Vikram knew what that meant. Waterlogged ballast. The stones beneath the sleepers, meant to drain and cushion, were saturated. If they didn't fix it, the signalling system would think the track was occupied. Or worse – the track would actually shift.
Arjun’s face paled. “If we can’t clear it…”
Vikram radioed the control room. “147A is green. Drainage patched. Relaying crew can follow up tomorrow.”
The 5:15 Down Express thundered past at 4:58, its wake spraying a curtain of water. As it vanished into the grey horizon, Arjun pointed at Vikram’s soaked coat pocket. The corner of the Agarwal book peeked out, pages warped but spine intact.
They trudged through the mud. Rain turned the gravel path into a river. When they reached 147A, Vikram knelt. The ballast stones, normally jagged and grey, were submerged in a dark, silent pool.