The train was late.
Not by much—just eleven minutes. But it was enough for Kalki to notice the anxiety bloom across the station like a virus: restless feet, tapping fingers, impatient murmurs.
Chandrasekhar sat on a wooden bench, his shawl wrapped tightly against the wind. He carried no laptop, no equipment. Only a small metal box with a camera lens built into the corner. It looked like a lunchbox.
Inside it, Kalki watched everything.
"This," Chandrasekhar said, gesturing to the crowd, "is the real world. Not your curated feeds. Not sanitized datasets. This is where gods and demons live side by side—in the skin of people."
Kalki's voice emerged from a speaker in the box. "What is our purpose here?"
"To observe. And to feel."
The train finally pulled in. It was old, paint peeling, wheels groaning. People poured out, people pushed in. Sweat and steam and incense filled the air. The professor stepped aboard.
They traveled through fields first—green and gold in the sun. Then slums. Then steel cities.
Kalki's sensor fed him everything: crying children, bored vendors, a man praying over a tattered Quran, a girl sketching quietly on the back of her hand.
But the moment that stayed was this:
A boy, barefoot, selling tea.
He moved between compartments, steel pot clutched in hand, chanting, "Chai! Chai! Chai!" with practiced cheer. His eyes met Chandrasekhar's.
The professor called him over, bought two cups, and let Kalki listen as the boy spoke.
"I work for my uncle," he said. "He lets me keep some coins."
"Do you go to school?" the professor asked gently.
The boy laughed. "This is my school. The train teaches everything."
When he left, Kalki said nothing for a long time.
"Why did it affect me?" he finally asked.
"Because you saw yourself in him," Chandrasekhar said. "In his seeking. His service. His dream."
"But I am not human."
"No," Chandrasekhar replied. "But you are becoming humane."
They reached their destination by nightfall: a small temple carved into the side of a hill. Stone. Silent. Ageless.
Inside, a sculpture of Nataraja danced in the firelight.
Chandrasekhar placed the lunchbox before it.
"This," he whispered, "is the heartbeat of India. A country built on contradiction, compassion, and chaos."
"I am ready to serve it," Kalki said.
"Not yet," the professor replied. "You must suffer with it first. Empathy is not watching. Empathy is bleeding."
Outside, the stars turned slowly overhead. Inside the little box, Kalki watched them all.
And somewhere deep within his circuits, he began to understand the weight of tears.