(Speaker: train journey folks. delhi to patna. six hours trapped in metal box with feelings you can't name and family waiting who'll definitely ask questions. no escape. no ctrl+alt+delete. good luck.)
sleeper class. upper berth.
they climbed up together. her first time upper berth. she looked scared. he helped her up. didn't let go until she settled.
train started moving. slow. then faster. delhi disappearing behind them.
platform lights. buildings. slums. fields. darkness. everything blurring.
she sat near window. legs folded. dupatta wrapped tight. staring outside like answers might be out there in dark.
he sat opposite. watching her. trying not to watch her. failing.
for first hour neither spoke. just sat there. processing.
then she turned. looked at him properly.
"tell me about them," she said quiet. "your family. everything. if i'm doing this i should know."
made sense. didn't make it easier.
"ma's strong," he started. words feeling heavy. "had to be after papa died. ran everything alone."
"how did he die."
throat tight. words coming slow. painful. "cancer. from all the welding fumes. battery gases. carbon. he breathed it in for years."
she waited. didn't push.
"papa started as day laborer. then worked as chhotu in hotel. saved everything. opened small repair shop." pride crept into his voice despite pain. "only 10th pass but papa had technical mind. could fix anything. radios. televisions. used soldering iron and fire like magic. everyone came to him."
he looked out window. fields passing. "then he started providing generator electricity to village. battery lights. ran flour mill. welding machine. everything." voice cracking. "fastest growing man in village. people said he'd be big businessman one day."
pause. heavy.
"died at thirty two. i was ten." flat. dead. like saying it enough times would make it hurt less. never did. "didn't understand why he wouldn't wake up. kept shaking him. papa uthiye. papa. ma pulled me away. that's when i knew."
her hand found his. squeezed.
"lost almost everything after. prosperity just... slipped away. people he helped. people he trusted. gone. like he never existed." bitter laugh. "ma's family helped. maternal uncle. cousins. kept us from starving. but damage done."
he continued. voice steadying. "after 10th pass mama ji helped. maternal uncle. took me to muzaffarpur. one month crash course. web development." small smile. "first time i touched computer properly. first time i thought maybe i could do something."
pause. remembering.
"then ma sold her jewelry. wedding jewelry. everything papa gave her. sent me to engineering college." throat tight again. "said education only way out. only way to break cycle. so i studied. worked jobs on side. learned everything. got placement. started sending money home." he looked at her. "that's the deal. that's my life."
"sounds like a lot of pressure."
"not really." he shook head. "not compared to what ma felt. what papa endured. i got education. office job. ac room. laptop." he looked out window. "they had nothing. built everything from dirt. me? i'm practically living easy life. just sending money home. that's nothing."
she squeezed his hand tighter. didn't say anything. didn't need to.
silence. train rattling. someone snoring. baby crying somewhere. normal sounds.
"priya's my sister," he said lighter. trying to smile. "sixteen. studying bsc botany. spends half her time sleeping. other half watching youtube videos about manifestation and astrology. sells lic insurance on side. somehow makes it work." small smile. "she's. different. quiet until she's not. you'll understand when you meet her."
"what if i don't."
"impossible. she'll adopt you within five minutes."
she laughed. small. real.
then serious again. "my turn?"
he nodded.
she looked away. voice going flat. "they wanted me married. traditional family. good sindhi girl should marry young. be good wife. make babies. that's it." bitterness creeping in. "my ex promised them everything. respect. money. stability. joint family. they loved him more than me i think."
"and when he—"
"humiliated me. publicly. at my own wedding." her voice hard. sharp. "they blamed me. said i must have done something wrong. not modern enough. not pretty enough. not submissive enough. not enough."
shubham's jaw tightened. "that's—"
"true." she cut him off. "my own family sided with him. said i should apologize. beg him to come back. cancer diagnosis came month later." bitter laugh. "they said it's god punishing me for being difficult girl. for not compromising. for wanting career instead of just kitchen."
"reshma—"
"so i left. took all my savings. came delhi. got job in marketing. lived alone. first time in my life i was free." her voice cracked. "then diagnosis got worse. money ran out. couldn't tell family because they'd just say i told you so. couldn't handle it alone. so bridge. then you."
silence. heavy. painful.
"you're just like him," she said finally. quiet. dangerous.
"who."
"your papa. working yourself to death for family that takes everything." she looked at him. eyes hard. "you see that right. how you're killing yourself slowly same way he did."
he stiffened. "it's different."
"how."
"because i chose this. he didn't have choice."
"neither do you." her voice sharp now. cutting. "you think sending money home every month is choice. you think lying to your ma for me is choice. you're trapped shubham. just like he was. and i'm making it worse. dying girl ruining your easy life—"
"don't." jaw tight. voice low. dangerous. "don't do that."
"do what."
"push me away. make yourself villain. every time we get close you find excuse. wrote letter this morning. tried to disappear. because god forbid someone actually wants you—"
"maybe you shouldn't." she yanked hand away. turned to window. "maybe you should let me go. easier that way. less painful."
"for who."
"for you."
"you don't get to decide what's painful for me." grabbed her wrist. not hard. desperate. "i pulled you off bridge. i chose you to stay. chose to bring you to my family. i chose you. so stop protecting me from my own choices."
stared at him. eyes wet. angry. scared. "you'll regret it."
"maybe." didn't let go. "or maybe i'll regret NOT doing it more. ever think of that."
"you're impossible."
"and you're stubborn."
"i hate you."
"no you don't."
she wanted to argue. wanted to push harder. but exhaustion won.
pulled hand free. turned back to window. shoulders tense. walls up.
neither spoke rest of journey.
somewhere past midnight she fell asleep anyway. head tilting. finally giving in.
he watched her sleep. angry even in sleep. beautiful even angry.
still so screwed.
patna junction. 6:47 am.
announcement woke them. patna aa gaya hai.
she jerked awake. confused. remembered. walls came back up immediately.
"we're here."
"yeah."
got down without talking. still angry. still hurt.
platform chaos. coolies. vendors. cows. everything.
she looked around. taking it in. didn't comment.
they took shared auto. local bus. she pressed face to window. watching fields. women working. kids playing. said nothing whole time.
he didn't push. let her be angry.
maybe she needed it.
his home.
small house. courtyard. yellow walls. jasmine. chickens.
before he knocked door flew open.
"BHAIIII!!"
priya's scream could wake dead.
launched herself. he caught her. "arre pagal you'll kill me."
"you never visit never call—" then priya saw her.
jaw dropped. "oh my god."
"priya this is—"
"YOUR WIFE?!" screamed louder. "bhai she's GORGEOUS how did you—"
"priya!" his ears red.
but reshma smiled. first smile since train fight. "hi. i'm reshma."
priya grabbed her hands. "oh my GOD come inside everyone waiting ma's been cooking since 4 am we have like whole neighborhood here—"
"whole neighborhood?" his voice squeaked.
"yeah. surprise!" priya grinned.
reshma looked at him. something like i told you so in her eyes.
he looked back. helpless.
both still kind of angry.
but had to perform now.
inside packed.
aunties. uncles. neighbors. cousins. everyone.
ma stood center. arms crossed. watching.
she wasn't smiling. wasn't frowning. just looking.
analyzing. calculating. ma superpower fully activated.
"so," ma said. calm. too calm. "this is her."
reshma folded hands. "namaste aunty ji."
perfect. respectful. traditional.
ma stepped closer. studied her. top to bottom. face. hands. eyes. everything.
then smiled. warm.
"beta." ma touched her face. gentle. "you're beautiful. too beautiful for this mosshead." she looked at shubham. eyes twinkling. "how did you trick her."
reshma's smile wobbled. "i—he didn't trick me aunty ji. he's—he's good."
"good?" ma laughed. "this one. beta he burns maggi. can't fold clothes. room always mess." but voice fond. "but yes. heart is good. if you can see past the chaos."
something in reshma's eyes softened. "i can."
ma pulled her to sofa. "come sit. train journey long na. must be tired. priya bring chai. fresh. not yesterday's."
"yes ma!" priya ran.
shubham stood there awkwardly.
ma turned. smile gone.
"you. outside. now."
oh shit.
courtyard. sun bright. jasmine smell. neighbor's goat chewing something. chickens pecking.
ma stood arms crossed. waiting.
"explain," she said.
not request. order.
"ma i—"
"four days ago sharma aunty calls. red lehenga. midnight. bride." ma's voice sharp. "then uncle calls. then everyone. so i call you. you don't pick. finally answer. say we're together. like buying vegetables. casual."
guilt crushing him.
"ma please—"
"i raised you alone after papa died working himself to death." voice cracking. controlled. "sold my jewelry. everything. sent you delhi. and you can't even tell me truth. can't give me that respect."
"i'm sorry—"
"sorry WHAT." ma stepped closer. eyes fierce. "sorry for lying. hiding. bringing girl with no warning. what exactly beta."
throat closed. couldn't speak.
"i don't care about lehenga or gold." ma's voice softer. dangerous soft. "i care about truth. respect. you treating marriage like joke."
"it's not a joke." voice raw. "i love her ma. i know it's fast. crazy. but i love her. she needs me. i can't—can't let her go."
ma studied his face. long time.
"she needs you." not question. statement.
"yes."
"and you need her."
"yes."
"why."
how to explain. bridge. suicide. cancer. saving. being saved. messy real scary love.
"because she makes me feel alive." simple. true. "first time in years ma. not just working. surviving. i'm living. maybe temporary. maybe ends badly. but i'd rather have this than nothing."
silence. birds. distant tractor. life continuing.
ma sighed. shoulders dropping.
"okay," she said.
"okay?"
"but beta." ma's eyes serious. stern. no compromise. "if you're doing this. do it properly. no more lies. no more games. two months. registry office. legal marriage. understand."
his brain stopped. "two months?"
"yes. you're sleeping under same roof. neighbors talking. sharma aunty asking when baby coming." ma poked his chest. hard. "you made your bed. now lie in it properly. two months. registry. make it legal. or send her home and stop wasting everyone's time."
two months.
how do you figure out real versus fake versus dying versus everything in two months.
"and beta." ma's voice soft now. almost gentle. "if you hurt her. if you make her cry. if this is game to you. i'll forget you're my son. understand."
"it's not a game ma. i swear—"
"then prove it." she patted his cheek. "two months. then we'll see."
ma went inside. left him standing there.
two month deadline. ticking clock. pressure mounting.
perfect. just perfect.
inside chaos continued.
aunties surrounding reshma firing questions.
"where are you from beta."
"what does father do."
"when did you meet."
"love marriage or arranged."
"are you pregnant beta very important to know—"
"AUNTY!" priya yelled. "inappropriate!"
reshma looked overwhelmed. eyes finding his. help.
he pushed through. sat next to her. grabbed her hand under table. hidden. private.
"she's tired. long journey. needs rest."
ma clapped hands. loud. commanding. "yes yes. everyone go now. later you can gossip. out."
aunties left reluctantly. whispering. already spreading news.
when house empty reshma exhaled. huge.
"thought i was going to die," she whispered.
he almost laughed. stopped himself. dark humor about dying. too real.
"you survived," he said instead.
"barely."
priya plopped down. eyes curious but soft. understanding. "you both look exhausted. train journey was okay?"
something in her tone. gentle. reading the room better than sixteen year old should.
reshma nodded. grateful for easy question. "long. but okay."
"bhai snores though right." priya grinned. "i saw a youtube video once about how snoring is linked to planetary alignment. mercury retrograde affects sleep patterns—"
"priya please." shubham groaned.
"what. i'm just saying." innocent face. "also does he snore."
reshma smiled despite herself. "like freight train."
"KNEW IT."
"i don't snore!" he protested.
both girls looked at him. eyebrows raised.
"you totally do," reshma said.
priya high fived her. "welcome to family bhabhi."
and despite everything. despite lies. despite two month deadline. despite cancer. despite still being angry from train.
reshma felt something warm. something like maybe belonging.
"thank you," she whispered to him later. when priya left. when ma was cooking. when they had moment alone.
"for what."
"for this. for them. for..." she gestured vaguely. "everything."
he squeezed her hand. "we still fighting?"
"little bit."
"fair."
"but maybe less now."
"progress."
she almost smiled. "two months."
"yeah."
"not enough time."
"for what."
"everything." looked at him. scared. honest. "figure out if this real. if we're real. if i can do this without hurting you."
"too late for that." smiled. sad. true. "already hurt. might as well be hurt all the way."
didn't answer. just held his hand tighter.
outside priya singing. filming reel. normal chaos.
inside them. quiet. scared. hopeful.
maybe enough.
for now.
(Speaker: two month countdown started. family accepted her. but clock ticking. cancer lurking. feelings growing. and neither brave enough to say what happens when time runs out. buckle up folks. this gets worse before it gets better.)
Cliffhanger → Two months to make it legal. Ma's watching. Family's invested. And them? Still figuring out if this tragedy or love story. Spoiler: maybe both.