Renuka Chanda
Chapter 1
It was early morning in the small town of Rewa, Madhya Pradesh. The Mishra household was in complete chaos. Shrikant Mishra, the head of the family, ran around the house holding the tickets like they were some ancient treasure. “Lalita! Did you pack the pickle? We cannot eat outside food every day!” he shouted, wiping sweat from his forehead though the fan was on full speed. Lalita, his wife, stood in the kitchen stuffing the last of the theplas into steel dabbas, praying that the luggage would close. Pintu, their 12-year-old son, had already put on his sunglasses — even though it was still dark outside — and was imagining himself as a Bollywood hero walking on Puri beach. And Dadaji, the 75-year-old grandfather, sat on the charpoy with his walking stick, grumbling, “In our time, we travelled with one small bag. You people pack as if you’re shifting to another state forever!”
By 8 AM, the entire family had somehow climbed into an auto-rickshaw, their bags tied on top, hanging dangerously at the edges. On the way to the station, Shrikant reminded everyone every two minutes, “Check your pockets! Tickets? Money? Mobile? Don’t trust anyone at the station!” Pintu nodded but was more interested in spotting cows and counting them on the roadside. Dadaji kept mumbling, “Modern people! They need mobile phones even to find their seats!” Lalita silently recited a prayer that they would reach Puri safely.
When they finally reached the station, it was as crowded as a vegetable market. Porters rushed in every direction. Shrikant, trying to save fifty rupees, refused all offers for help and dragged the biggest suitcase himself. “We are strong people! Why waste money?” he said bravely, though his face was already red from the effort. They found their train just as it was about to start. In the confusion, they boarded the wrong coach. Instead of sleeper class, they ended up in a general compartment packed with people, bags, chickens, and what smelled suspiciously like someone’s lunch leaking out of a plastic bag.
“Papa, this doesn’t look like our seats!” Pintu said, wide-eyed, as a man with a giant basket of guavas tried to squeeze past him.
“Quiet! It’s fine! The main thing is we’re on the train!” Shrikant hissed, embarrassed to admit he was unsure.
For the next hour, the family stood squashed between bags and passengers, trying to figure out where their real seats were. Finally, a kind TT (ticket checker) helped them — but not before they accidentally shared a Bengali family’s snacks, thinking it was complimentary food. Pintu stuffed his mouth with what he thought was puri-bhaji but nearly cried when the mustard-filled aloo hit his tongue. “It’s spicy! Mama, it’s burning!” he wailed, drinking half a bottle of water at once.
The Mishra family somehow shifted to their actual coach, tired, sweaty, and already regretting this “dream trip.” But Shrikant tried to cheer everyone up. “See? Now we can relax! What an adventure, right?” But as he leaned back, the coolie returned, demanding payment for the bags he had quietly helped move. Shrikant sighed and handed him the fifty rupees he had tried to save earlier.
Outside the window, the sun was setting, and the train rushed toward Puri. Inside the coach, the Mishras sat, exhausted, but secretly excited for what was coming next — unaware that this was just the beginning of their hilarious Puri journey.
Chapter 2
After 32 long hours of train travel filled with confusion, spicy food mishaps, and a surprise cockroach in someone’s luggage, the Mishra family finally stepped onto the platform at Puri Station. The first whiff of salty sea breeze hit them like a slap of freshness. Lalita closed her eyes and took a deep breath, “Ahh… the smell of the ocean!”
Pintu, tired and dusty, muttered, “Smells more like someone forgot to take a bath.”
Shrikant waved his phone in the air. “Wait, wait! I had booked the hotel online. Very budget-friendly. Four stars out of ten. Real value for money!” he said proudly.
Dadaji frowned. “In our time, we stayed at dharmshalas. This internet hotel business is all drama.”
As they dragged their bags outside, a man in a crumpled shirt appeared, holding a name board that said “MISHIRA PHAMILY.”
“That’s us!” Shrikant said cheerfully, ignoring the spelling. The man led them to a very small van where everyone sat crushed together like vegetables in a sack. Their luggage was tied with a rope that looked like it had fought with crows and lost.
After bouncing through narrow lanes and dodging cows, they arrived at the hotel — a tall yellow building with peeling paint and a faded signboard that read “Sea Queen Palace Deluxe Lodge (Non-AC)”.
Pintu looked up at it and whispered, “This doesn’t look like a palace.”
Lalita added nervously, “It looks like a haunted marriage hall.”
Inside, the lobby fan groaned like it was giving its last breath. The manager at the desk, a man with red paan-stained lips, gave them a toothy grin. “Welcome to paradise!”
Dadaji muttered, “If this is paradise, I miss Rewa already.”
They were shown to a tiny room with one double bed, one broken chair, and a TV that only showed cooking channels in Odia. Shrikant clapped his hands. “See? Value for money! Two adults on the bed, Dadaji on the chair, and Pintu and I will sleep on the floor.”
By evening, everyone was too tired to argue. Lalita tried to freshen up and discovered the bathroom had a bucket with no mug, a tap that only released one drop at a time, and a mirror placed at chest level.
“Shrikant, I can’t even see my face!”
“That’s good. Saves you from the horror of this hotel,” joked Shrikant — the only time that day he cracked a joke that didn’t make someone glare at him.
Dinner was another disaster. The hotel restaurant offered rice, daal, and “special fish curry.” Shrikant asked, “Is it fresh?” The waiter replied, “Yes sir, very fresh. Yesterday only.”
Pintu asked for noodles. What he got was yellow spaghetti floating in soup. He bravely called it “slippery worms.” Dadaji refused to eat anything, surviving on the pickle Lalita had packed.
Then came the real horror of the night — mosquitoes.
The lights were dim, the fan made more noise than air, and the room turned into a battlefield. As soon as they tried to sleep, hundreds of mosquitoes launched a full attack.
Pintu screamed, “They’re biting me on the nose!”
Dadaji shouted, “They’re trying to carry me away!”
Lalita waved a towel like a warrior queen, slapping the air in all directions.
Shrikant tried to burn a mosquito coil, which ended up making the room so smoky that everyone coughed for half an hour.
They ended up covering themselves head to toe in bedsheets. Dadaji looked like a mummy, Pintu kept scratching his arms, and Lalita muttered prayers.
Just before sunrise, when the buzzing stopped and silence returned, Shrikant whispered, “At least we survived the first night.”
But before anyone could reply, the bathroom tap exploded with a loud “CLANK!” and water started leaking from the corner of the ceiling.
Pintu groaned, “I want to go home…”
Dadaji added, “So do I. But after I see the sea.”
Chapter 3
The morning sun rose brightly over Puri, spreading golden light over the crowded lanes and coconut stalls. After a sleepless night of fighting mosquitoes, the Mishra family was in no mood to rest. Today was the big day — they would see the sea for the first time!
Shrikant tried to pep everyone up. “Come on! We didn’t come all this way to sleep. Let’s go see the sea!”
Pintu jumped up, excitement wiping away his sleepiness. He grabbed his sunglasses and said, “Beach hero is ready!”
Lalita packed some fruits and biscuits “just in case,” while Dadaji tapped his walking stick, declaring, “I will touch the sea but I’m not getting wet. These modern seas are dangerous.”
The family stepped out, only to be swarmed by vendors. “Chai! Coconut water! Beads! Shells! Balloon shooting, sir?” Shrikant waved them off politely at first, but soon his patience ran out. “We’ll buy later! Let us reach the beach first!”
Finally, they stood on the soft golden sands. Before them stretched the endless blue sea, waves crashing, foamy and wild. The family stood frozen, awestruck.
Pintu gasped, “Papa! The sea is so big! Bigger than ten swimming pools!”
Lalita folded her hands in silent prayer. Even Shrikant, budget-master, forgot his calculations for a moment.
But peace didn’t last long. Pintu charged toward the water like a hero in slow motion, only to be hit squarely by a wave that knocked him down. His precious sunglasses floated away like a farewell gift.
“Mera chashma!” he yelled, spluttering salt water.
Shrikant rushed to pull him up, got drenched himself, and together they looked like two soggy crows.
Meanwhile, a photographer with a camera slung around his neck appeared like magic. “Sir, madam, one photo, only 50 rupees. With camel also. You look very beautiful in sea background!”
Before they could say no, he had already clicked a picture of Lalita adjusting her saree and Shrikant shaking water out of his ears.
“Okay, okay, one photo,” Shrikant sighed, thinking, what’s 50 rupees in front of such memories? But by the time the photos were printed, the man demanded 500 rupees, claiming it was a “package” — 10 small photos, one keychain photo, and a plastic frame “imported from Bhubaneswar.”
Shrikant had no choice but to pay, while Dadaji chuckled. “In my time, memories were free.”
Then came the camel ride. Pintu begged for it, and Shrikant agreed, imagining a slow, peaceful stroll along the shore. But the camel had other plans. The moment Pintu climbed on, the camel jerked forward at full speed, making the boy bounce up and down like a potato in a sack.
“Stop the camel!” Pintu shrieked.
Lalita ran behind, worried sick. Shrikant shouted instructions that the camel paid no attention to. It took two helpers and five biscuits to calm the beast down.
After all this drama, the family sat down at a beach stall for coconut water. The vendor handed them coconuts with straws so small that it took them ages to get even a sip. And the coconuts tasted more like plain water than the sweet elixir they imagined.
Pintu made a face, “This is what people come to Puri for?”
Shrikant smiled tiredly, “It’s the experience, beta.”
By noon, the sun blazed fiercely. Shrikant had forgotten to apply sunscreen, and his nose was now redder than a tomato. Lalita’s saree was coated in fine sand. Dadaji found a bench under a tree and declared he would nap right there.
But just as they were about to leave, another wave came and soaked their feet, as if the sea itself was bidding them farewell for the day. Pintu grinned. “The sea is naughty, Papa!”
Shrikant looked at his empty wallet and sunburnt nose. “Yes, and expensive too.”
Chapter 4
The sun rose early the next morning, and the Mishra family, still recovering from their beach blunders, got ready for what Lalita declared was the real reason for their trip: the holy darshan at Jagannath Temple.
Lalita woke up first, dressed in her best saree, and packed a small bag with fruits, flowers, incense sticks, and a big packet of laddoos. “Today, no one will stop me from getting proper blessings,” she said firmly.
Shrikant, rubbing balm on his sunburnt nose, muttered, “If we survive the crowd, that itself will be a blessing.”
Pintu yawned and whispered to Dadaji, “Will the god stop the mosquitoes, Dadaji?”
Dadaji replied, “Ask for that blessing, beta. These modern mosquitoes are worse than our old-time mosquitoes.”
After a bumpy auto ride — where Shrikant kept bargaining with the driver over 10 rupees — they reached the temple area. It was already packed. Hundreds of people swarmed like ants, all eager for darshan. Shops lined the streets, selling garlands, coconut, prasad, souvenirs, and whatnot.
The moment they stepped into the temple lane, a man dressed in saffron robes approached them. “Darshan ticket, sir? Quick darshan. No crowd. Only 200 rupees per head.”
Before Shrikant could say anything, Lalita looked hopeful. “Shrikant ji, let’s take. The crowd is huge.”
Shrikant hesitated, his wallet already weak from yesterday’s beach adventure. But before he could reply, the man had led them through a narrow lane claiming it was the “VIP shortcut.”
The shortcut ended in a dead-end behind the temple, next to a giant dustbin. The man vanished.
“Where is the gate?” Lalita asked, confused.
Pintu wrinkled his nose. “This shortcut stinks.”
Dadaji sighed, “I told you. No shortcut to god. Only hard work.”
Finally, they managed to reach the temple’s actual entrance after wading through the crowd. They removed their shoes and handed them to a boy at the shoe stand, who gave a token that looked like it had survived ten floods.
Inside, the temple’s grandeur took their breath away. The huge towers, the smell of incense, the chants — everything felt divine. For a few minutes, they forgot their worries and focused on the darshan.
But peace was short-lived. A fake priest appeared out of nowhere and started sprinkling water on them. “Special blessing. Big puja. Only 500 rupees,” he said. Before Shrikant could refuse, he had tied a red thread on Shrikant’s wrist and demanded money.
Lalita insisted, “Don’t argue in the temple.”
Grumbling, Shrikant paid. The priest blessed him again for “generosity” and disappeared before Shrikant could complain.
When they returned outside, Shrikant proudly held up the shoe token. “At least something went right.” But at the shoe stand, the boy scratched his head. “No shoes, sir. Maybe somebody took by mistake.”
“What?! These were branded sandals! Discount mein liya tha but branded!” Shrikant’s voice rose.
Lalita looked horrified. “I told you not to wear the good sandals today!”
Pintu giggled. “Maybe god wanted you to donate the sandals, Papa.”
Dadaji tried to console him. “Don’t worry. In my time, we came barefoot anyway.”
A kind shopkeeper nearby offered them an old pair of rubber chappals for 50 rupees. Shrikant had no choice. He slipped them on, one foot feeling loose, the other tight. As they limped back toward the auto, Shrikant muttered, “Next time, we’ll do darshan online.”
Chapter 5
After the temple drama, the Mishra family, dusty and tired, found themselves standing near a row of colorful street stalls. The smell of frying puris, hot jalebis, spicy ghugni, and sweet malpua filled the air. Even Shrikant’s mood, soured by the loss of his sandals, started to improve.
“Okay,” he announced, adjusting his borrowed rubber slippers, “We’ve done the darshan. Now let’s enjoy some local food. But — no overspending!”
Pintu clapped his hands in excitement. “Yay! I want jalebi first!”
Lalita said, “First something salty. Then sweet.”
Dadaji, always the wise one, added, “Just don’t eat so much that we need a doctor instead of a guide.”
They stopped at the first stall — a man expertly flipping hot puris into a giant kadhai. Plates of potato curry and ghugni sat ready. The Mishras ordered a few plates, and soon they were happily munching. But halfway through, Shrikant bit into a green chilli hidden in the curry. His face turned red, then purple.
“Water! Water!” he gasped.
Pintu pointed at a coconut vendor. Shrikant rushed over, only to be slowed down by his loose slipper, which flipped off and flew into a nearby drainage ditch. The vendor handed him a coconut, and Shrikant sucked at the straw like his life depended on it.
Meanwhile, Lalita was negotiating the price of a malpua when a hungry cow wandered over. Before anyone noticed, the cow grabbed Lalita’s shopping bag in its mouth — the one with the prasad and remaining laddoos.
“My prasad!” she shrieked.
Shrikant, still coughing from the chilli, ran behind the cow, one foot bare, the other in the tight chappal. Pintu followed, laughing so hard he could barely run straight. Dadaji stayed behind, shaking his head, muttering, “This is what happens when you show off your prasad.”
The cow, quite happy with its prize, trotted off into the crowd. After five minutes of hilarious chasing, the Mishras gave up. “Let it go, Lalita,” Shrikant panted. “Consider it charity.”
Trying to recover, they decided to cool down with ice cream. Pintu chose chocolate, Lalita mango, Shrikant vanilla, and Dadaji — who didn’t trust these modern foods — agreed to “just taste.”
But as fate would have it, just as Pintu was about to take his first bite, a seagull swooped down, mistaking his cone for fish perhaps, and knocked it out of his hand. The ice cream splattered on Shrikant’s shirt, leaving a cold, sticky mess.
“Mera ice cream!” Pintu cried.
“My shirt!” Shrikant moaned.
Dadaji chuckled, “At least the bird got its prasad.”
By evening, the family sat on a bench, exhausted but still smiling. Despite the losses — a sandal, a prasad bag, an ice cream cone, and Shrikant’s pride — they admitted it had been a memorable day.
“Tomorrow, no more adventure,” Shrikant said firmly.
“Tomorrow, beach again?” Pintu asked hopefully.
Shrikant groaned, “Tomorrow, rest!”
Chapter 6
After the previous day’s street food chaos, the Mishra family agreed: today would be calm, simple, and accident-free. They would take a boat ride along the coast — no cows, no seagulls, no spicy curries — just the sea breeze and peace.
Shrikant found a local boatman named Babu Bhai, who promised, “Only 300 rupees. Best boat. Full safety. Very smooth ride.”
Shrikant’s eyes lit up at the word cheap. “Done!”
The family reached the small pier, where an old wooden boat bobbed in the water. It looked like it had survived several storms — and perhaps a few wars.
Pintu stared at it. “Papa… it looks like a pirate ship.”
Lalita clutched her bag tightly. “Are you sure it’s safe?”
Babu Bhai grinned, showing a toothless smile. “Madam, trust me. I’m boatman since Indira Gandhi’s time!”
Dadaji muttered, “In my time, boats were better built…”
With some effort, they climbed in. The boat rocked wildly with each step. Pintu loved it. Lalita looked ready to faint. Shrikant pretended to be confident but kept grabbing the edge for balance. Dadaji sat at the back, praying softly.
As they set off, the breeze felt lovely. The boat gently bobbed on the waves, and for a few minutes, all seemed perfect.
“See?” Shrikant said proudly. “Peaceful ride. Worth every rupee.”
But then… the boat started to tilt slightly.
“Is this normal?” Lalita asked, panic rising in her voice.
Babu Bhai nodded cheerfully. “Boat is talking to the sea, madam.”
A small wave splashed water into the boat. Pintu squealed with delight. Lalita screamed. Dadaji gripped the side, eyes shut tight.
Soon, the gentle rocking became a wild wobble. The boat had a tiny leak at the corner, unnoticed until now. Water slowly started pooling at their feet.
“Err… Babu Bhai?” Shrikant said, his voice shaky.
“Nothing to worry, sir! Small leak. Just remove your chappal, use it to throw water out!” the boatman advised, already using his own slipper as a scoop.
So there they were — a government clerk, his wife, their son, and an elderly grandfather — all scooping water out of a boat in the middle of the sea using their slippers.
Pintu laughed so hard that he nearly dropped his chappal into the water. “Papa, this is more fun than the beach!”
Shrikant did not share his joy. “This is not fun! This is disaster!”
The boatman finally turned the boat around and paddled frantically toward shore. Shrikant offered him extra money to row faster, but Babu Bhai shouted, “Sir, boat no petrol. Only muscle!”
By the time they reached the shore, they were half-soaked, half-relieved, and fully exhausted. Shrikant slipped on the wet sand as he tried to jump out, landing flat on his back.
Dadaji, stepping onto land, said with deep wisdom, “From now, feet on ground, no more on water.”
That evening, as they sipped tea at their hotel, the family laughed at the memory. Even Shrikant smiled at last. “At least we got the ride for free — he didn’t even ask for money at the end!”
Pintu grinned, “Maybe he was too scared of his own boat!”
Chapter 7
The day after their unforgettable boat ride, the Mishra family decided to stick to land — firm land. “No more boats, no more waves, no more sea breeze,” Shrikant declared, rubbing his sore back.
Lalita suggested, “Let’s go to the crafts market. I want to buy something for our neighbors and relatives.”
Pintu jumped up. “Can I get a seashell cap? Please, please?”
Dadaji added wisely, “And don’t forget to buy something that reminds us how lucky we are to be alive after that boat ride.”
They headed to the famous Puri crafts bazaar — a vibrant place filled with stalls of seashell jewelry, wooden idols, palm-leaf paintings, conch shells, colorful fabrics, and toys that squeaked if you looked at them too hard. The air was thick with the smell of incense and the sounds of bargaining.
The moment they entered, shopkeepers started calling out:
“Come madam, best price for you!”
“Sir, genuine Puri shell, only 500!”
“Boy, want drum? Drum best toy!”
Shrikant’s eyes narrowed — this was his battlefield.
“No one charges 500 for a shell! I’ll show them how bargaining is done,” he told Lalita, puffing out his chest like a hero.
First, he picked up a small wooden Lord Jagannath idol. “How much?”
“400 rupees, sir. Real wood!”
“I’ll give 100!”
“Sir, 350. Final price.”
“150!”
“300 sir! For you only!”
“200!”
After twenty minutes of back-and-forth, during which the shopkeeper nearly fell asleep, Shrikant proudly walked away — without the idol.
Lalita sighed. “You bargained so much you forgot to buy it!”
Meanwhile, Pintu spotted a giant plastic sword painted gold. He waved it around, pretending to be a pirate. Before anyone could stop him, he accidentally knocked over a display of bangles. The bangles scattered everywhere.
“Sorry! Sorry!” Pintu said, turning red.
The shopkeeper gave a forced smile and said, “Never mind, sir, only small damage. Please buy one bangle, only 50 rupees.”
Shrikant groaned but paid, and Pintu now had a pink plastic bangle to remember his adventure by.
Then came Lalita’s turn. She admired a beautiful conch shell. The shopkeeper handed it to her, saying, “If you blow this, it brings peace to the house.”
Eagerly, Lalita tried to blow the conch — only to produce a loud noise that made half the market look at them. Pintu clapped and said, “Ma, you can join a band now!”
Dadaji chuckled, “Better than the temple bells.”
Finally, the funniest moment of the day: Shrikant, distracted by a shop selling colorful kurtas, tried one on over his shirt. He didn’t realize the shopkeeper was showing him ladies’ kurtis. When Pintu burst out laughing, Shrikant looked down, horrified to see himself wearing a bright pink kurti with floral patterns.
“Papa, you look like a princess!” Pintu giggled.
The shopkeeper grinned. “Sir, you have good fashion taste!”
In the end, the family returned to the hotel with:
One pink plastic bangle.
A small wooden idol they finally bought after much drama.
A conch shell.
And a memory of Shrikant’s accidental fancy dress show.
That evening, as they packed their bags, Shrikant declared, “Next trip? Only to grandma’s village. No sea, no market, no adventure!”
But Pintu grinned and said, “I want more adventures, Papa!”
Chapter 8
The morning of their return journey dawned with clear skies and a cool breeze. The Mishras had packed their bags (with great difficulty — souvenirs somehow doubled in size overnight).
Shrikant checked his tickets for the hundredth time. “Train is at 2 PM. Let’s leave early. No more last-minute stress!”
Lalita nodded. “Yes, let’s go. And let’s not trust any strangers today!”
Pintu jumped up and down. “I want window seat, Papa! Please!”
Dadaji, as usual, added, “In our time, we reached station five hours early and still worried we’d miss the train.”
They hired an auto, bags piled high, and set off for the station. For once, things seemed smooth. The auto didn’t break down. No cows blocked the road. No one tried to sell them anything.
When they reached the station, Shrikant confidently marched to Platform 2 — where their train was supposed to come. They found a bench, settled down, and waited. Time passed. More time passed. No sign of the train.
Suddenly, a voice crackled over the ancient loudspeaker.
“Attention please… Train number 12802 Puri Express will arrive on Platform 4 instead of Platform 2.”
Shrikant froze. “Platform 4?! That’s across the station!”
They grabbed their bags and ran — or rather, hobbled. Shrikant’s loose chappal kept flying off. Pintu kept dropping his plastic sword. Lalita clutched her conch shell like it was her most precious treasure. Dadaji struggled to keep up, waving his stick at anyone who blocked his way.
They reached Platform 4 just as the train rolled in. But — disaster! It wasn’t their train. The loudspeaker had made a mistake. Their train was still on Platform 2.
“Oh no!” groaned Shrikant.
“Papa, this is fun — like running race!” Pintu said, panting.
They rushed back to Platform 2, attracting amused looks from other passengers. Just as they reached, their actual train finally chugged in. But now there was a new problem — their coach was at the other end of the platform!
Shrikant, sweating buckets, led the charge down the platform. Lalita’s saree came loose at the edge, Pintu’s sword banged against people’s bags, and Dadaji kept muttering, “In my time, trains waited for passengers. Now passengers run for trains.”
Finally, they tumbled into their coach, out of breath but victorious. As the train started moving, Shrikant leaned back and sighed in relief.
“Done. Now nothing can go wrong.”
Just then, Pintu checked his bag and shouted, “My seashell cap! I left it on the platform!”
Shrikant closed his eyes. “Next time… only local trips. Very local.”
Chapter 9
As the train rattled along the tracks, the Mishra family finally felt they could relax. Shrikant wiped his face with his handkerchief, which by now was as tired as he was.
“At last. No more adventures. Just sit quietly, reach home, and sleep for two days,” he declared.
Lalita nodded, adjusting her saree. “Yes. Enough of excitement.”
Pintu leaned out the window, feeling the wind. “Papa, this is the best part — no cows, no waves, no platform running!”
Dadaji, seated comfortably, added, “In my time, train journeys were like this — peaceful, simple.”
But peace didn’t last long. Into their compartment came Mr. Tiwari, a man carrying two giant bags, a harmonium, and an endless supply of stories.
“Hello hello! I am your co-passenger! I sing bhajans! I travel a lot! I know everyone in the railways!”
Before the Mishras could respond, Mr. Tiwari had placed himself in the middle of their group.
Without any invitation, he opened his harmonium and began a loud, off-tune bhajan. Pintu clapped along at first, then slowly covered his ears. Shrikant tried polite smiles. Lalita looked helplessly at Shrikant as if to say, do something! Dadaji closed his eyes and pretended to nap.
When tea arrived, Shrikant grabbed the opportunity. “At least tea will calm my nerves.”
But as he lifted his cup, the train jerked suddenly. The tea spilled all over his trousers, leaving a giant wet patch. Pintu burst out laughing.
“Papa, you look like you had a water fight!”
Shrikant sighed. “At least it’s not chilli water this time.”
As evening approached, the train made a long stop at a station. Shrikant, hoping to stretch his legs, stepped down with Pintu. The loudspeaker was as confusing as ever.
“Train number 12802… arriving… departing… platform 3… delay… advance… please be careful…”
Shrikant tried to make sense of it. Then the engine gave a loud whistle.
“Papa! Is that our train moving?” Pintu shouted.
Sure enough, the train had begun to pull away. Shrikant grabbed Pintu’s hand and they ran, waving wildly at the guard.
“Wait! We’re here!”
Inside, Lalita’s heart nearly stopped seeing them outside. Dadaji shouted, “In my time, people respected passengers. Now they leave without them!”
They managed to jump back on just in time, collapsing on the seats. Shrikant was too tired to speak.
Pintu grinned. “Papa, this was like action film!”
That night, as the train rocked gently, the Mishra family finally got some rest. Even Mr. Tiwari had dozed off on his harmonium.
Chapter 10
After what felt like a lifetime on the train — complete with bhajans, tea spills, and missed heartbeats at stations — the Mishra family finally saw their home station come into view. The train screeched to a halt, and the family grabbed their bags, eager to set foot on familiar ground.
Shrikant wiped his face. “No more running. No more confusion. Just home sweet home!”
Lalita smiled. “I can’t wait to change out of this saree. It’s seen too many adventures.”
Pintu shouted, “I’m going to tell all my friends about the boat and the cow!”
Dadaji declared, “In my time, people didn’t talk about trips. They quietly thanked god for reaching home.”
But just as they stepped onto the platform, they noticed — one of their bags was missing.
“The souvenir bag! The one with the conch shell, the idol, the bangles!” Lalita gasped.
Shrikant froze. “No no no! Not after all that trouble!”
They searched the platform like detectives in a crime show. The coolie shook his head. The station tea seller shrugged. Just as Lalita looked ready to cry, a kind old man came up holding their bag.
“Is this yours? Found it in my compartment by mistake,” he said.
Lalita grabbed it like a lost child. “Yes! Thank you! You are a saint!”
Pintu grinned, “Now we have a story about losing the bag too!”
Shrikant smiled weakly. “No more stories. Please. I just want peace.”
Finally, they reached home. But peace was still far away. The neighbors gathered at their gate, curious as ever.
“So Mishra ji, how was Puri? Did you enjoy the sea?”
“Lalita ji, brought prasad?”
“Pintu beta, you look thinner! Didn’t you eat there?”
Shrikant tried to smile, but before he could answer, Pintu opened the bag and pulled out the conch shell.
“See this? Ma blew it in the market! It was so loud even the cows ran!”
The neighbors burst out laughing.
Inside the house, as they unpacked, they discovered the final twist.
In their hurry at the station, they had accidentally brought home someone else’s tiffin bag — filled with pickles and rotis, but no sign of their remaining malpuas.
Shrikant looked at the heavens.
“Next time, we’re going to grandma’s village. And we’re taking the bus.”
The End
