My Mother’s Prince - Every kingdom begins at home.

 

The Prince Who Questioned Stories

“Once upon a time, there was a prince…”

“Ammaaa,” he groaned, pulling the bedsheet over his head, “why does every story start with a prince? Don’t you know any stories about accountants? Or vegetable sellers?”

His mother paused dramatically, as if she had been deeply offended.

“Because,” she said, tapping his forehead lightly, “you are my prince.”

He peeked out from under the blanket.

“I don’t even have a kingdom.”

“You have a room.”

“With peeling paint.”

“Royal peeling paint.”

He tried not to laugh. He failed.

He was not like other children.

He didn’t fight with cousins over TV remotes.
He didn’t lead cricket teams.
He didn’t even argue loudly.

In family functions, he was the boy who stood near the water drum holding a plastic tumbler, pretending to be busy. If someone asked, “Why are you so silent?” he would smile politely and think, Because someone has to maintain peace in this noisy country.

His best friend was a red rubber ball. It had survived more conversations than most humans.

Every evening, he would take that ball outside and play alone. Throw. Catch. Miss. Chase. Repeat.

Once a neighbor aunty asked, “Why are you playing alone?”

He replied honestly, “Because if I play with others, they’ll ask me to field.”

The aunty laughed for five full minutes. He didn’t know what was so funny.

His world was small.

School.
Home.
His mother.

No dramatic adventures. No secret friendships. Just quiet days and loud thoughts.

But his mother filled every silence.

When electricity went off, she would start stories.

“When I was small,” she would say, “I also wanted to be brave.”

“You weren’t brave?” he asked once.

“I married your father. That was brave enough.”

He blinked. “Was Appa a villain?”

“No,” she smiled. “Just… a different kingdom.”

He didn’t fully understand, but he knew one thing — his mother carried both love and strength in her voice.

Years passed quietly.

He grew taller.
The ball became smaller in his hands.
The stories remained the same.

“Once upon a time, there was a prince…”

But now he didn’t interrupt.

He just listened.

Because somewhere inside, he liked believing it.

When he completed his degree, the house felt proud.

His mother made payasam even though it wasn’t a festival.

“My prince is now a graduate,” she announced to absolutely nobody — but with full confidence.

He smiled shyly. “Don’t tell everyone like that.”

“Why not?”

“They’ll expect royal achievements.”

She winked. “Good. Pressure builds diamonds.”

“Amma… I am not a diamond.”

“You are still in mining stage.”

He laughed again. He always laughed at her jokes, even when they were terrible.

Especially when they were terrible.

That night, he lay awake staring at the ceiling fan.

Graduate.

It sounded big.

It felt… small.

The world outside was larger than his room with royal peeling paint.

And for the first time, the prince wondered —

Was he ready to step outside the kingdom?

Rise

 It’s not their opinion that defines your name,
Not their comparisons, not their game;
Stand tall, don’t let their shadows win,
Your strength has always lived within.

Don’t bow your head for what is gone,
The past is dusk, the future dawn;
Stop counting losses, scars, and cost,
You are not broken, you are not lost.

Focus sharp on what you can do,
There’s power burning inside of you;
Be yourself: bold, awake, alive
This is your moment. Stand. Rise. Thrive.

After the Last Train - Part 8 - Final

 

The Ordinary Days

Days did not stop.

Office emails still arrived.
Meetings were still scheduled.
Files still required signatures.

Kabir returned to work.

At first, everything felt distant, like watching life through glass.

He avoided Platform 3.

He stopped noticing autos.

Coffee became just coffee again.

Weeks passed.

The sharp pain softened.

The memories blurred at the edges.

Her voice became harder to recall clearly.

Sometimes he tried to remember how she laughed 
but the sound would fade midway.

Gradually

He stopped checking old chats.

He stopped standing near the place where it happened.

He stopped waiting.

Routine is powerful.

It fills spaces.

It covers cracks.

It teaches you how to wake up, work, eat, sleep 
without reopening wounds.

Months later, he could go through an entire day without thinking of her.

Not because she meant little.

But because life kept moving.

And so did he.

Somewhere, deep inside,
a small corner still held a train platform,
an unfinished coffee,
and a soft voice saying

“Bye… thank you so much.”

But outside

He continued.

Just another man.

Just another day.

And many more days similar like this....

After the Last Train - Part 7

 

The Last Glance

Platform 3 waited quietly.

Kabir reached early.

He checked the clock.
7:38.

He checked his phone.
No message.

7:45.
A train arrived. People rushed. She didn’t step out.

7:52.
He called. It rang. No answer.

“Maybe traffic,” he muttered.

8:05.

Something inside him shifted from hope to mild irritation.

“Fine,” he whispered to himself. “If she doesn’t want to come…”

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and began walking out of the station.

The evening felt strangely heavy.

As he crossed the road outside, a small crowd had gathered ahead.

Vehicles were halted.
People were whispering.

He would have walked past.

He almost did.

But something — maybe instinct — made him look.

An auto stood crushed sideways.

And on the road—

A familiar bag.

His steps slowed.

His heartbeat didn’t.

It stopped.

Through the small gap in the crowd, he saw her.

Mira.

Lying still.

Someone was holding her hand.

Her eyes were half-open, searching — unfocused.

Then—

She found him.

Across the chaos.

Across the noise.

Across everything they never said.

For a second, the world went silent.

Her lips trembled.

In pain. In effort.

But she smiled.

Faint. Soft.

And with whatever breath was left, she whispered—

“Bye… thank you so much.”

Not accusing.

Not regretting.

Just grateful.

Her eyes slowly lost her hold on him.

The noise returned.

People moved.

Someone shouted for an ambulance.

But Kabir stood frozen.

Platform 3 was only a few steps behind him.

Yet he had never felt farther from her.

After the Last train - Part 6

 

The Silence That Spoke

Time did not stop.

It simply stretched.

Weeks passed with polite messages.

“Reached?”
“Yes.”
“Work fine?”
“Hmm.”

Words became shorter.

Feelings did not.

Mira had started leaving home earlier than necessary.
She told herself it was to avoid rush hour.

But sometimes, she stood near Platform 3 — just for a minute.

Not waiting.

Just standing.

As if the air there still remembered them.

Kabir had begun taking autos more often, even when buses were easier.

He would sit quietly, watching the side mirror.

Every time the auto driver adjusted it, he remembered how Mira once complained,
“Why do they always drive like they’re in a race?”

He smiled to himself.

Then looked away.

One afternoon, rain came suddenly.

Heavy. Unplanned. Loud.

Mira got stuck outside her office without an umbrella.

She laughed helplessly — because he always carried one.

She almost dialed his number.

Almost.

Instead, she stood under a small shade, letting the rain splash her shoes.

At the same time, miles away, Kabir noticed it was raining.

Without thinking, he checked his phone.

No message.

He locked it again.

Something was changing.

Not love.

Not care.

Just—

The way they held it.

That evening, she finally sent a message:

“Are you free for coffee sometime?”

It was simple.

No hidden meaning.

No dramatic pause.

He stared at it longer than he should have.

Then replied:

“Platform 3?”

She smiled.

“Platform 3.”

It wasn’t about trains anymore.

It wasn’t about convenience.

It wasn’t even about distance.

It was about choosing the same place —

Even after walking separate roads.

After the Last Train - Part 5

 

In Between Everything

Days adjusted.

They no longer stood on the same platform every morning.
No more shared coffee at 7:42.
No more predictable glances from across the tracks.

Now they traveled in opposite directions.

But strangely 

They began meeting in smaller, quieter places.

Mira would sit in her new office cafeteria, staring at a cup of coffee she barely drank.

She didn’t even like coffee much.

But the steam rising from it reminded her of the way Kabir used to hold his cup carefully, blowing on it as if it were fragile glass.

She would smile unknowingly.

At the same time, Kabir would step out of his office building and hear an auto driver argue loudly with a passenger.

Instantly 

He would turn his head.

For a second, he would expect to see her waving her hands dramatically, negotiating over five rupees as if it were a national debate.

He would almost smile.

Then remember.

She wasn’t there.

Distance did not shout.

It quietly slipped into daily routines.

She would draft emails and suddenly think, He would correct this sentence.
He would organize his files and think, She would mess this table in five minutes.

They didn’t call daily.

Not because they didn’t want to.

But because something delicate had entered between them — a carefulness.

One evening, while waiting for her train, Mira typed a message:

“Do you ever miss Platform 3?”

She stared at it for a long time.

Deleted it.

At the same time, Kabir stood near an auto stand, watching drivers argue.

He opened their chat window.

Typed:

“Coffee tastes bad alone.”

Deleted.

Neither wanted to sound needy.

Neither wanted to disturb the balance.

Yet

Whenever she saw coffee, she thought of him.

Whenever he saw an auto, he thought of her.

The city was full of reminders.

Not loud enough to hurt.

Not soft enough to ignore.

And somewhere between missed trains and unfinished messages

Their almost-love was learning to breathe quietly.

After the Last Train - Part 4

 

A Seat Without Reservation

The 8:10 train was different.

More crowded. More impatient. Less familiar.

Kabir stood near the door, slightly off-balance — not because of the train’s movement, but because he wasn’t used to not knowing the rhythm.

Mira held the overhead handle and looked at him sideways.

“Uncomfortable, Mr. Timetable?”

“I prefer structured chaos,” he replied.

She laughed. “This is unstructured chaos. Promotion comes with adventure.”

He noticed the small differences.

She stood more confidently now.
Her bag was heavier.
Her smile — the same.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked after a while.

“Because,” she said, “if I had told you before, you would have said ‘think practically.’ You would have calculated distance, time, fuel, comfort.”

“And that’s wrong?”

“No,” she smiled. “But sometimes I want to choose something before you measure it.”

The train jerked suddenly.

She lost balance slightly.

Without thinking, he held her wrist.

For a second, neither moved.

Then she slowly pulled her hand back.

“Relax,” she said lightly. “I won’t miss this train.”

He looked out the door.

“Platform 3 feels strange without you,” he admitted.

“Platform 1 felt strange without you too,” she replied softly.

A vendor squeezed between passengers shouting, “Chips! Biscuits!”

Mira bought a packet and handed it to Kabir.

“For emotional support,” she said.

He shook his head but took it.

“Tell me something,” she continued. “If one day I shift to a city where there is no train… what will you do?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

The announcement echoed: Next station…

He looked at her.

“I might finally be late.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“For what?”

“For once,” he said quietly, “I don’t want to reach before you.”

The train slowed.

Doors opened.

Crowd moved.

But this time 

Neither of them rushed.

After the Last Train - Part 3

 

The Girl Who Took Another Route

Kabir didn’t board the train.

Not because he believed the rumor.

But because something felt incomplete.

He turned to the tea stall uncle. “Which crossing?”

“Arrey, nothing serious maybe,” the uncle said quickly. “She didn’t die. Some small accident. People were saying she was arguing with an auto driver and stepped onto the road without looking.”

Kabir almost smiled.

Of course.
Arguing with auto drivers was her cardio.

That evening, he dialed her number again.

This time, it rang.

Once.
Twice.

Then—

“Hello?”

Her voice.

Alive. Normal. Slightly annoyed.

He didn’t realize he had been holding his breath.

“Mira?”

“Who else will pick up my phone?” she replied. “Why are you calling like you’re checking hospital records?”

He exhaled slowly. “Where have you been?”

“Different route.”

“What?”

“New job. Opposite direction. 8:10 train from Platform 1 now. Promotion, Mister Timetable.”

He processed that.

“You could have told me.”

“You could have asked earlier,” she shot back gently.

Silence stretched between them — not angry, just unfamiliar.

He walked toward Platform 1.

“Are you there now?” he asked.

“Maybe.”

He climbed the stairs two at a time.

There she was.

Standing near the pillar. Same messy hair. Same oversized bag. A small bandage near her eyebrow.

“You okay?” he asked, pointing at it.

She shrugged. “Fought with gravity. Gravity won.”

He stared at her for a second longer than usual.

“You didn’t miss the train forever,” he said quietly.

She smiled.

“I told you. I only miss trains. Not people.”

The announcement echoed.

8:10 local approaching Platform 1.

Kabir looked at his usual Platform 3 in the distance.

Then back at her.

“You know,” she said teasingly, “people can change trains.”

He adjusted his bag strap.

“Trains don’t wait,” he replied.

She stepped toward the arriving train.

“But people can move.”

The doors opened.

For the first time—

Kabir boarded her train.

After the Last Train - Part 2

 

The Platform Without Her

The next morning, Kabir reached early.

As always.

Platform 3.
7:42 a.m. local.
Coffee from the same tea stall. Less sugar.

He stood near the yellow line, pretending not to look toward the staircase.

She would come.

Late. Dramatic. Complaining about traffic.

7:40.

7:41.

7:42.

The train arrived.

Doors slid open.

Passengers rushed in.

Kabir didn’t move.

His eyes stayed fixed on the stairs.

No messy hair.
No oversized bag slipping off her shoulder.
No breathless “Waitttt!”

The whistle blew.

The train started moving.

At the last second, he stepped inside.

Maybe she missed it today.

It happens.

The ride felt unusually quiet.

No one argued about whether window seats were overrated.
No one said, “Look at that uncle, he boards like it’s a war mission.”

The evening came.

He waited again.

Nothing.

The tea stall owner looked at him and asked casually,
“Sir, your friend not coming?”

Kabir shrugged. “Maybe busy.”

Third day.

Fourth.

A week.

Her number?

He had it.

But they were never the calling-each-other type. They were platform people. Train people. Shared-moment people.

Still, one night, he dialed.

Switched off.

He told himself not to overthink.

People get busy.
People change routes.
People shift cities.

But something was different.

The tea stall uncle said softly one morning,
“You didn’t hear?”

Kabir’s fingers tightened around the paper cup.

“Hear what?”

“There was an accident near the crossing last week. A girl… same time… people said she was running to catch train.”

The cup slipped slightly.

Kabir didn’t blink.

“Many people gather. Traffic. Ambulance. After that… don’t know.”

The train arrived behind him.

He didn’t turn.

For the first time in months

Kabir missed the train.

After the Last Train - Part 1

 

The Girl Who Missed Every Train

Mira had a strange habit.

She was always late.

Not by minutes — by moments.

She would reach the railway platform just in time to see the train pulling away. Not running late. Not rushed. Just standing there calmly… watching it leave.

And every time, there would be someone already inside the train, leaning near the door.

Kabir.

He never missed a train.

Organized. Practical. Time-managed. The kind of man who reached ten minutes early and checked the clock twice.

They were not lovers.

They were “almost.”

They met during daily commutes. Same route. Same time. Same platform tea stall. Conversations began with complaints about railway announcements and slowly grew into debates about life, movies, politics, and why samosas tasted better in winter.

Mira was chaos.

Kabir was structure.

She once told him, “One day I will board the train before you.”

He smiled. “Impossible. You argue with auto drivers too long.”

She laughed. “Life is not timetable, Mr. Railway Officer.”

“I am not railway officer.”

“You behave like one.”

Days became months.

They never called it love.

But they waited for each other.

If Kabir entered the compartment first, he would stand near the door until she appeared on the platform — slightly out of breath, hair messy, smiling like she had won something.

If she didn’t come, his ride felt longer.

If he wasn’t there, her tea tasted bland.

One evening, while sharing a paper cup of tea, she asked casually,

“If one day I miss the train forever… will you wait?”

He didn’t look at her.

“Trains don’t wait.”

She smiled.

“But people can.”

The train arrived.

Doors opened.

Crowd moved.

That day 

Mira didn’t board.

And Kabir didn’t know it was the last train they would almost take together.

Simply Life

Life is simple—live and exist,
yet we weave knots with thought and twist;
A child believes what eyes can see,
each word the whole of truth to be.

We grow, and minds begin to weigh,
what’s right, what fades, what will not stay;
We overthink, we judge, we plan,
and complicate what simply ran.

With age we learn a quieter art
most things dissolve, depart;
Each day arrives, then slips away,
like light that never meant to stay.

And whether spoken, loud or shy,
at last there waits a soft goodbye

Dream - Part 10 - Final

 

The Final Exit of Bhooth Madam

That evening, Arjun stayed late in his cabin.

Files were open. Mind half working. Half elsewhere.

Ananya stood near the bookshelf, unusually quiet.

After a long silence, she suddenly said,

“You know… I think I found my purpose.”

He didn’t look up. “Please tell me it is not to haunt my coffee.”

“No,” she said seriously. “I have bigger plans.”

He sighed. “Like what? Open ghost consultancy?”

She ignored him.

“I realized something. I can’t eat pani puri. I can’t drink tea. I can’t bang your head properly. And...”

He almost smiled.

She continued dramatically, “So I have decided… I will start scaring random people.”

He finally looked up. “What?”

“Yes. Proper ghost duty. Yesterday I tried.”

“Oh God…” he muttered.

She came closer, whispering excitedly.

“There was one small boy in your colony. He was refusing to drink milk. His mother was shouting. So I stood behind him and made scary face.”

“And?”

“He looked straight at me… and said, ‘Aunty, your makeup is bad.’”

Arjun choked.

“What?”

“Yes! Then he drank milk peacefully and went to sleep. I think he thought I am some cartoon.”

Arjun tried not to laugh.

She continued.

“And one uncle… I tried to scare him in lift. I floated slightly.”

“And?”

“He said, ‘Beta, do yoga properly. Your posture is wrong.’”

This time Arjun burst out laughing.

Full laughter.

Loud.

Uncontrolled.

For the first time since she died.

She placed hands on her hips.

“See? Even in ghost life nobody takes me seriously.”

He wiped his eyes.

“You? Scary? Impossible. You talk too much to be a ghost.”

She pretended to be offended. “Excuse me! I am premium category ghost.”

He shook his head.

“No. You are… just Ananya.”

For a moment, both went silent.

She looked at him carefully.

“No anger?” she asked softly.

“No,” he replied. “Just… peace.”

She nodded slowly.

“I think… I understand now. I was not here to scare you. Not to disturb your life. Maybe I was just stuck. May be traffic jam to go heaven or hell, Or may be server problem in registering the candidate for heaven or hell.. Uff so much of population.. Here also long queue.. I need wait for my turn here also .”

He did not interrupt.

She smiled — the same playful smile, but lighter now.

“You know what? I don’t need palace. I don’t need welcome party. I just needed you to laugh one more time with me.”

His throat tightened slightly.

“Well,” he said gently, “mission successful, Bhooth madam.”

She saluted dramatically.

“Thank you, Officer sir.”

The cabin lights flickered once.

She stepped backward.

“This time I think they are really calling me,” she said, looking upward. “Hopefully proper welcome party has been arranged. With pani puri and many good eatables are ready,..… even I can’t stop myself to take that party...”

He smiled softly.

“Go,” he said. “And please… don’t scare children.”

“No promises,” she grinned.

And just like that 

she faded.

Not painfully.
Not dramatically.

Like a joke that ends at the right time.

The chair was empty again.

This time, completely.

Arjun sat alone in his cabin.

But he wasn’t afraid.

He picked up his bag, switched off the lights, and walked home.

At the gate, he paused for a second.

“Bye, Bhooth,” he murmured.

Somewhere far beyond sight 

a welcome party probably began.

And if there was laughter in heaven that day,

it definitely sounded like hers.

The End.

Dream - Part 9

 

The Chair Was Never Empty

That night, she vanished.

No dramatic goodbye.
No upside-down tree hanging.
No commentary.

She simply wasn’t there.

Arjun noticed — but only briefly.

He did not search.
He did not call her name in his mind.
He slept.

The next morning, life resumed its usual discipline.

Ironed shirt.
Polished shoes.
Strong coffee — without Saridon.

He reached office, entered his cabin, and sat down. The files were stacked as usual. The world was normal.

But for one moment — just one — he paused.

Did I hurt her?

He flipped open a file.

Damn… why did she die?

He signed one page.

Why did she come back like this? Why act like a devil? Why always so stupid?

He shut the file with a soft thud.

“You didn’t hurt me.”

The voice came gently.

He froze.

She was sitting on the same chair as before — the one no one else could see occupied.

“Neither am I stupid,” she added quietly. “It’s fine. If I am disturbing your life, I didn’t mean to interfere.”

Her tone was softer than ever.

No drama.
No jokes.

Before he could respond, she stood up and walked toward the window.

While turning, she bumped into the edge of the table.

“Ouch!” she shouted instinctively.

He looked up quickly.

“Are you okay?”

She paused.

Then gave a small crooked smile.

“Now I don’t get hurt from wooden lifeless things. I don’t get hurt anymore. I am like… superhero sort.”

He leaned back in his chair.

“This is not superhero,” he said calmly. “You are wandering. That’s not fair.”

She spun around.

“Oye! You think only you are big hero? I can’t be big hero? You don’t know my powers. You know what happened yesterday—”

She was about to continue.

He raised his hand slightly.

“Look… whatever happened… you don’t understand what I want to say. You simply keep talking unrealistic nonsense.”

The words came out sharper than he intended.

She stopped mid-sentence.

He was already looking down at his files again. Pen moving. Papers turning. Focused.

As if she wasn’t there.

The cabin felt colder.

She stood near the window, watching him.

No laughter.

No ghost threats.

Just quiet.

For someone who once filled every silence with sound —
this silence was unbearable.

And once again,

even in death,

she felt alone.

Dream - Part 8

 

 Coffee, Saridon & One Invisible Problem

Arjun finally reached home.

He opened the door, stepped inside, removed his shoes, and tried to behave normal. Calm. Composed. Married-man-with-responsibilities mode activated.

Behind him, floating happily like an unpaid electricity bill — Ananya followed.

His wife looked up from the dining table.

“You’re back?”

“Hmm,” he nodded. “Can you please give me one cup of hot and strong coffee?”

“Sure… two minutes,” she replied, walking toward the kitchen.

Ananya stood beside him, looking around the house like a tourist.

“Nice house da… clean also. Your wife maintains well. Good selection.”

“Shhh,” he whispered.

She ignored him.

As his wife was about to enter the kitchen, Ananya suddenly said loudly,

“Coffee With Saridon tablet?”

Without thinking, Arjun instantly replied,

“I don’t want!”

His wife stopped mid-step.

She slowly turned around.

“You don’t want… coffee?”

He froze.

“No… I mean… I want coffee…”

She raised one eyebrow. “Then?”

He panicked. “Nothing! Just coffee. No tablet. Nothing extra.”

“Tablet?” she asked, confused. “Why will I put tablet in coffee?”

“Exactly!” he said too loudly. “Why will you put tablet in coffee? Who does that?”

She blinked.

“Okay…” she said slowly. “As you wish.”

And she walked into the kitchen.

The moment she disappeared, Ananya burst into uncontrollable laughter.

Not soft. Not ghostly.

Full volume.

Clutching her stomach.

“Ha ha ha! With Saridon tablet! Your face! Oh my God!”

Arjun held his head.

“Uff… seriously sorry, dear!” he shouted toward the kitchen. “It was not for you! Can you please bring a hot coffee? I need it.”

From inside, his wife replied, “Okay…”

Ananya continued laughing.

“You saw your face? ‘I don’t want!’ like a scared child!”

He turned toward her, irritation visible now.

“You will mess my life. You are making me look like a fool in front of others. What kind of friend are you?”

She stopped laughing.

The smile slowly faded.

“I was just joking,” she said softly.

“This is not joke. This is my life,” he whispered angrily. “You cannot interfere like this. Already I am talking to empty air. If someone notices, what will they think?”

She looked at him for a few seconds.

The same girl who once filled silence with nonstop words…

Now quiet.

“Okay,” she said gently. “I shall keep quiet.”

For the first time since she appeared as a ghost, she stepped back.

Not playfully.

Not dramatically.

Just… quietly.

His wife returned with the coffee.

“Here.”

He took it carefully.

“Thank you.”

She sat beside him. “Are you okay? You look stressed.”

“I’m fine,” he said quickly.

Ananya stood near the window, watching.

He blew on the coffee and took a sip.

Silence filled the room.

She did not comment.

Did not tease.

Did not add anything.

And strangely—

That silence felt heavier than all her nonsense combined.

Arjun glanced toward the window.

She stood there, looking smaller somehow.

Invisible.

Quiet.

And for the first time,

he almost missed her noise.

Dream - Part 7

 

Free Ghost, Paid Human

Evening wrapped the office building in tired light.

Arjun completed his work, shut down his computer, packed his bag, and stepped out. The corridor felt unusually silent.

As he walked toward the parking area, her words echoed in his mind.

“Heavenly people are preparing my palace… arranging welcome party…”

He smiled unconsciously.

“Welcome party aaah…” he murmured to himself. “This girl… even after death…”

“Even after death what?”

He stopped walking.

She stood in front of him.

This time, he was shocked — but not the same terrified shock as before. It was more like… startled familiarity.

“You didn’t go yet?” he asked cautiously.

She folded her arms dramatically.

“As if you have booked a ticket for me with your expense, you are asking. I didn’t go. Don’t worry, I won’t increase your expenses. Now I can’t even eat anything, you know.”

He blinked.

“I tried eating pani puri,” she continued sadly. “My favorite! Uff… I thought everything will be free now. I can eat whatever I want. Though I am not hungry, I felt like eating. But I was unable to eat. Nothing. Can’t taste, can’t swallow. Waste of ghost life.”

He stared at her.

“Free mein dost mil gayi tere ko,” she added proudly. “I won’t add any tax for you.”

He shook his head.

“Hearing your words itself is a tax. It’s been a while since I heard such long, long explanations. God… I just asked ‘you didn’t go yet?’ Your answer was like blah blah blah for five minutes.”

She pretended to look offended.

“Oh… I am tired.”

“This is what happens if you keep talking without full stop.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Oh, I am not tired of talking. I am tired of sitting idle. Now I got you. You are free, right? We have a lot to talk. Come, come… you are going home only, right?”

“Yes, home,” he replied carefully. “But why will you come?”

She made a dramatic frowning face.

“Won’t you allow me inside your house? I had already been to your home. I saw your wife too.”

He stopped walking again.

“Huh? When? When did you go?”

“Calm down,” she said quickly. “I didn’t do anything to your beloved wife. I saw her today morning when you were about to leave for office. After that, I didn’t go to your heavenly house.”

He sighed in frustration. “You and your commentary…”

“With your permission, I will again come,” she continued. “If no permission… then I will stay on trees. Hanging upside down.”

He couldn’t help it.

He laughed.

“Upside down? Nice. It suits you.”

She stepped closer, looking straight into his eyes.

“Hey… shall I come or not?”

There was something different in her voice now.

Not playful.

Not dramatic.

Just a simple question.

And for the first time since she appeared as a ghost,

Arjun did not answer immediately.

Dream - Part 6

 

Questions to the Unseen

Arjun stood frozen.

For a long moment, he could only hear his own heartbeat.

He swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and asked in a trembling voice,

“Why… why did you come here?”

She tilted her head slightly, watching him with amusement.

“What do you want?” he continued. “As far as I know, I didn’t hurt you intentionally. Why are you here? Will you… will you kill me? Please don’t. I have responsibilities.”

The word responsibilities sounded heavier now.

Ananya burst into a soft laugh.

“Uff yaar… calm down, calm down. I am not here to kill you. Even I don’t know why I am here still. Maybe it is because I died in an accident, right? So the heavenly people were not ready yet. They are still preparing my palace and arranging a grand welcome party for me.”

He blinked.

“Huh? Welcome party aaah? What nonsense!”

She folded her invisible arms proudly. “Why? You think I don’t deserve?”

“If you are not here to kill me,” he said cautiously, “then what are you doing, Pishachi?”

She gasped dramatically.

“Pishachi? I am not Pishachi! I am… more like an angel. A cupid, you know?”

He shook his head. “No way. You can never be a cupid. You eat people’s brains and drink their blood. Now maybe you got license also.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Very funny.”

His phone rang suddenly, breaking the tension.

He almost jumped before answering it.

“Yes, sir… yes, I’ll send the file… give me ten minutes.”

He ended the call and looked at her again.

“I have work, dear Cupid. Shall talk to you later.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Oh busy human. See, one should be like me — free from all worldly pleasures. No files, no meetings, no deadlines.”

He gave that same small, silent smile — the one she had always loved.

“Now go, please. I have work.”

She shrugged lightly.

“Sure, I will. But keep this in mind… I will be roaming around you.”

He stiffened again.

“Hey… wait. You won’t kill me, okay. But you won’t kill my wife also, right? Or… possess her? You won’t do anything like that?”

Fear had returned to his eyes.

Ananya stared at him for a long second.

“Heavenly lord,” she said slowly, “I never thought you have such criminal thoughts in your heart. I always felt you are a good, cool dude.”

She stepped closer — though her steps made no sound.

“I will not kill you. I will not harm your wife. I am not here to interfere with your family or your life. I was just roaming… and I came to see you. That’s all.”

There was no jealousy in her tone now. Only something softer.

“Okay,” she said gently. “I will go. Bye.”

She began to fade — not dramatically, not like smoke — but like a memory that slowly loses clarity.

Arjun remained seated, staring at the empty space where she stood.

His cabin was silent again.

Only the untouched cup of tea remained on the table — now completely cold.

Dream - Part 5

 

The True Ghost Appeared

Death did not give her peace.

There was no light.
No tunnel.
No divine music welcoming her.

There was only longing.

Ananya’s soul wandered exactly the way she had once joked it would. Restless. Curious. Unfinished.

She searched for him.

And she found him.

Morning sunlight slipped through the curtains of his living room. Arjun sat comfortably on the sofa, reading the newspaper, a cup of coffee balanced in his hand. Calm. Ordinary. Alive.

She stood before him.

For a moment, she felt excitement.

“Oh ho… look at you,” she grinned. “Officer sir with coffee. Wait, I’ll bang your head and say — ‘Hey you! Remember me? I told you not to underestimate this bhooth. I will not leave you free. I will cling on you. I am back! How are you da?’”

She raised her hand to hit him playfully.

Before she could, footsteps echoed from the kitchen.

His wife entered the hall.

Graceful. Beautiful. Calm. The kind of beauty that doesn’t try hard.

Ananya froze.

Jealousy — sharp and ugly — rose inside her. She watched the woman closely. Every movement. The way she adjusted her saree. The way she placed breakfast on the table. The softness in her voice when she called his name.

None of them could see her.

She stood between them like invisible smoke.

Arjun finished his breakfast, picked up his bag, turned toward his wife, kissed her gently on the forehead and said, “Bye.”

That small gesture pierced Ananya more than the accident ever had.

“Damn,” she muttered. “So this is your life now.”

Her jealousy burned.

“Fine,” she whispered. “Let’s see how your officer life is.”

She followed him to his office.

Being an officer, he had his own cabin. He sat inside, adjusting files, settling into routine. Calm. Focused.

She appeared in front of him.

This time — he saw her.

His hand froze mid-air.

The pen dropped.

His face drained of color.

“Hey… you are alive?”

His voice trembled.

“I heard you were dead. Was that also one more playful act of yours? Why do you do such drama? I felt sad… you know? I thought you died.”

She tilted her head slightly.

“Is it? Really?”

“Yes,” he said quickly. “At that time, yes. Now no. Because you will never come out of this playful nonsense.”

Before she could reply, his colleague entered the cabin.

“Good morning!”

Arjun forced a smile. “Morning.”

He felt uneasy. Ananya was standing right there — near his table — looking at him with that same old love in her eyes.

His colleague did not react.
Did not look at her.
Did not even sense her presence.

Arjun’s discomfort deepened.

They spoke casually about work, as if nothing was strange. But his eyes kept flickering toward her.

He pressed the bell.

“One coffee and two teas,” he ordered.

His friend frowned. “Three? Anyone coming?”

Arjun hesitated. Why is he asking? Does he see her?

“We will have… then I’ll tell,” he said vaguely.

The peon entered with a tray.

One tea for his friend.
One coffee for Arjun.

He held the third cup in his hand. “Sir… for whom?”

Arjun slowly pointed toward the empty chair next to his friend.

“For her.”

Ananya smiled.

The peon looked confused. “Sir?”

“Keep it there.”

The peon hesitated, then placed the cup on the empty chair’s side table — his face showing visible shock.

Even his friend looked uneasy now.

“Are you okay?” the friend asked cautiously.

“Yes,” Arjun replied quickly.

After finishing his tea, the friend left the cabin, still glancing back strangely.

Silence filled the room.

Ananya looked at him — the same softness, the same incomplete love.

“Drink,” he said nervously. “Before it becomes cold.”

She smiled faintly. “I can’t.”

“Why? Another playful act? You stopped drinking tea now?”

“No,” she whispered. “I stopped almost everything… except you.”

His brows tightened.

She stepped closer.

“I no longer exist in this world. I am a pure soul now.”

“Stop this stupid nonsense,” he snapped. “I am not getting into your drama again.”

She sighed.

“Oho… bro. Believe me. I don’t exist. Only you can see me as of now.”

He swallowed.

“If you want,” she continued calmly, “call your peon again. Ask him to clean the chair where I am sitting.”

A wave of fear passed through his body.

Slowly — very slowly — he pressed the bell again.

The peon entered.

“Sir?”

“Clean that chair,” Arjun said, pointing.

The peon looked at the chair.

“Sir… it is already clean.”

Ananya did not move.

She kept looking at him.

And for the first time since she met him,

Arjun was not laughing.

He was scared.

Dream Part 4

 

The Biggest Twist Ever Dreamt Of

The night before, she did not sleep.

Ananya lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying memories that no longer belonged to her. His laughter. His teasing voice. “Bhooth madam…” The way he once smiled without sound.

Her head ached. Her chest felt tight. She had not eaten properly. She had not rested properly. Thoughts circled her like vultures.

By morning, her body was present —
but her mind was exhausted.

The sun had barely risen when she stepped out for work. The air was cool, almost kind. The streets were half awake. Vendors arranging vegetables. School buses honking impatiently. Bikes rushing past like thoughts that never slow down.

She walked slower than usual.

Her vision blurred once.

She stopped.

“It’s just dizziness,” she whispered to herself.

She had been disturbed for days. Maybe weeks. Maybe years.

A truck screeched somewhere far. A bike swerved. Someone shouted.

She tried to cross the road.

For a second, everything froze —
the sound stretched into silence —
the world tilted.

Her legs failed her.

The impact was violent. Metal collided. People screamed. Her body hit the road harder than any heartbreak she had survived.

Blood spread quietly beneath her like a red confession.

She lay there, eyes half open, the sky above her strangely peaceful.

She had once wished — foolishly, dramatically — that if she ever died, it should be in front of him. So he would finally understand. So he would finally feel her absence like she had felt his.

But today, he was not there.

He was miles away. In his settled life. In his world of responsibility.

She tried to say his name.

No sound came out.

Her fingers moved slightly, as if reaching for a phone that was not in her hand.

Then nothing.

Silence.

The biggest twist she had never truly imagined —
her life ended on an ordinary morning, on an ordinary road, without drama, without audience.

And now?

She could never call him again.
Never message him again.
Never hear “Bhooth madam” again.

The worst part was not death.

The worst part was this:

She could no longer think of him.

Because thinking requires a mind.
And her mind had stopped.

What happens to a soul that loved without return?

Did it wander?

Did it stand near the accident site, confused, watching strangers gather around a body it once owned?

Did it try to run toward him one last time?

Or did it drift somewhere unknown — a place beyond memory, beyond longing, beyond incomplete love?

Maybe it hovered for a moment.

Maybe it searched for him.

Maybe it whispered one last playful threat:

“I told you… I am bhooth.”

Or maybe —
it was finally free.

Free from waiting.
Free from hoping.
Free from dreaming.

No one knows where her soul went.

But somewhere, in some quiet corner of existence,
an incomplete love lost its only heartbeat.

Dream - Part 3

 

Distance

Distance never arrives with noise.

It begins quietly — like a chair that is slowly moved away from the table.

One day, Arjun did not call back.
The next day, he replied late.
Then shorter.
Then not at all.

It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t a fight.
It was something colder.

Enough.

Enough of unrealistic stories.
Enough of ghosts and imaginary tragedies.
Enough of playful drama when life ahead demanded seriousness.

Arjun had responsibilities. A career to grow. A family that expected stability. A future that required discipline. Somewhere along the way, Ananya’s laughter began to feel… exhausting.

He didn’t announce his withdrawal.
He simply reduced himself from her life.

Ananya noticed.

Of course she noticed.

A girl who could sense his thoughts before his calls — how could she not sense his silence?

At first, she told herself he was busy.

“Officer saar has big responsibilities,” she would whisper sarcastically to her own reflection.

But days stretched into weeks.
Weeks felt heavier than months.

Somewhere deep inside, she had always known this day would come. She had loved him with awareness — knowing it was incomplete, knowing she was only a chapter in his passing time.

Yet knowing does not make pain smaller.

She waited.

She waited through unanswered messages.
Waited through calls that rang and died.
Waited through nights when her phone screen remained dark.

Her playful happiness — once bright and unstoppable — began shrinking. The distance did not grow slowly. It grew exponentially, like a silent disease spreading inside her heart.

And one night, she broke.

No drama.
No ghost voice.

Just honesty.

She mailed him.

“Arjun,
I was not joking.
I am in love with you.
I have been for a long time.”

She called him after sending it. No answer.

She texted again.

“This is not a playful act. Please believe me.”

But to him, it was just another one of her dramatic stories. Another exaggerated emotion. Another performance.

He ignored it.

Ignored her confession.
Ignored her vulnerability.
Ignored the first time she had ever spoken without hiding behind laughter.

And life moved forward for him.

His marriage was fixed.

The news reached her not from him, but from someone else. Casual. Normal. As if announcing the weather.

“He is getting married.”

She smiled when she heard it.

“Oh… good,” she said calmly.

That night she did not sleep.

He got married.
A new chapter began for him.
A permanent full stop for her.

The one-sided, hidden love — the one she carried playfully for years — almost killed her. Not physically. But something inside her stopped breathing.

She had known this could happen.
She had prepared herself mentally for this day.
But preparation does not cancel heartbreak.

She acted strong in front of the world.
Went to work.
Spoke normally.
Laughed even.

But alone, she collapsed into silence.

They stopped talking completely.

No calls.
No messages.
No ghosts.

Days passed.
Years passed.

Arjun built his life — work, family, responsibilities.

Ananya built something else.

A world inside her dreams.

In that world, he still laughed at her jokes.
Still called her “Bhooth.”
Still answered her calls.

Reality moved forward.

But her heart stayed where it had always been —
standing at the edge of an incomplete love,
waiting for a voice that would never return.

Dream - Part 2

 

Playful Acts

Ananya had mastered the art of drama.

Every other day, there would be a new tragedy.
Her aunt insulted her cooking.
Her cousin stole her charger and “ruined her life.”
Her neighbor looked at her “with negative energy.”
Or sometimes, she would simply sigh loudly and say, “Arjun… I think I am dying.”

Arjun would rub his forehead. “From what now?”

“Emotional damage,” she would reply seriously. “My family said I talk too much. Can you believe that?”

He would pause. “They are not entirely wrong.”

She would gasp dramatically. “So you are also against me? Fine. I knew. Everyone hates me.”

He knew she was exaggerating. Most of her stories were stitched together from tiny truths and giant imagination. But he still listened. He always listened.

One evening she called him out of nowhere.

“Arjun,” she whispered urgently.

“What happened now?”

“I think something is wrong.”

“With what?”

“With my heart.”

He stiffened for a second. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “It beats faster when you talk.”

There was silence.

Then she burst into laughter. “See your face! I wish I could see it!”

He exhaled sharply. “You are impossible.”

But he did not disconnect.

She had this strange habit. Whenever he thought about her — just casually, just a passing thought — his phone would ring.

Her name would flash.

He once told her, “You are like a ghost. The moment I think about you, you appear.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Oh? So I am haunting you?”

“Yes. You are a bhooth.”

She grinned wider. “Yes. I am bhooth. I will always be behind you. Beware of doing anything that offends me.”

He smirked. “Really? And what will this bhooth do?”

She straightened dramatically. “How dare you challenge me? Don’t you ever think I am an ordinary bhooth.”

“Oh?” he said calmly. “You are extraordinary? I knew. There is definitely some mental problem with you.”

She pretended to be offended. “What!”

“Friendly suggestion,” he continued. “Please go and consult a good psychiatric doctor. The doctor would help you.”

She softened for a second. “Why can’t you help me?”

“I am not a doctor, ma. I am just an ordinary officer. I know less things than your brain produces in one hour. What all nonsense you think, yeah?”

“Nonsense?” she gasped again. “You are interfering… insulting me. Don’t forget I am bhooth. I will make you hang ulta.”

He smiled. Not loudly. Just that quiet smile that barely moved his lips.

“Okay, Bhooth madam. I will talk to you later. Have some work.”

She sighed dramatically. “Fine. But remember… I am watching.”

As days passed, their conversations never stopped. No matter how fed up he claimed to be, he still answered. He still listened to her unrealistic stories. He still responded to her late-night messages.

Ananya was not part of his world. Not his office. Not his rank. Not his professional circle. She worked in a small, unimpressive job — one she secretly disliked — doing repetitive tasks just to earn enough to survive.

She knew she did not match him.

He was stable. Respected. Settled.

She was… surviving.

She hid her love behind jokes. Behind ghosts. Behind imaginary threats.

Because if she ever spoke seriously,
if she ever removed the laughter,

he might see how deeply she loved him.

And that was far more terrifying than being called a bhooth.