It was a foggy evening at Kolkata’s Howrah station when Arjun, a young journalist, boarded the Shantipur Express. His editor had sent him to cover a festival in the remote village of Shantipur, a place known for its mysterious legends. The train was oddly empty, except for a few scattered passengers.
An old man with a long white beard sat across from him, puffing a beedi and reading an ancient-looking book. Next to him, a chubby boy munched loudly on samosas. The old man glanced at Arjun. “First time to Shantipur?”
“Yes. Covering the festival for my newspaper,” Arjun replied.
The old man chuckled. “Shantipur… a place of stories. Some say it’s real; some say it’s just a legend.”
Arjun frowned. “What do you mean?”
Taking a deep puff, the old man began, “Once upon a time, there was a village that appeared only for one night every year.”
The train whistled forward, and the fog outside grew denser. Arjun scoffed, but just then, the lights flickered. The boy gasped, “Ghosts!”
“Not ghosts,” the old man said. “But the train chooses who reaches Shantipur.”
Arjun laughed nervously—until he glanced out the window. The thick fog had vanished, revealing a golden village, illuminated like a festival.
The train screeched to a stop. “Shantipur,” announced a deep voice.
But there was no station, no people—just an empty platform.
Curiosity got the better of Arjun. He stepped off the train, followed by the old man and the boy. The air smelled of roses and incense, and temple bells echoed in the distance. The village was alive—stalls selling sweets, dancers twirling, music filling the air.
“Wow,” Arjun whispered. He lifted his camera, snapping pictures. But when he checked the screen—the photos were blank.
His heart pounded. “What’s going on?”
“Shantipur does not like to be captured,” the old man said.
The boy ran to a sweets stall, stuffing his mouth with laddoos. The shopkeeper laughed. “Eat all you want, child. Before the village disappears.”
“Disappears?!” Arjun exclaimed.
As the clock struck midnight, the festival lights dimmed. Music faded. People froze mid-action—the dancers, the shopkeepers, even the birds in the sky.
The old man sighed. “Time’s up.”
The ground trembled. The village blurred, as if being erased.
“We need to go back!” the old man urged.
They ran to the train. Arjun grabbed the boy’s hand and jumped aboard just in time. The train pulled away, and Shantipur vanished into nothingness.
Arjun turned to the old man. “What just happened?”
The old man smiled. “Shantipur exists only for those who believe.”
Arjun checked his notebook—his notes were gone. His camera held no proof.
“You were chosen to see it,” the old man said. “But you can’t take its story—only the memory.”
Arjun hesitated. “Who are you?”
The old man smiled. “A storyteller. Or maybe… a part of the story?”
The train whistled. The fog cleared. The old man was gone.
As the train reached Howrah station, Arjun sat frozen. The boy yawned and pulled a single laddoo from his pocket.
Arjun’s eyes widened.
Maybe… just maybe… Shantipur was real after all.
