Companion

Siliguri, 1942

When Professor Sukumar Chaudhuri, a fastidious and mildly irritable orthopaedic, received a complete human skeleton in the mail, he didn’t expect companionship. Certainly not the kind that would  alter his life completely.

The skeleton—was couriered by a former student in Bombay—was of a woman. Mid-20s, well-preserved, and oddly dignified, even in bone. One silver toe ring glinted on the right foot.

"A bit dramatic," he muttered. "Who sends skeletons with accessories?"

Along with his house help Chotu , he placed the skeleton in a selected corner in his study.

At first Chotu was scared and wouldn't touch it. He only reluctantly touched it after being rebuked by his master. 

"Ram, ram, ram.." he chanted.

"Arre buddhu..it's just a skeleton; most harmless."

Chotu left the room in a hurry after placing it appropriately in its designated spot.

Satisfied, Sukumar stood front of it.

"You are in fine shape..good for my studies and research." He said . "Let's call you Anaya."

---

Sukumar lived alone in a dated colonial bungalow that creaked like an old man clearing his throat. His only frequent visitor was Chottu, the house help who came four times a week, mostly to gossip and reorganize the kitchen incorrectly.

"Sir," Chottu said, narrowing his eyes at Anaya, "this lady gives me the creeps."

"She’s quieter than you," Sukumar replied. "Which I appreciate."

---

DAY 8: First Signs

Sukumar woke to find his spectacles perched neatly on his bedside table, cleaned. His notebooks neatly stacked.

He blinked.

"Why, thank you", he muttered to himself.

---

DAY 15: Domestic Partnership

Every day brought something novel. Papers sorted. Socks paired. Tea made.

"Anaya," he said one evening, swirling his cup, "you’ve reorganized my thesis notes. Also, your taste in Assam tea is excellent."

The skeleton, of course, said nothing. But he could swear the lower jaw bone tilted, amused.

That evening, Chottu found him humming Rabindra Sangeet while dusting the skeleton’s collarbone with a peacock feather.

"Sir," Chottu whispered, backing out of the room, "I think you’re getting drawn to the bone lady."

"Don’t be ridiculous," Sukumar snapped. Then, softly, to Anaya: "Not until she makes luchi."

---

DAY 27: Guests and Ghosts

A surprise visitor arrived—Dr. Nandini Sen, a former student turned government health officer.

"Still living with bones, sir?" she teased.

"She has a name - Anaya" he said. "Quite loyal."

Nandini peered at the skeleton. "Is that a... flower in her hand?"

"She likes hibiscus."

Nandini leaned in, raising an eyebrow. "And lipstick on that teacup beside her?"

"Hmm..what to say..."

That night, as Sukumar settled into bed, a voice drifted through the shadows.

 “She was wearing rose oil. You never liked rose.”

Sukumar sat up. The voice was unmistakably female—faint but firm. He looked at the skeleton.

"Anaya...?"

No response. But the faintest scent of cardamom lingered.

---

DAY 40: The Saree

That night, thunder cracked. Sukumar lit a candle.

In the flickering glow, he saw it—an outline. Bare feet. Yellow saree. A woman standing by the window - a feminine silhouette.

He didn’t move.

She came closer. Bent. Touched his cheek with a cool hand. Then vanished. He stiffened momentarily.

Her face, though not clear, held softness. A nose pin shimmered faintly through the haze.

He poured two cups of tea the next morning. Cardamom. Light milk. She preferred it that way.

---

DAY 51: Fever

Sukumar fell ill. A harsh fever gripped him, confining him to bed for two days. Chottu was out visiting his aunt, unaware.

He drifted in and out of sleep, burning with high fever . But one moment stood out:

He opened his eyes at midnight and saw her.

Anaya. Seated next to his head, not in bone, not in shadow, but something gently luminous. Draped in a soft saree, her spectral fingers dipped cloth in water and pressed it to his forehead.

In a state of delirium, he reached out and held her hand—or thought he did. It was cold, but soft.

And in a whisper, he muttered, "Will I ever know about you?"

 “You already do,” came the faint reply. “More than most ever will.”

No words after. Just a presence.

The soft clinking of bangles. Light breaths - almost inaudible.

Then silence.

When he awoke in the morning, a folded cloth sat in the bowl of water. A fresh cup of ginger tea steamed gently on the side table.

Though still weak, he managed to walk to the study and glanced toward the skeleton.

"You make decent tea." He said, feeling grateful to his "companion".

After that, on numerous nights Sukumar felt her presence on the other side of the bed; soft ruffling of bedsheet, light tossing and turning - all indicated Anya's closeness.

"You are here , aren't you?" Sukumar would ask sleepily.

A soft chuckle would be the response.

In the mornings, the bed would feel warmer.

---

DAY 58: Intimacy

There were no confessions. No longings spoken aloud.

Only gestures. A folded shawl. A cleaned inkpot. A fingertip on his shoulder when he coughed too hard.

"Anaya," he said once, pausing mid-writing, "you’ve ruined me for real women. They expect conversation."

The skeleton tilted slightly on its hook.

“You talk enough for two.”

Sukumar froze. Then smiled, wide-eyed.

"So you do listen."

 “Only when you’re talking sensibly.”

He laughed till he wheezed.

---

DAY 100: Coexistence

The house was spotless. The garden bloomed. Chottu now bowed to Anaya when he mopped.

"Sir," he said one day, solemnly, "I think she runs this place."

"I know she does," said Sukumar, adjusting his shawl. "I just pretend to be in charge."

---

Social backlash also followed. A few people labelled the bungalow as haunted; Sukumar was belittled with monikers like lunatic, tantric and what not. But he took everything sportingly and brushed away all negatives.

--

Spring came. Sukumar, now gently greying, sat reading Tagore aloud in the study.

On the table, two teacups steamed. A butterfly sat still on her collarbone.

Chottu walked in, stopped, stared. Then nodded and said:

"Good evening, Professor. Good evening, Boudi."

Sukumar looked up.

"See, Anaya? Even Chottu agrees. We make a fine couple."

 “He’s not wrong,” came the soft voice, warm as a hearth. “Now stop pretending you can sing.”

And from somewhere between shadow and sunlight, the scent of jasmine enveloped the room.

---

A few years later, Professor Sukumar Chaudhuri officially retired from his post at the Government Medical College. Some former students and colleagues came to his bungalow to felicitate him.

One of them brought a camera.

They insisted on a photograph—Sukumar seated on his favourite old chair, shawl draped neatly, a half-smile on his face.

When the photo was developed a few days later, silence fell.

Beside Sukumar, standing just behind him, was the faint image of a woman. Hazy but unmistakable. One hand rested gently on his shoulder.

The outline was soft, almost like mist—and the faint glint of a nose pin shone on her blurred face.

Chottu stared at it, then simply said:

"Boudi wanted one last portrait."

And Sukumar, holding the photograph, whispered:

"Perfect framing, as always."

---

New Delhi, 2025

Reema Sen visits the house of Pradosh Mitra , her fiance. They are set to tie the knot in December.

A room in the house is dedicated to photographs - mostly the forgotten, sepia-toned ones. 

Reema stands in front of one particular frame.

"Hey, this seated gentleman has a resemblance with you." She nudged Pradosh. "But the lady's face along side him , is not very clear. They made a lovely couple, though. Who were they?" She asked.

"Oh .. that's one of my great grand father; lived in Siliguri. Come , let me tell you a beautiful story ". 

----

Shadows

 Arav glanced at the clear, blue sky as he steered his car toward Dehradun. 

He had been invited by the Dehradun Literary Club to be felicitated for his recent bestseller — a story collection blending dreams and reality, memories and myths. It was a proud moment, one his mother had insisted he attend, though deep down, Arav cared less about accolades and more about escaping the noise of his thoughts, and the city's hustle and bustle.

The organiser had offered a round-trip, first-class train ticket, but Arav insisted on driving to Dehradun instead.

The highway stretched empty ahead, framed by dusty fields and restless winds.

Suddenly, a storm began to rise — a wild, whirling curtain of dust. Arav slowed down, visibility dropping to almost nothing. The world outside became a furious blur of brown and gold. He stopped, waiting it out, when, through the swirling chaos, figures began to emerge.

The first was a stocky man, scowling under the shadow of a worn cap.

As the dust thinned, Arav realized the man was watching him closely. Their eyes met briefly — a flicker of coldness, a flash of recognition. It was Raman Raghav, a notorious South Indian gangster, whom Arav had once written into a forgotten draft.

Shaken, Arav pressed the accelerator to drive ahead, but almost immediately had to brake hard.

Another figure stood in the road — a woman in a khaki uniform, her badge gleaming through the dust.

Kiran Ahluwalia, it read.

Arav’s heart thudded. He knew that name — another character, a tough police officer he had once given life to on paper.

Kiran glanced at him, sharp and brief, before waving him through. No words exchanged, but the impact left Arav rattled.

The storm passed as suddenly as it had come.

At noon, Arav stopped at a roadside dhaba to refresh and fill his hungry stomach. Though a dhaba, the ambience was on par with any modern restaurant. It was reasonably occupied.He quickly found a corner table and settled there comfortably.

While waiting for his order to be served, he swept his glance across the dining area, making mental notes of the various people who were seated around him.

His gaze stopped at a particular table; he looked with intrigue at the middle-aged, balding male figure. Zorawar Khan - the name struck him instantly - a cunning and despicable politician, he had penned a few years back. The man was sipping from a beer can and speaking inaudibly into his phone. Each of the fingers on his right hand was adorned with a gold ring. His sly gaze didn't spare even a single woman who was present at that moment. 

The mannerisms were eerily similar to the fictional character. Infact , too similar to be true.

Arav promptly finished his lunch, paid the bill, and stepped out of the place.

When he neared his red Hyundai, he was amused to find a parrot perched on the bonnet. Upon seeing the approaching human figure, it squawked and flew off. It had a white dot under the left eye. 

Arav grimaced and shook his head in disbelief - the parrot's appearance was similar to a parrot that he had written about in a school magazine, many years ago.

A day of coincidences.. he said to himself.

**********************

He reached the outskirts of Dehradun just as twilight began to settle in. Guiding his car into a nearby empty field, he stepped out to stretch. The quiet surroundings and cool breeze helped calm his nerves. He took a deep breath and stood still, listening to the silence, broken only by the occasional passing vehicles.

Just then, a low but distinct humming sound caught his attention, and he instinctively looked up. A UFO? The oval shape and the eerie bluish pink light it emitted bore an uncanny resemblance to the spacecraft he had written about just a few months earlier.

Before he could react, the spacecraft zipped away toward the distant horizon. Shaking his head in disbelief, he climbed back into his car.

Arav drove on, mind racing, reality and imagination overlapping each other.

Reaching the hotel at Dehradun, Arav checked in and retired to his room. Some of the members of the literary club were present in the venue, who helped him to complete the formalities.

The hotel buzzed with preparations for the evening's felicitation dinner. The lobby gleamed under chandeliers. Elegant guests floated by.

As he moved toward the elevators, a faint floral scent—sweet and wild, caught him off-guard.

He paused, scanning the room.

There, near the vintage piano, sat a young woman, alone, in a simple crimson blouse and jeans.

Not flashy, but compelling.

A chill ran through him.

She resembled Scarlett, a character from an old,  but controversial story — a high-end escort who had drifted across his pages like a ghost made of fire and longing.

But this woman was different — ordinary, modest.

Only the physical features matched: the curve of her cheekbones, the restless glimmer in her eyes.

She isn’t Scarlett, Arav told himself. Just someone who looks like her.

Still, fact and fiction folded into each other, leaving him disoriented and more confused than ever.

The felicitation ceremony passed in a daze. Speeches, claps, smiles — Arav floated through it mechanically.

At the post-event dinner, he found a quiet table and was soon joined by Mehr, a cheerful young woman he had noticed earlier among the guests.

Mehr was just an attendee — not an awardee — but Arav found her easy to talk to.

They spoke about books, films, favorite places, and childhood memories.

Mehr laughed easily, a musical sound that somehow soothed his frayed mind.

Just when Arav began to relax, something tugged at his senses.

His gaze drifted across the hall and froze.

Near the far corner, Scarlett — or the woman resembling her — stood quietly, watching them.

There was sadness in her smile, a strange farewell in her eyes.

Arav rose instinctively, murmuring an apology to Mehr, and made his way toward her.

She lifted her hand in a soft wave... and before he could reach her, she turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Arav searched, but she was gone.

When he returned to his table, Mehr too had vanished.

Puzzled, he asked a staff member if they had seen where the lady from his table had gone.

But they looked at him blankly — no record of a guest matching her description attending the event.

A chill prickled his skin.

Too much — it was too much.

His head felt heavy. Beads of sweat enveloped his forehead.

The last thing he remembered was the ground moving beneath him as he collapsed.

---

Arav woke in a hospital bed, the ceiling whirring with the dull sound of a fan.

The doctors told him he had suffered a bout of stress-induced collapse.

"Nothing serious," they assured him. "Just fatigue. Rest, young man."

A mild tranquilizer was administered, and Arav slept deeply through the night, dreamless, for once.

He woke feeling lighter, refreshed.

At 8 AM, his phone buzzed with a WhatsApp message:

"Doctor has cleared discharge by noon. We will pick you up. Cheers, DLC Team."

He smiled faintly, called his mother, and reassured her that all was fine.

While speaking, he didn’t notice a nurse entering silently.

She was short, stocky, with quick, practiced movements — and left-handed.

Features that oddly matched a minor character he had created long ago: a gruff but tender-hearted nurse.

"Routine check-up, sir," she said softly, recording his temperature and blood pressure.

Before he could ask her anything, she was gone.

Vanished like a ripple across a still lake.

Do I exist in their world, Arav wondered with a weary smile, or do they exist in mine?

A Garden for All

Mr. Ghosh had always been a quiet man, but after his wife, his companion of forty years, passed away, he was left devastated. He became a recluse, barely speaking, rarely leaving his room. His days passed in silence, surrounded by her photos, her sarees folded carefully in the cupboard, and the old Bengali and Hindi songs they used to play on lazy afternoons. She was extremely fond of Kishore Kumar and Rabindra sangeet renditions by Hemant Mukherjee.

His children were worried. His daughter-in-law, Rukmini, would call him every few days from Delhi. “Baba, are you eating properly?” she’d ask gently. He’d whisper a half-hearted reply.

But nothing truly stirred him. The irreplaceable void was impossible to fill. Until that rainy evening arrived.

It was after a fierce kal baisakhi storm. The wind had upturned pots, broken a few branches in the garden. Mr. Ghosh stepped outside — a rare thing in itself — to survey the damage. And then he heard it: faint squeaks - barely audible. He followed the sound, and under the broken canopy of a guava tree, he found them. He switched on the torchlight. Two tiny, helpless baby parrots, their bodies trembling, their feathers yet to fully emerge. Eyes were yet to develop.

He knelt beside them, a strange ache swelling inside his chest.  A sense of purpose enveloped him instantly. “Ramu! Come quickly!!” he called to his longtime household help. “Bring an old basket… and some soft cloth.”

It filled Ramu with equal parts amusement and joy to hear his master call his name in that old familiar tone, something he hadn’t heard in such a long time.

With Ramu’s help, they built a small, temporary shelter in his room, lining it with cotton, old cloth and warmth. Mr. Ghosh kept an eye on them, feeding them drops of warm water, mashed fruits. 

He resorted to YouTube videos to figure out how to care for such fragile, young parrots.

Once he had kept the basket in the verandah. An adult parrot would come through the grills and inspect the chicks; once in a while, it would feed them also. "Could she be the mother"? Mr.Ghosh had wondered. However, after a couple of days, the visits ceased.

Every morning, he checked on the little beings, feeling amused as their feathers slowly grew, their squeaks strengthened, beaks became stronger and redder, and their color became radiantly green.

The birds fluttered about the house, floating from one room to another. Perching on the bedside edge or stationing themselves on the dining table, naughtily nibbling at the fruits kept in the fruit basket. Sometimes they would sit on Mr.Ghosh's study table, staring at the desktop monitor, or at times hovering in front of the dressing table mirror, getting amused by the reflections of their own antics!

Becoming confident and stronger, they ventured to the garden. They’d fly out during the day but always return by sundown, chattering excitedly around him.

The two would also 'raid' the kitchen to collect green chillies.

The garden soon became a home to sparrows, a few Mynahs, and a few more birds that Mr.Ghosh couldn't identify, and he didn't care; their chirping and colorful foliage made him happy.

One day, he snapped a photo on his phone — the two parrots perched on the easy chair in the garden, side by side, beaks touching. With a hesitant grin, he sent it to Rukmini on WhatsApp.

“Look at these naughty fellows, Rukmini! Already bringing their friends over.”

Rukmini replied immediately. “They’re adorable, Baba! I’m so happy to see this. You sound happier.”

Sometimes he’d call her. “Rukmini, guess what — they sat on my shoulder today! Like I’m their tree,” he chuckled softly.

Her heart swelled with relief. “They love you, Baba. I’m so glad you have company.”

The garden became livelier. The two parrots soon brought mates; then chicks followed. The guava tree became a bustling haven. Their playful squeaks filled the once-silent home.

One morning, while inspecting the garden, Mr. Ghosh noticed a small burrow near the boundary wall. Curious, he approached, adjusting his glasses. "Now, what is this?". He wondered. Suddenly, a small figure popped out — a rabbit, wide-eyed, nose twitching. It stared at him for a moment before darting back inside.

Mr. Ghosh laughed heartily. “Arre, Ramu! We have a new guest!”

Initially, the rabbit was hesitant and kept a safe distance from the humans. Over the period, it gained confidence and became bolder. He would hop about freely across the garden, and also enter the bungalow; he would sit near Mr.Ghosh and accept treats from him or Ramu.

 One particular stormy night, it refused to leave. It was afraid of the thunder and heavy rains. It cocooned itself against Mr.Ghosh's feet to comfort itself from the outside torment. Mr. Ghosh laid out an old cushion in a corner of his room. “Stay here tonight, little one. Safe from the rain.” And patted it. "But don't chew off my wifi cable." He warned the rabbit mockingly.

"But I'm worried about the birds outside.." he mumbled to himself.

****************

And so the garden’s family grew. Birds of different kinds flocked to the yard, drinking from the water bowls Mr. Ghosh set out, perching on the neem, the mango, the guava. The rabbit, too, found a shy mate, and together they made their burrow a home. Sometimes, both would visit the house to play with Mr.Ghosh.

"Aree..you have a wife now. Young ones will follow soon".He said jokingly," Do you have any idea how much carrots and cabbages cost?" The male would listen intently, twitching its big ears.

“Ramu, we’ll need to build a little barricade near the back wall,” Mr. Ghosh said thoughtfully one afternoon, watching the rabbits hop about. “Don’t want those stray cats sneaking in.” Then he sighed playfully. “Uff… they’re all making holes in my pocket, these fellows.” He had also consulted a neighborhood vet in case any of his "friends" fell ill or got injured. The vet, a young man in his early 30s, happily helped.

Years passed like this. Mr. Ghosh found purpose again — a quiet joy in tending to his growing sanctuary. Every few days, he’d send photos to Rukmini: of the parrots perched together, of the rabbits enjoying the early winter sun, of new birds visiting the garden.

Then tragedy struck.

One peaceful morning, as the sun rose over the garden, Ramu found Mr. Ghosh in his easy chair under the neem tree, a gentle smile still resting on his lips. The parrots were perched silently on his shoulders, nudging him softly. At his feet, the rabbit sat, still and watchful.

Mr. Ghosh had passed quietly, surrounded by the lives he’d nurtured. His friends, his companions in grief.

In the weeks that followed, Rukmini returned to the old house, her heart heavy yet proud. Together with Ramu and a few neighborhood youngsters, she expanded the sanctuary. They built more shelters, planted more trees, and laid flower beds.

The garden thrived. The current occupants — the birds, the rabbits — kept a gentle distance, watching with quiet understanding.

Once in a while, they would visit indoors - hoping to find their friend.The rabbit would sit quietly near the empty chair that was once used by Mr.Ghosh.

Mr. Ghosh’s garden easy chair remained firmly in its place, moss gathering over its weathered wood. It became a play station for the birds, a playground for rabbits, and many other life forms that made the garden their home.

One morning, Rukmini spotted a peacock strutting across the garden, its feathers gleaming under the sun. And in the hollow of the neem tree, a family of owls had made their home. The young ones would peek shyly at the outside world with wonder and amazement.

The garden thrived with life. And though he was gone, Mr. Ghosh’s spirit lived on in every chirp, every rustle of leaves, every flutter of wings.

The garden was never silent again.

*********************************************
Ankur

Jaatni

In the dusty lanes of Hisar, where heat shimmered off the concrete and discipline reigned in uniformed rigor, Sandhya Yadav was a name that inspired respect—and, sometimes, fear. A Sub-Inspector with a fierce gaze and a stronger will, she was known for her unrelenting sense of justice. Locals acknowledged her as a no-nonsense cop.

Enter Arjun Chatterjee, a calm, upright tech professional from Delhi, deputed to a government project aimed at introducing school children to artificial intelligence. Neatly dressed, spectacled, and rather unassuming, he seemed like a misfit in the chaotic world of Hisar's law and order. His first interaction with Sandhya was formal—"Madam," he said, hand extended. She returned it with a brief nod. "Welcome to Hisar, sir."

At first, they remained within the boundaries of duty—she offered logistical support for his sessions in schools, and he thanked her with polite efficiency. Over time, something in the air shifted. 

One afternoon, during a self-defence workshop in the school, Arjun watched Sandhya giving practical demonstrations. She was swift, strong, her limbs taut and glistening with sweat. The scent she carried—earthy, musky, tinged with jasmine from her light perfume—lingered in his senses long after she walked past. It wasn't just admiration; it stirred something primal in him.

"Arjun ji," she teased once, catching him stealing a glance, "Bengalis don’t wrestle, do they?" "Not unless we’re wrestling with code or poetry," he replied, half-flustered, half-charmed.

*********

Their conversations became warmer, the names more relaxed. She called him "Bangali" in jest; he called her "Jaatni"—half challenge, half endearment. They began texting outside work, exchanging memes and quirky observations. A voice note here, a shared laugh there. 

During Holi, the Hisar police station courtyard pulsed with color and music. Sandhya, in a white kurta now a riot of hues, laughed freely as she directed the chaos. Arjun, in a plain shirt, looked very much the outsider until Sandhya spotted him.

“Bachke kahan jaoge, Bangali?” she called, eyes glinting, a fistful of gulaal in hand.

He barely managed a smile before she reached him. Her fingers touched his cheek, smearing yellow gently. Her scent hit him — sweat, unknown floral perfume, and that unmistakable earthy edge. It did something to him every single time.

“Happy Holi, Bangali,” she said softly.

“Same to you… Jaatni,” he replied, eyes locked on hers.

A bucket of color landed over both of them and the moment broke. But the feeling lingered—raw, unspoken, unforgettable.

*********

When Arjun had to leave Hisar after his six-month tenure, the parting was awkward.

"Delhi wapas ja rahe ho?" she asked casually, though her eyes betrayed something deeper. "Duty calls. But you’ll miss me, Jaatni," he said, attempting levity. "Khaas mat samajh apne aap ko," she retorted—but her silence lingered a beat longer.

They stayed in touch—WhatsApp texts, occasional calls, jokes, banter. Sometimes flirtatious, sometimes vulnerable. Then, one evening, a message changed everything.

SI Sandhya Yadav critically injured in encounter while unearthing human trafficking racket.

Arjun dropped everything and rushed to Hisar. In the hospital room, he found her asleep, bandaged and bruised, but breathing. He held her hand tightly. When her eyes opened and she saw him, she didn’t let go.

"Bangali, tu sach mein aa gaya..." she whispered.

"Tu toh bulati nahi, main hi aa gaya..." he murmured, with a warm smile.

Weeks passed. She healed. The nation took note. The President’s office announced her name for the Bravery Medal.

By then, Sandhya had earned the moniker - Hisar ki Sherni.

"Proud of you, Jaatni," Arjun said ecstatically over the phone.

"Bas kar, Bangali," she said, but the warmth in her voice was unmistakable.

In Delhi for the award ceremony, she shone in her crisp uniform. Her parents watched proudly as Sandhya confidently walked towards the dias to accept the honour from the head of the state.

The next evening, Arjun had booked a table at a rooftop restaurant in a five-star hotel. Post dinner, they walked in the garden. 

Sandhya looked beautiful in a saree in the glow of full moon.

He was quiet at first, then fidgeted.

"Kya hua, babu moshai? Phir koi robot kharab ho gaya tumhara?" She joked.

"Shaadi karegi, Jaatni?" he blurted.

She looked at him, eyes narrowed, then smiled.

"Soch lo Bangali... main police waali hoon. Danday bhi pad sakte hain."

"Mujhe darr nahi lagta," he said, laughing.

She laughed—and pulled him into a tight hug.

The fire between them had burned slow and deep. Now, it glowed in the open.

And though they came from different worlds, their hearts had known, from the start, that something strong—like justice, like truth—bound them.

The Lioness of Hisar and her quiet, unshakable Bangali.

Together. At last.

A Berth to Remember

 It was a crisp December afternoon in Delhi. The chill in the air had just begun to settle, but Arnab Sen, a 30-year-old corporate executive, was already sweating under his stylish sweater. Not from the cold, but from the typical last-minute rush to board his train at New Delhi Railway Station. He had an official assignment in Mumbai and was taking the Rajdhani Express—two-tier AC.

Arnab was a man of particular habits. Ever since childhood, he’d hated upper berths—partially due to his stockier build and an unresolved fear of heights. So, securing lower berth 59 in coach A2 gave him immense satisfaction. He found the seat, placed his laptop bag and suitcase under the seat and leaned back with a sense of contentment. A quick glance confirmed his luck—no elderly folks or women who might plead to swap berths.

He slipped on his Bluetooth earphones and began playing his carefully curated playlist. Across from him sat a middle-aged woman, already busy with her Kindle. The upper berths above and opposite were still empty. The side berths housed two enthusiastic college-goers discussing an AI project—he overheard “IIT Kharagpur” and “neural networks.”

Just five minutes before departure, a flurry of motion arrived at the door of the coach: an elderly gentleman in his sixties, accompanied by a young woman, both panting from the sprint and trailed by a porter hauling their luggage. The porter stashed their bags swiftly and exited just as the whistle blew and the train heaved into motion.

The elderly gentleman—Sneha Roy's maternal uncle (Mama)—checked the berth numbers and realized they had been allotted the two upper berths in that bay. Arnab saw them look at each other in silent dread. The uncle looked far from agile, and the young woman seemed disinterested in any rearrangement. With a polite smile and a surprising lack of hesitation, Arnab offered his lower berth.

"Are you sure?" the elderly man asked.

"Absolutely. It’s no trouble."

Arnab hauled his bag up and made himself comfortable on the upper berth diagonally opposite.

The young woman—Sneha—climbed the berth with feline agility. As she did, her T-shirt rode up slightly, exposing a sliver of her waist and navel. Arnab, watching from the corner of his eye, went weak in the knees. She wore a loose palazzo and a simple T-shirt, but there was something inexplicably arresting about her.

After settling, Sneha pulled out a Tintin comic. Arnab raised an eyebrow, amused. She had seemed so no-nonsense.

“Captain Haddock’s your favorite?” Arnab tried, gesturing to the comic.

Sneha barely looked down. “Hmm.”

“Personally, I’ve always been a fan of Snowy,” he said, trying again.

“Okay.”

Frustrated, Arnab rolled back into his shell. From the corner of her comic, Sneha glanced at him and smiled softly to herself.

The elderly uncle, however, was far more talkative. Within thirty minutes, Arnab and he were discussing Bengali sweets, train punctuality, and real estate in Salt Lake. Arnab was respectful, witty, and unusually forthcoming.

As the train neared Mumbai the next morning, the uncle, impressed by Arnab’s warmth, invited him to lunch at their home in Andheri.

Sneha stiffened. “Mama, he might be busy.”

“Nonsense. He said he’s here for a few days. And we don’t often meet such well-behaved boys nowadays.”

Arnab accepted with a grin.

---

Their Andheri apartment was modest but warm. Polly, the green parrot in the corner, initially eyed Arnab with suspicion but then accepted a green chilli from his hand—a rare occurrence, the uncle informed.

Lunch was homely and delicious. Arnab complimented the food generously, causing Sneha’s stony expressions to thaw slightly.

Over the next few months, occasional texts turned into regular calls. Arnab returned to Delhi but stayed in touch. When Arnab’s parents decided to visit Mumbai around Poila Boisakh (Bengali New Year), Sneha’s uncle invited them over. A new comfort level blossomed between the families.

In mid-April, they celebrated Poila Boisakh together. But it was during Durga Puja in October—organized by a Bengali samity in Mumbai—that everything came full circle.

Sneha looked divine in a sea-blue Tangail saree with a sleeveless blouse on Ashtami morning. She offered pushpanjali beside Arnab, their fingers brushing slightly.

Then, turning to him with a sudden softness, she whispered:

"Would you be okay sharing a berth with me for the rest of your life?"

Arnab, speechless for once, nodded.

Then Arnab shyly but instinctively put an arm around Sneha's slender waist and pulled her closer. Sneha didn’t resist.

They sealed the promise with a kiss, slightly away from the hustle and bustle, wrapped in the divine warmth of Maa Durga’s blessings.

Runu and the Ghost in the Woods

Runu is a Class 5 student living in the misty hill town of Kasauli. He loves the chirping of birds, the crunch of leaves under his shoes, and the smell of damp pine forests. But there is one thing he dreads more than anything—mathematics.

Math feels like a maze with no exit. And Mrs. Das, his stern math teacher, doesn’t help. “Runu! Concentrate!” she barks almost daily, and he shrinks in his seat, feeling the heat rise to his ears. The numbers on the blackboard blur. Every minute in that class feels like a heavy stone on his tiny chest.

One cloudy afternoon, after yet another scolding, Runu decides to take the long route home—through the forest. The trees rise like giants, the path is narrow, and soon, he realizes—he’s lost. His heart beats faster. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but he blinks them back.

Just as panic sets in, he spots a faint glow between the trees. Curious, cautious, and a little desperate, he follows it and stumbles upon an old, wooden cabin, half-eaten by time but strangely welcoming. The forest around it is eerily silent, like it’s holding its breath.

He knocks. The door creaks open.

“Uh... hello?”

Out floats a young man—late twenties, tousled hair, bomber jacket, sneakers.He glows softly in the fading light.

“Whoa, relax,” the man says with a grin. “I’m a ghost. But a friendly one. Promise.”

Runu takes a step back. “A... ghost?”

“Yup. Name’s Neil. Used to live around here. Actually, used to study around here.”

Neil invites Runu inside. The cabin is dusty but warm. A small fire crackles in a stone hearth. On one wall hangs a faded poster of Einstein. On another—an old IIT Delhi hoodie. There’s an air of longing in the air, like the cabin is still waiting for something—or someone.

“You studied?” Runu asks, curious now.

Neil nods. “Got into IIT Delhi. Loved math. Hated how people feared it.”

“I hate math,” Runu admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I figured,” Neil chuckles. “But it’s just a puzzle, really. Want me to show you?”

What begins that evening is a friendship like no other. Neil teaches Runu math not with formulas and fear, but with games and stories. They count stars to learn multiplication. They build shapes with twigs to understand geometry. Neil explains how early Artificial Intelligence worked using acorns and pine cones, drawing patterns in the dirt.

In the warmth of that forgotten cabin, something inside Runu begins to shift. Numbers stop being enemies. They start becoming clues, like treasure maps to understanding the world.

Back in school, Mrs. Das notices the change. At first, she’s suspicious. How did Runu improve so suddenly? She watches him closely, half-expecting him to slip up. But when he solves a problem on the board with confidence and grace, and explains it to others without fear—her heart softens.

Soon, Runu begins solving puzzles faster than ever. He starts participating in math olympiads and science fairs, slowly climbing up the ranks. He wins scholarships, earns school accolades, and even begins to help other students who struggle with math just like he once did.

One day, she says quietly, “I’m proud of you, Runu.”

Runu beams. It feels like the world just gave him a high-five.

When the time for school-leaving exams comes, Runu works harder than ever. Neil cheers him on, meeting him in the cabin every evening. They revise, joke, and even sneak in some cricket with a twig and pinecone between problems.

Runu tops the district in the board exams. His photo appears in the local newspaper. His parents are overjoyed. Even Mrs. Das has tears in her eyes.

Sometimes, Neil visits Runu’s home too—when no one’s around—and savors parathas made by Runu’s mother. “These are divine,” he says with a happy sigh, licking imaginary butter off his ghostly fingers.

Eventually, Runu walks through the gates of IIT Delhi. To his surprise and wonder, he is allotted a room in the hostel—the same room Neil once lived in. On the old wooden desk, the initials N.P. are carved faintly, like a hidden blessing.

College life is busy. Runu dives into projects, academics, and even extra-curriculars. He excels, pushing his limits, building models, leading teams, and coding into the night.

But Neil doesn’t appear. Not even once.

Runu misses him deeply. On quiet nights, he sits on his bed, looking at the initials, wishing he could just talk to Neil again. But the cabin is too far. And maybe... maybe Neil has moved on.

One day, during campus interviews, Runu lands a job with one of the top multinational companies specializing in AI. His project receives applause. He is offered a record-breaking package.

As the applause dies down and the room empties, Runu steps out into the corridor alone—and suddenly, there he is.

Neil.

Leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, smiling with pride. “Told you math wasn’t so bad, huh?”

Runu rushes toward him, heart bursting. “You came!”

Neil nods. “Always watching, buddy. Always proud.”

And just like that, with a playful wink and a warm smile, Neil begins to fade into the soft hallway light—leaving behind the sound of laughter and the warmth of dreams fulfilled.

The Third Figure

Renu Sharma wasn’t searching for anything that Sunday afternoon. She just needed a break — from client meetings, looming deadlines, and the polished glass towers of Mumbai that never seemed to sleep. The Colaba flea market was her usual escape. Chaos in the best way: faded books, rusted cutlery, old movie posters, the occasional antique that whispered stories from other centuries.

She found the painting tucked behind a cracked mirror, half-wrapped in newspaper. The moment she saw it, her fingers froze.

Two children — a girl and a younger boy. Dressed in old woolen coats, cheeks hollow, eyes dark with something heavier than sadness. They weren’t looking at her. They were looking through her.

“How much for this?” she asked.

The vendor, weathered and yawning, replied, “Four hundred. Came from Poland or Germany, I think. Maybe 1940s. Some say it was painted inside a camp.”

“A camp?”

“Nazi camp. Or so I’ve heard. But it’s just a painting, no?”

Renu didn’t respond. She bought it without bargaining, carried it home in a cloth tote, and hung it above her work desk.

She had no idea what she had brought into her home.

---

The voices began the third night.

Whispers. Like a language remembered in a dream. Soft. Almost apologetic.

“Mama?”

She sat up, heart hammering. Her apartment was silent.

Or was it?

A giggle. The sound of feet padding lightly across a floor that shouldn’t creak.

She blamed exhaustion. Advertising was all late nights and overstimulated brains. But the next night, it happened again.

And then — she saw them.

The same children from the painting, standing near the foot of her bed. Pale, solid, breathing.

She wanted to scream, but her voice caught in her throat.

They spoke again — German? Or was it Polish?

“Mama... du bist zurück.”
(You are back.)

She understood them. Somehow.

And deep within, something shifted.

---

By day, Renu withdrew. She missed calls. Skipped meetings. She told her boss she had the flu, but in truth, she couldn’t bring herself to leave the children.

Every night they returned. Each time closer. More comfortable. They told her about the cold. The soldiers. The day they lost their mother to a gunshot by the fence.

They showed her the moment — in flashes.

A scream.
Running.
Then — a bang.
Pain.
Snow turned red.

She saw it all.

And she felt it.

One night, she clutched her stomach and fell back on her bed, gasping as if she'd been shot. There was no wound. No blood. Just the ghost of agony of something that had happened in the past.

---

The children would cry sometimes. They’d whisper, “Bleib bei uns, Mama. Für immer.”
(Stay with us, Mama. Forever.)

And she would nod, tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry I left you.”

Because now, she remembered. She remembered everything.

---

Then, one morning — she was gone.

Her bed untouched. Her door locked from inside. No sign of struggle. Her phone, keys, and handbag sat neatly on her table.

The police were called. Missing person’s report filed. Posters printed. But no one knew what happened.

Except maybe the painting.

Later that week, her best friend came to pack up her things.

She paused in front of the painting — the one Renu had bought from the market.

And her blood ran cold.

There were three figures now.

The same girl and boy, still holding hands. But standing between them was a woman. One arm around each child. Her head tilted slightly, smiling.

The face was unmistakable.

The same gentle wave in her hair. The same delicate features. The faint dimple on her left cheek. And the tiny pearl earrings Renu wore almost every day.

It was her.

No doubt.

But the canvas wasn’t altered. No brush strokes disturbed the surface. The frame remained sealed, undisturbed. It was as if the third figure had always been there — simply waiting for its moment to appear.

---

Some say Renu left the city. Others whisper darker things.

But those who saw the painting?

They knew.

She hadn’t run.

She hadn’t died.

She had gone home.

And finally — they were together. The children. And their mother.

Smiling.

Forever.