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.