After a bunch of emotional goodbyes, my parents and I—the main character in my own story—hopped into an auto rickshaw to get to the bus stop. We were leaving Durgapur, this small city in West Bengal, to catch our bus to Santragachi, where we would catch our train to Chennai.
As we climbed aboard the bus, the friendly conductor expertly slid our bags into the spacious luggage compartment. The journey itself was quite uneventful, the scenery blurring past in a monotonous rhythm—until dark clouds rolled in and rain began to fall. By the time we arrived at our destination, the sky had opened up, unleashing a torrential downpour that seemed to drown all sound. Frustrated by the sudden shift in weather, we decided to seek refuge in a nearby restaurant, hoping to wait out the storm.
Waiting inside the restaurant turned out to be a misstep. The irresistible aroma of delicious food enveloped me, and I found myself transfixed as I watched the kitchen boy skillfully kneading the dough for garam parathas, pouring his all into the task. My stomach was clearly making its demands known, grumbling as a reminder of my growing hunger. In that moment, my father decisively suggested we take the subway, sensing that the rain was finally starting to ease up.
We kicked off our trip to the railway station, following the crowd like everyone else. The subway was a wild experience—totally flooded with rainwater! We had to navigate this narrow path that was way higher than what you're used to. I felt a bit nervous when I spotted an exposed wire with electricity buzzing close to all that water. But somehow, my parents and I made it to the station, looking like soaked chihuahuas.
We dragged ourselves into the station and climbed the overbridge. Unsure of our platform, we paused at the top. Below me, trains screamed through the station, their passage a rush of wind and roaring diesel that echoed in the cavernous space.
My mom nudged me, her voice a stage whisper that probably carried to the other side of the station. "Hostel kid. Bet you ten bucks." She pointed with her chin. "That's not luggage, that's a cry for help. I see a hot water bucket. I know the signs."
"Okay, Sherlock," I muttered, turning to my mother with an eye-roll that could power a small wind turbine. "What's with the stakeout? Since when did you go from making pakoras to profiling pedestrians?"
But my sarcasm hit nothing but empty space.
I blinked. Once. Twice. She was just… gone. Vanished like a ghost in the crowd. A full, ridiculous 360-degree spin on the dusty overbridge confirmed it—I was now alone, casually talking to myself like an unhinged street performer.
Then I saw her.
My jaw actually dropped. There she was, not ten meters away, already deep in animated conversation with the very mother of the 'hostel kid' she'd been mentally profiling seconds earlier. She flashed me a quick, triumphant grin over the woman's shoulder, as if to say, "See? This is how it's done."
I heaved a sigh straight from my dad's playbook—all weary resignation and practiced drama. He caught my eye and gave a slow, knowing nod. Man's been married to my mother for thirty years. He didn't even blink when she pulled her latest disappearing act.
Whatever. Mission Abandoned.
I slid down against the grimy overbridge wall, crinkled open a family-sized packet of Lays, and hit dial on my boyfriend's video call. His face popped up just as I shoved a handful of chips in my mouth.
"So," I mumbled through the crunching, "my mom literally just vanished into thin air. One second she was people-stalking, the next—poof. Gone. Dad's just standing there like this is a totally normal Tuesday."
He laughed, and I rolled my eyes. And before you get that look—yes, our parents know. Trust me, it wasn't always this easy. There were months of "secret" calls that weren't secret, "chance" meetings that were painfully planned, and enough side-eye from our mothers to power a small drama series. But we survived. Now we get to do this: me eating sadness-chips on a dirty floor, him laughing at my family's chaos, nobody hiding. Weirdly… perfect.
Of course. Here is a more engaging and immersive version:
The station's roar surged—a tidal wave of noise that devoured my boyfriend's voice mid-sentence. Suitcases clattered over uneven tiles like a stampede of mechanical beetles. Somewhere, a train released a pressurized hiss that sliced through the rumble of diesel engines. And then, sharpest of all, a marital showdown over dessert.
"You said after lunch!" the wife protested, voice frayed with betrayal.
"It's not about the money, it's the principle!" the husband shot back, though his principle seemed suspiciously flexible when it came to his own samosa crumbs.
Honestly? Team Wife all the way. We're not commissioning a royal portrait or demanding gold-leaf gelato—it's a bloody ice cream. A humble, happy, 50-rupee cone. Was a moment of simple joy truly too much to grant another human being?
An hour dissolved like a sugar cube in the stagnant, humid air. Still, no crackle from the speakers. The giant departure board was a mosaic of delayed and cancelled trains, each red line feeling like a personal insult. The clock on the wall seemed to be ticking in slow motion, each second stretching out like warm chewing gum. You could feel the collective sigh of hundreds of passengers—a low, weary energy humming beneath the chaos. Time wasn't just moving slowly; it was lying down on the job.
I had officially entered a state of existential boredom where time lost all meaning. Our train wasn't just late; it was fashionably, offensively late, like a celebrity arriving at a party three hours past the invite. I'd cycled through every possible conversation with my boyfriend, from "What's your favorite cloud shape?" to a deeply philosophical debate on whether potatoes count as a salad. Eventually, even that ran dry.
My bladder, however, had no respect for delayed schedules. I finally gave up, mumbled an excuse to my dad, and made a desperate beeline for the stairs—a woman on a critical mission.
My foot had just touched the grimy platform when—bzzzzt. BZZZZT. BZZZZT-BZZZZT-BZZZZT!
My phone erupted into a seizure in my hand. I unlocked it to find a digital monument to panic: approximately one thousand missed calls from my boyfriend and a text thread that had escalated into pure, uncut chaos.
Him: LOOK UP
Him: NO SERIOUSLY LOOK UP RIGHT NOW
Him: 49 DEGREES TO YOUR RIGHT!! NOW NOW NOW
Rolling my eyes (because really, what now? I have to pee for gods' sake), I reluctantly tilted my head. And there he was.
Not on the phone. Not in a text. But in the actual, flesh-and-blood, slightly-sweaty reality of the station. My boyfriend was standing by a tea stall, phone pressed to his ear, frantically waving a packet of my favorite chips over his head like a deranged signal flag. He'd apparently decided a three-hour delay was the perfect opportunity for a surprise visit.
My urgent mission was completely forgotten. I just stood there, one hand still clutching my phone, the other my abdomen, trying to process if this was a miracle or if the station delirium had finally gotten to me.
My brain finally rebooted, short-circuiting straight from shock into utter disbelief. "What in the absolute, train-delaying, chaos-loving WTF are you doing here?!" I shrieked, my voice cutting through the station's din like a fire alarm.
A slow, ridiculously cheeky grin spread across his face—the kind that usually meant he'd done something either brilliantly romantic or profoundly stupid. "Well," he murmured, closing the distance like a smug secret agent, "I calculated the delay, factored in your mom's inevitable detour, and thought... why not use the time for a surprise platform meeting?" He gestured around us as if this were a perfectly normal date spot. "I'll see you off and then disappear. Poof. Like a supportive ghost."
My mind short-circuited again. The logistics alone were baffling. How did he…? When did he…? Was he secretly an undercover time-management wizard?
But before I could form a single coherent question, a much more urgent signal blared from within my body. My bladder, having reached its final stage of rebellion, was now screaming like a banshee trapped in a kettle.
"RIGHT. Okay. This isn't over," I hissed, pointing a threatening finger at him while already backing away. "Do not move. Do not vanish. I have approximately ninety seconds before my internal organs revolt, and then I am coming back to give you the most thorough interrogation of your entire life."
And with that, I spun on my heel and made a mad, undignified dash toward the ladies' room, leaving a very amused-looking boyfriend and one incredibly urgent promise in my wake.