Some instruments are meant to be silenced. Others, to be heard anew.

She looked at the screen. Unknown international number.

For a year, it worked. The melody would pierce her lonely nights, and she’d smile. Then the calls grew sparse. The ringtone became a taunt— Pardesi pardesi... he was already gone. One evening, she answered to a woman’s voice. Kabir’s new wife. Meera hung up, deleted his number, but kept the ringtone. Some habits are harder to kill than love.

Six years ago, she’d stood at this very spot, clutching the same Nokia brick phone. Kabir, her then-boyfriend, was leaving for a software job in Toronto. The train to the airport had hissed at the platform, impatient.

She declined the call.

The Mumbai local train shuddered to a halt at Andheri station. Meera pressed her phone to her ear, listening not to a call, but to the instrumental ringtone she’d just set. The lilting shehnai and soft tabla of “Pardesi Pardesi Jana Nahin” filled her world, drowning out the platform’s chaos.

She had nodded, not trusting her voice. The train left. The ringtone became their invisible thread.