Rajiv looked at his own ticket again. The bottom had a tiny line of text: “Ticket lost will not be replaced.” He felt a spike of anxiety and tucked it deeper into his wallet, next to a photograph of his father standing in front of the Somnath temple, smiling.
The conductor stood by the door, punching new tickets for the return journey to Ahmedabad. The old printer was whirring again, creating new stories, new destinations.
He tucked it into the crack of a stone wall near the temple gate. A small, silent offering to a machine that never asked for a password, a login, or a digital signature. It only asked for sixty-three rupees and a place to go.
Fifteen hours later, the bus groaned into the dark, damp air of the Somnath depot. The smell of salt and incense filled the cabin. Rajiv was the last to leave.