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.
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