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.

Fellow metro passengers ...

I have been wanting to write on this for quite some time now however due to scarcity of time , couldn't pen it down.

Traveling by metro is an experience in itself and one does come across interesting set of people. More so when, daily commute is of two hours.  Let me jot down about the most interesting types that I have observed:

1) The narcissist: Boys/men of all age groups, who spend good amount of their commute time by observing their own reflections on door/window glasses and feeling happy and contented. Never mind the occasional bald patch or the paunch.

2) The showstoppers: ladies/girls fit the bill. Perfect height, perfect hair, perfect skin tone, enviable physique combined with tasteful clothes and accessories. Time of the day doesn't matter to them. Whether it's the morning commute or late evening return, they appear just perfect.

3) The Music Jockeys: Another interesting lot; they tend to play their preferred music so loud that even if you are two coaches away, the music will be clearly audible and you can dance to the beats! I really don't understand why do these people use headphones/earphones?

4) The Book worms: These set of people are very much attached to their books and journals. So much is the attachment, that they tend to continue reading even while walking down the platform, sometimes coming dangerously close to the edge.

5) Sleeping beauties: These people manage to take power naps even if they are standing. While seated, their snoring keeps other passengers awake and wide eyed!

6) The foodies: Though eating is prohibited inside the metro trains, somehow these people manage to smuggle in their burgers and shakes and have good time while traveling. Bon appetit to them..

7) Chatterboxes: specially the women/ girls fall in this category. They have inexhaustible energy and can yap for hours without showing any trace of tiredness.

8) The web series enthusiasts: These group is always hooked to their mobiles or tablets, devouring the episodes of current popular web series. Their engrossment level sometimes make them travel beyond their designated destinations!

So these are few of the passenger types i daily find during my metro commute..

Now, one may ask in which category do I belong? That I leave on my fellow passengers to decide ..

Signing off /-

Slow annihilation of greeting cards

Among-st other things, sending and receiving good wishes are an integral part of the festive season.It is as important as sharing sweets and candies or buying new purchases.

During this time of the year, I feel bit nostalgic about something that was so much inherent to the festivals. Buying, sending or receiving or even making them at home, was so much fun.

I am trying to revive our fond memories of Greetings cards. Unfortunately, due to technological advancement and changing dynamics of human needs and preferences, this once important article has seen the sunset.

I vividly remember how I would wait for greetings cards to be delivered by the post man during the Christmas and New year period.

Once I had received a Santa shaped card from one of my aunt (who was based in abroad that time) and had kept it with utmost care for many years. I even had made copies of it using drawing paper and crayons and had gifted to some of my close friends and class teacher.

Some of the cards received were pretty good. Nice paintings, sketches and photographs were depicted on them. I was particularly interested in the sketches and paintings. They provided good fodder to my personal drawing endeavors.

At that time, there used to be regular markets full of vendors who would sell cards of all shapes and sizes on footpaths and push carts.

They were very economical and appearance wise, some of them were excellent, though paper quality of some weren't upto the mark.

The artworks on the cards, though bore artistes' signature, but most of the time they weren't legible. However the quality of the sketches/water coloring/ pastel work was always commendable. I still wonder how such good work , was available in such attrociously low price ( most of them would come in 5- 10 rupees range !)

Then came the dot-com boom. Physical cards were being replaced by e-greeting sites.

Then came the mobile revolution. Greetings were exchanged via SMS.

And now we are in smart smartphone era, and our greetings exchanges are being taken care of by various mobile apps.

Greetings messages have lost the personal touch that they are supposed to have. Nowadays, it's only "forwarded".

The "forwards" don't have any true feelings associated with them.

Sadly, the old world charm has vanished..

Mute Spectators Through The Ages ...

Recently I had visited Alwar, a city in the Indian state of Rajasthan. I had the good fortune to visit the Sariska Tiger Reserve and the adjoining Bala Quila fort. The fort is perched on top of a hillock and offers a good ariel view of the entire city.

While wandering around the fort, I wondered about the fact that these medieval forts , in India and abroad, had been witnesses and spectators to multitude of events and incidents.

Rise and fall of kingdoms, births, deaths, suicides, wars, victories, defeats, festivals, marriages, alliances, unspoken love, passion, incest, conspiracies ... and what not; the list is endless.. each and every inch of such monuments is seeped in history; every single brick has a tale to tell.

Generations came and went, emperors rose and bowed out, queens graced and left. These structures had witnessed everything.

We have known many facts about the past through history books but these forts and palaces have "seen" much,  much more and many such "secrets" are hidden in their inner receses and those will remain secret for ever.

There was a time, when these forts were hubs of activities and were full of people. Festivities and grandeur were order of the day. If the mornings were earmarked for meetings and discussions, the evenings belonged to the nautch girls and courtesans.

Time has flowed unabetedly. These structures are now a pale reflection of their once glorious past.

The faded colors, the high ceilings, the spacious courtyards, the pillared verandahs, the ramparts, the broken windows - each of them has something to say but those will remain unheard forever..

Social Media and Unsocial Behaviour

The term "social media" has become part and parcel of our daily existence in this digital era. Almost, every individual on this planet has used this popular and ever growing medium, in one way or the other.

From India to Iceland, humans have this unsatiable urge and craving to stay "connected" and make themselves visible to the rest of the world.

This is probably one such platform that gives its army of loyal users to express themselves freely (almost)..

The "expressions" can oscillate from absolute non-senses to super valuable gems; however,  the former outnumbers the later.

It is very much unfortunate that this platform is being used more for trolling, threatening, spreading hatred and circulating misinformation.

It is an interesting phenomenon; on one hand, we have coined the term "social media" and consider ourselves truly civilised only when we have social handles but on the other hand,  the behaviour of most of us is thoroughly unsocial, unacceptable and sometimes, criminal.

As individuals, we can express our displeasure against certain events or people but it should be within civilised limits; we simply can't dictate and give verdicts!

Why on earth, should people be so judgemental and critical of actresses and female models,  who update their personal social pages with their photographs wearing bikinis or other skimpy outfits?

Can't the "know it all" junta understand that these ladies are in such a profession,  in which glamour is of top most priority ?

This is hypocrisy; people will visit such pages to satiate their titillation but will comment or behave as if they are the beacons of morality!!

Are we always driven by morality?

These same band of people will issue death threats to others, if they feel that their political ideologies are not acknowledged by others.

These goons will use social platform to send rape threats in the garb of upholding their respective religions, to intimidate people of other faiths. What pious acts!

Another irritating aspect of social media usage is the act of "Sharing".

Social media aficionados are obsessed with sharing whatever they have at their disposal.  So much is the zest and zealousness of sharing that in the name of information,  volumes of absolute trash and fake materials in forms of jpegs/gifs/pdfs/plain texts/audio/video gets circulated every second, across the globe.

People don't even bother to verify the received information.  They will promptly and mechanically download the file and swiftly pass it on to others - as if the whole world is competing in a never ending ,virtual relay race. However,  there are no start and end points.

People happily and merrily circulate videos of beheading of captured victims by radical groups. They take pride in sending videos of family that perished in mass suicide.

The social media platforms are slowly turning into digital trash bins. They are being used more for activities mentioned above and abhorrent tasks like recording one's own suicide.

Have the tech behemoths, unknowingly and unintentionally,  created new age Frankenstiens ? I wonder..