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.