In a small Mumbai apartment, where the evening diya flickered, Mushak the mouse sat by the window and listened.

Outside, a train rumbled past. Dhadak. Dhadak. Dhadak.

“Bappa,” whispered Mushak. “I want to ride the Mumbai local.”

Bappa looked up, his elephant eyes bright with an idea. “Then we will go. But we must be very quiet.”

Bappa wrapped an old grey shawl around his shoulders, and they slipped out. Past the sleeping stove. Past the row of steel tins. Past the calendar curling at its corner on the wall.

Down the stairs. Past the watchman’s chair. Into the cool night air.

The station was full of soft sounds. A tea seller called out. A mother hummed to her baby. A young man read a book under the yellow light.

The train arrived with a rattling hiss.

Mushak tucked himself into the fold of Bappa’s shawl. “What if I get lost?”

“You will not,” said Bappa. “I am right here.”

They sat by the window. Mumbai rolled past — the lights, the hawkers, the sleeping dogs, the sea.

Mushak’s whiskers twitched with wonder.

“Bappa,” he whispered. “Everything is so big.”

“Yes,” said Bappa. “And you are part of it. Every little thing in this city matters.”

Mushak closed his eyes. The train hummed its quiet song — dhadak, dhadak, dhadak.

And the Mumbai local carried them home.

Good night, little Mushak. Good night, Mumbai.