When the Clock Strikes Two-1

Meet the Author

Only fewer were noticed. Fire fighters found it hard to walk between the burnt bodies that covered most of the area. Even harder was it to see through the huge pile of black and grey smoke-filled air. Nearly hundred people died in the blast and many more were left injured for the fate to play cruel games.

A sudden blast of a horn—metal shrieking against metal as a train thundered past in the opposite direction—yanked Sharon out of the story and back into the real world.

He squinted, pressed his index finger into his left ear, and tilted his head to the right, waiting for the last carriage to pass his window. When the noise softened into the familiar rhythm of his own train, he removed his finger and opened his eyes fully.

His gaze dropped to the tablet in his hands. The last word he had read stared back at him.

Games.

He scrolled down. The page ended. No next button.

Sharon sighed and lifted his eyes to his wife, Nikitha, seated to his right. He smiled at her.

She didn’t notice.

Her thumb moved endlessly—Short after Short on YouTube.

The smile faded.

“This is why you have such a short attention span,” Sharon said, his tone firm. “You need to reduce this addiction to Shorts and videos, Nikitha.”

She didn’t respond. The scrolling continued.

Sharon exhaled and looked away, letting his eyes wander across the compartment.

A woman in her twenties sat beside Nikitha, earphones plugged in, eyes glassy. Tears welled up as a faint, mournful song leaked into the air. As Sharon leaned slightly in her direction, she noticed, shot him an annoyed look, and wiped her tears.

Awkward, Sharon turned away.

Opposite him, a man in his sixties and a woman in her fifties slept with their heads tilted back, mouths slightly open, surrendering to the sway of the train.

In front of Sharon sat a man reading a newspaper. Only his lower half was visible—grey formal trousers and casual sandals with white soles and blue straps. On the back page, a headline screamed in bold letters:

ANOTHER MAN FALLS INTO COMA: REASONS STILL UNKNOWN

The paper curled slightly, revealing part of the man’s face.

A shudder ran through Sharon.

He unlocked his tablet with his fingerprint and hurried back to the website he had been reading earlier. Tapping the homepage icon, he froze.

A photograph filled the screen—a man in his thirties.

It has to be him, Sharon thought.

He took a deep breath.

“Excuse me,” he said to the man in front of him.

The newspaper lowered, revealing his full face.

“I knew it!” Sharon blurted out, loud enough to draw curious glances—including from Nikitha.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered quickly, embarrassed.

Then, beaming, he extended his hand. “Hello, Ali Zafar. I’m Sharon Kumar. I’m a huge fan of your work. I’ve read all your books—and every story on your website.”

Ali studied him for a moment before shaking his hand. “Thank you.”

“So, when is the first chapter of When the Clock Strikes Two coming out?” Sharon asked, barely containing his excitement.

Ali looked out the window. “I don’t know. I’m stuck. I can’t decide where to begin.”

“The prologue was short, but intriguing,” Sharon said. “I just finished it. I’m really curious about how you’ll proceed.”

Ali remained silent, eyes fixed on the passing scenery.

“I always imagined you differently,” Sharon continued, trying to fill the pause. “Flamboyant. Rich clothes. Business class. First AC coaches.”

Ali glanced at him. “I prefer a minimalistic life.”

“Oh,” Sharon nodded. “That explains why your characters feel so grounded. Anyone can connect with them.” He hesitated, then added, “I always wanted to be a writer too. I read a lot when I was young. Made up stories, told them to friends and family.”

“Used to?” Ali asked.

Sharon’s expression dulled. “Yes. I haven’t thought of a new story in years. I was… driven away from that dream. Into reality.”

The screech of brakes cut through his thoughts as the train slowed for a station.

“Tea?” Ali asked.

“No, thank you.”

Ali bought one anyway, blowing on it before taking a sip. “What do you do now?”

“I’m in sales,” Sharon said after a pause. “Medical diagnostics. Phoenix.”

Ali nodded. “Industry leader.”

“Yes. The pay’s good. Lot of travel.” Sharon smiled—thin and practiced.

“You miss the stories?,” Ali asked gently.

“Every day.”

Ali smiled warmly.

The train moved again, drowning the platform noise beneath the rhythm of steel on rails.

“Is that your wife?” Ali asked, glancing at Nikitha.

“Yes. Married five years.”

“She works too?”

“Yes. Content consulting for media companies.”

“You live in Bangalore?”

“Indiranagar. Rented place.”

Ali listened intently, asking questions—about work, neighbourhoods, life.

After a while, Sharon frowned. “May I ask why you’re asking all this?”

Ali paused. “Writers are curious about lives. Nothing more.”

“I just felt… uncomfortable, with a few personal questions.,” Sharon said.

“I’m sorry.”

Silence settled between them.

“My stop is next,” Sharon said finally, bending to retrieve his luggage.

“It was nice meeting you,” Ali said. “Please keep reading my stories.”

“Definitely.”

Sharon and Nikitha stood, trolley and backpacks in tow. As they stepped out, Sharon turned back.

“There’s a common way authors begin stories,” he said. “It works. But I always wanted to start differently. Unusual settings. Characters people don’t usually write.”

Ali looked at him, intrigued.

“Don’t mind me,” Sharon smiled, then walked away beside Nikitha, her earphones still in place.

Ali stared out the window as the train slowed for the next station, Sharon’s words echoing in his mind.

(To be continued)