a sound,” she replied. “Call the guy tomorrow.”
“Where are you going, uncle?” she asked.
Raj Sharma was forty-two years old, which meant he was old enough to remember life before smartphones and young enough to feel foolish for not understanding the new ones. He lived in a flat in Indirapuram with a wife who loved him in a practical way, two children who loved him only when the Wi-Fi was working, and a mother who loved him like a courtroom cross-examiner—intensely and with follow-up questions. One Tuesday, while eating a soggy sandwich at
He bought the milk. He went to work. He paid the EMIs. He smiled at his children. But something had shifted.
Every morning, Raj did the same thing. He woke at 6:15, brushed his teeth while scrolling through LinkedIn, and stood under the shower thinking about the EMIs he hadn’t finished paying. By 7:00, he was in his Maruti Suzuki, stuck in the same traffic jam near Sector 62, watching a man sell selfie sticks to other trapped men. Raj often wondered: When did we start selling mirrors on sticks? And why is everyone buying them?
That was the moment Raj understood: in the story of his life, he had become a supporting character in someone else’s spreadsheet. Not even the mild annoyance of a fly buzzing near his ear
That night, after everyone slept, Raj Sharma opened a notebook—the first notebook he had touched since college—and wrote: “This is the story of a man who forgot how to want. Not because he had everything, but because he stopped asking himself what he truly needed. The train didn’t save him. The girl didn’t save him. But the ache she gave him? That was a beginning.” He closed the notebook. He didn’t know what would happen next. Neither do I. But that’s the thing about Raj Sharma’s story—it’s not over. It’s barely started.
Neha looked up from her phone. “Did you take the car for servicing?”
1. The Middle of Everything
On the train, he sat next to a young girl of about nineteen, who was reading a tattered copy of Ruskin Bond. She had ink stains on her fingers and a nose ring that caught the yellow station light.
One Tuesday, while eating a soggy sandwich at his desk, Raj realized he had not felt a single genuine emotion in 847 days. Not sadness. Not joy. Not even the mild annoyance of a fly buzzing near his ear. He had become a well-dressed, tax-paying, child-sponsoring ghost.
Raj Sharma did something uncharacteristic. He bought a train ticket to nowhere in particular—a sleeper class seat on the Rewa Express, departing at 11:45 PM. He told Neha he had a late meeting. She didn’t ask which meeting. That hurt more than an argument would have.
The story of Raj Sharma is not one of tragedy. No one died. No one left him. He did not lose his job or his house. That was the strange part—everything was fine. And that was precisely the problem.
She smiled. “That’s the best answer I’ve heard all year.”
“The washing machine is also making a sound,” she replied. “Call the guy tomorrow.”
“Where are you going, uncle?” she asked.
Raj Sharma was forty-two years old, which meant he was old enough to remember life before smartphones and young enough to feel foolish for not understanding the new ones. He lived in a flat in Indirapuram with a wife who loved him in a practical way, two children who loved him only when the Wi-Fi was working, and a mother who loved him like a courtroom cross-examiner—intensely and with follow-up questions.
He bought the milk. He went to work. He paid the EMIs. He smiled at his children. But something had shifted.
Every morning, Raj did the same thing. He woke at 6:15, brushed his teeth while scrolling through LinkedIn, and stood under the shower thinking about the EMIs he hadn’t finished paying. By 7:00, he was in his Maruti Suzuki, stuck in the same traffic jam near Sector 62, watching a man sell selfie sticks to other trapped men. Raj often wondered: When did we start selling mirrors on sticks? And why is everyone buying them?
That was the moment Raj understood: in the story of his life, he had become a supporting character in someone else’s spreadsheet.
That night, after everyone slept, Raj Sharma opened a notebook—the first notebook he had touched since college—and wrote: “This is the story of a man who forgot how to want. Not because he had everything, but because he stopped asking himself what he truly needed. The train didn’t save him. The girl didn’t save him. But the ache she gave him? That was a beginning.” He closed the notebook. He didn’t know what would happen next. Neither do I. But that’s the thing about Raj Sharma’s story—it’s not over. It’s barely started.
Neha looked up from her phone. “Did you take the car for servicing?”
1. The Middle of Everything
On the train, he sat next to a young girl of about nineteen, who was reading a tattered copy of Ruskin Bond. She had ink stains on her fingers and a nose ring that caught the yellow station light.