Hey Meri 𝓙𝓪𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓲𝔂𝓸✨❤️

This is the fifth chapter of "Humari Gao Wali Love Story" .

I am a new writer here so there would be so many grammatical mistakes,So please correct me if you find any mistakes. 

Please do vote and comment if you like this chapter ❤️.

___________________________________________________

___________________________________________________

The compartment was a sea of rust‑red seats, the low hum of the engine mixing with the occasional clack of wheels on the tracks. The night was already thick outside, but inside the carriage the fluorescent lights flickered lazily, casting a tired glow over the faces that were half‑asleep, half‑awake, half‑drunk on the motion of the train.

I was curled on the lower berth, a thin blanket wrapped around my shoulders, my head propped on the pillow I'd stolen from the seat behind me. My eyes were still heavy from the panic of waking up late that morning, the frantic rush to catch the train, and the relief that Saket Sir had actually pulled me out of the chaos. I muttered to the empty air, half‑to‑myself, half‑to‑the rhythm of the rails:

"Uff, Saket Sir ne toh mujhe utha diya tha, warna aaj toh event ke baad Mumbai mein hi reh jaati."

His voice, low and calm, drifted from across the aisle. He was scrolling through his phone, the screen's blue light reflected in his glasses.

"Pari. Jagah ho?" he asked, looking up just as my eyes fluttered open.

"Haan, Sir. Bas aise hi," I replied, trying to sound more awake than I felt.

He smiled, the kind of tired smile that only senior executives who run around the country can muster.

"Rest kar lo. Marna aane mein abhi der hai. Maine bola tha, upar wali berth le lo, wahaan shanti milegi."

I nodded, the thought of the upper berth—slightly higher, a little quieter—comforting. "Theek hai, Sir." I slid my bag aside and settled, the mattress creaking under my weight.

A few minutes later a sudden draft cut through the compartment. The air‑conditioning, usually a welcomed chill, had turned into a biting cold that made my breath form little clouds. I watched Saket's shoulders shiver as he rubbed his arms under his coat.

"Sir, aapko thand lag rahi hai kya? AC bahut tez hai," I whispered, my voice barely above the hum of the train.

"Haan, thodi si. Koi nahi, adjust ho jayega," he said, trying to sound non‑challant.

"No, Sir. Yeh lijiye." I pulled the light shawl I'd been using off my shoulders and handed it to him. "Mujhe itni nahi lag rahi. Aap isko le lo."

He looked surprised, as if I'd just offered him a piece of my own warmth. "Thank you, Pari. Par tum?" he asked, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Arre, mujhe thand nahi lag rahi itni. Aap aaram se rest kijiye," I said, feeling a little puffed up about my small act of care.

"Theek. Tum bhi so jao." He settled back into his seat, eyes closing for a brief moment.

Time Slip – One Hour Later

The carriage had settled into a gentle, rhythmic sway. I had managed to climb onto the upper berth, my body half‑drifted in that sweet, in-between state of sleep and wakefulness. The world above me was a dim blur of moving shadows; the only thing I could focus on was the cold metal ladder that ran alongside the berth.

I felt a vibration—someone's foot hitting the rung—and my heart leapt. My mind raced to the worst possible scenario: a stranger trying to intrude on my space, a creep climbing up in the dead of night. Instinct overrode caution. I kicked hard, my foot thumping against the metal.

"Hato!" I shouted, adrenaline propelling my voice.

A muffled cry cut through the compartment. "AH! Pari!" The sound was unmistakably Saket's, a sharp, surprised yelp that made my stomach drop.

I scrambled up, heart hammering, my palms gripping the thin railing as I leaned over the edge of the berth. "Boss?! Oh my God! I am so sorry! Maine socha koi... Eise aap kyun aa rahe the?" My voice cracked with panic.

Saket winced, rubbing a bruised spot on his shoulder, though a soft chuckle escaped him. "Tumhari Dal Makhani. Maine socha tumhe bhook nahi lagi kya, itne time se kuch nahi khaya." His tone was gentle, the teasing lilt making the situation feel absurd rather than cruel.

A wave of guilt and relief washed over me. "Ohhh... Thank you, Boss! Aap khaoge? Main niche aati hoon." I scrambled down the ladder, my knees hitting the floor with a soft thump.

"Nahin, tum upar hi khao. Main bas de raha tha. Jaldi karke rest karo. Kal ka poora din event kaam kara hai tumne," he said, already standing, his shoulders relaxed as if nothing had happened.

"Okay. Thank you, Sir." I managed a shaky smile, feeling the warmth of his concern seeping into the lingering cold of the carriage.

He descended, and I settled back on the lower berth, unwrapping the small packet of Dal Makhani I'd carried. The fragrant, buttery sauce smelled like home, grounding me back into the ordinary rhythm of the train.

Just as I was about to take a bite, my phone buzzed. I slipped the screen out, ducked toward the vestibule where the door opened onto the narrow corridor, hoping the murmur of the crowd would muffle my voice.

"Haan, Mummy." I said, keeping my tone low.

"Beta... sun na, ghar aao toh na, thodi methi leti aana bazaar se, Shashwat ke liye."

My eyes widened. "Shashwat?! Mummy, yeh toh Chacha ji ka beta hai na. Woh gaon mein hota tha, yahan kaise?"

"Arre, main batana bhool gayi thi. Woh... idhar aaya hai, aaram karne ke li't." She sounded a little embarrassed, but there was an undercurrent of excitement.

My mind raced back to the cousin I'd barely seen in years, the one who'd always been the quiet one, now suddenly mentioned as if he were a regular visitor. "Oh. Theek hai. Theeke. Aur kuch?"

"Nahi, bas tu aaram se aaja." Her voice softened, concern threaded through the casual request.

I ended the call, tucking the phone back into my bag. I turned to head back to my berth when a sudden surge of bodies surged through the carriage—TTEs checking tickets, a couple of vendors hustling back with their wares. The door near the vestibule flapped open wider as more passengers squeezed through, a brief, chaotic tide of legs, bags, and shouts.

"Ohhh... Aaj toh mai gayi!" I yelled, caught off‑balance, and felt myself lurch forward, my feet sliding on the polished floor.

Time seemed to stretch. I saw the edge of the open exit, the dark tracks beyond, and a flash of panic rose in my chest. Just as I was about to tumble out, a firm, warm grip clamped around my waist, yanking me back with a force that pinched the breath out of me. The pressure was enough to press my back against his chest, his hand digging into my shoulder to keep me from falling.

"Saket Sir??!" I gasped, my heart pounding louder than the train's wheels.

His voice was low, a mix of annoyance and protectiveness. "Hmm. Bola tha idhar mat aana!" He tightened his hold just enough to keep me upright, his eyes flashing a warning that the crowd was a hazard.

"Sorry. And thank you," I managed, my voice trembling, my cheeks flushing from the sudden closeness.

He loosened his grip a fraction but didn't let go. "Ab chalo. Humara station aa gaya hai. Marna—"

"Okay!" I chirped, trying to sound energetic despite the adrenaline still coursing through me. "Okayy!"

Together we stepped toward the exit door, the dimly lit passageway swallowing us as the train began to slow. The carriage door hissed open, a rush of night air spilling in, carrying with it the scent of diesel and the distant chatter of platform vendors.

I glanced over at him. He was taller than he seemed, his shoulders broad, his expression softened now that the immediate danger had passed. Our faces were close enough that I could see the faint lines of fatigue around his eyes, the slight reddening of his cheeks—like tamatar ki chatni after a long day of work.

For a heartbeat we stood there, the world momentarily reduced to the two of us and the quiet hum of the night train. My breath still came in short, uneven bursts, and his eyes lingered on me a fraction longer than usual, a mixture of exasperation, relief, and something else I couldn't quite name.

"Station pe milte hain, theek?" he finally said, his tone softer, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

"Yes, Sir," I replied, my voice steadier now. I could feel the pinkness in my cheeks, the lingering warmth of his grip, and the faint echo of the Dal Makhani's buttery richness still clinging to my senses.

We stepped out onto the platform, the night air cool against our faces, the train's lights receding behind us. The crowd buzzed around us, but for a moment, in that sliver of darkness between the carriage and the platform, we were just two people—one a slightly older, slightly frazzled mentor, the other a nervous, grateful protégé—standing side by side, trying to navigate the chaos of life, one train ride at a time.

The ceiling fan spun lazily above, a slow, hypnotic whir in the quiet of my  room. Outside, the night was a deep, velvet black, pricked by a handful of stars that seemed impossibly bright without the city's glare. I lay back, hands clasped behind my head, the day's work fading like a distant echo. The peace was a stark contrast to the rattling, unpredictable energy of a train journey, and yet, it was a train journey that snagged my thoughts, specifically that train journey.

It had been hours ago, after one of those frantic corporate events in Mumbai. We were exhausted, running on fumes, but the thought of getting back to the familiar dust and quiet of home kept us pushing. In my mind's eye, the compartment materialized—a sea of rust-red seats, the low thrum of the engine, the fluorescent lights flickering. Pari was curled on the lower berth, a thin blanket around her, looking utterly spent. She had this way of making even exhaustion look... endearing.

I remembered scrolling through my phone, pretending to be busy, but my ears were tuned to her. When she muttered, "Uff, Saket Sir ne toh mujhe utha diya tha, warna aaj toh event ke baad Mumbai mein hi reh jaati," a warmth spread through me. It was a stupid little thing, making sure she didn't miss the train, but it felt good to be her rescuer. To know she relied on me, even for the smallest things.

"Pari. Jagah ho?" I asked, looking up. Her eyes fluttered open, still heavy with sleep. She mumbled a reply, trying to sound more awake than she was. My chest tightened a little. She worked so hard, harder than anyone I knew, especially for someone so young. I wanted to tell her to slow down, but instead, I just offered, "Rest kar lo. Marna aane mein abhi der hai. Maine bola tha, upar wali berth le lo, wahaan shanti milegi." I wanted her comfortable, though selfishly, I also liked having her visible, close enough that I could keep an eye on her.

A sudden draft cut through the carriage, an icy chill that made me shiver. I rubbed my arms, trying to pretend it wasn't bothering me. I was the boss, after all. But then her whisper drifted across the aisle, "Sir, aapko thand lag rahi hai kya? AC bahut tez hai." And before I could even properly reply, she was pulling off her light shawl, extending it towards me. "No, Sir. Yeh lijiye. Mujhe itni nahi lag rahi. Aap isko le lo."

My heart did a strange little flutter. She was offering me her warmth. I was genuinely surprised, touched. I tried to protest, "Thank you, Pari. Par tum?" but she insisted, her voice full of genuine concern. I accepted it, feeling the faint warmth of her body still clinging to the fabric. It was a simple, innocent gesture, and yet, it felt like a profound gift. I settled back, the shawl wrapped around me, a secret smile playing on my lips.

An hour later, I found myself restless. Pari hadn't eaten properly all day, focused on the event. The Dal Makhani I'd packed for her sat in my bag, untouched. I decided to take it to her. She was on the upper berth now, a quiet figure in the dimness. Gently, I started to climb the ladder, intending to just hand it over.

WHAM!

A foot thudded against the metal rung, followed by an indignant shout. "Hato!"

Then my own yelp, "AH! Pari!"

My stomach dropped, not from the surprise, but the thought that she might have been truly scared. "Boss?! Oh my God! I am so sorry! Maine socha koi... Eise aap kyun aa rahe the?" Her voice was laced with panic, and even though my shoulder smarted, I couldn't help but chuckle. She was so dramatic sometimes.

"Tumhari Dal Makhani," I said, trying to soften my tone. "Maine socha tumhe bhook nahi lagi kya, itne time se kuch nahi khaya." The relief washed over her face, turning her panic into flushed embarrassment. She scrambled down, offering me some. "Nahin, tum upar hi khao. Main bas de raha tha. Jaldi karke rest karo. Kal ka poora din event kaam kara hai tumne." I just wanted her to eat and rest. Her well-being was always at the back of my mind. It was a boss's responsibility, yes, but for Pari, it felt like more.

She settled back down, unwrapping the food. I was about to head back to my berth when I saw her slip her phone out, ducking towards the vestibule. It was her mother, I guessed. Probably calling to check on her, like all mothers do.

Suddenly, the carriage erupted in a surge of bodies – TTEs, vendors, passengers scrambling. The door near the vestibule flapped wider. I saw Pari caught off-balance, her yell of "Ohhh... Aaj toh mai gayi!" cutting through the din. Time seemed to stretch. My heart leaped into my throat. The open exit, the dark tracks... No. Pure, unadulterated instinct took over.

I lunged, my hand clamping around her waist, yanking her back with a force that made her gasp. Her back hit my chest, my other hand digging into her shoulder to steady her, to keep her from falling. The warmth of her body, the frantic pounding of her heart against me... it was too much, and not enough.

"Saket Sir??!" she gasped, her voice trembling.

I tried to sound annoyed, authoritative, anything to mask the primal fear that had just gripped me. "Hmm. Bola tha idhar mat aana!" But my hold tightened, a protective reflex I couldn't control.

"Sorry. And thank you," she managed, her cheeks flushing.

I loosened my grip just a fraction, but didn't let go. I felt the delicate tremor in her. "Ab chalo. Humara station aa gaya hai. Marna—"

"Okay!" she chirped, trying to sound energetic, trying to break the tension that still hummed between us. "Okayy!"

We stepped towards the exit door, the dimly lit passage swallowing us. As the carriage door hissed open, a rush of night air spilled in. I glanced at her. She was right there, so close. Her face, still a little flushed, her eyes wide, like "tamatar ki chatni" after a long day in the sun. And mine, I knew, were probably mirroring hers, though for entirely different reasons.

For a heartbeat, the world shrank. Just the two of us, the train's hum, the distant chatter. The adrenaline still coursed through me, but now, mixed with something else. Relief, yes. Protection, always. But also... a deep, quiet yearning. A fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, she felt something too.

"Station pe milte hain, theek?" I managed, my voice softer than I intended, a faint smile pulling at my lips.

"Yes, Sir," she replied, her voice steadier now. I saw the lingering pinkness in her cheeks, the warmth of my hand still imprinted on her waist, and the faint scent of Dal Makhani, of home, clinging to her.

We stepped out onto the platform, the cool night air a welcome slap to my senses. The crowd buzzed around us, but for a moment, in that sliver of space between the train and the platform, the chaos receded. We were just two people, and I, for one, was hopelessly, secretly, falling for the nervous, grateful protégé beside me.

Here, in the quiet my room, the memory of that train ride felt as vivid as the scent of the mitti after a monsoon shower. The fan whirred, the stars gleamed. Tomorrow, I'd see her again, perhaps in the fields, or walking to the next village meeting. And that quiet yearning, that secret crush, would bloom again, as silently and persistently as the wild jasmine by my window.