Ila was finally going home.
After two long years abroad, she packed her memories into a single, slightly overstuffed suitcase. Inside lay what she loved most — not clothes or souvenirs, but a small army of handbags, clutches, and purses, each hand-stitched in long, quiet nights.
Every bag had its own story. One was made from an old saree she found in her mother’s trunk. Another, from a fabric she’d dyed during monsoon just to capture the color of rain. Every single piece was meant as a gift for someone in her family — her sisters, cousins, aunts, even her neighbors back home.
At the airport, the customs officer, Arjun, was tired.
He had checked hundreds of bags that morning — all identical, all dull. So when Ila’s suitcase appeared, bursting slightly at the seams, he sighed. “Another overpacker,” he muttered.
He unzipped it and froze.
Inside was an explosion of color — reds, creams, golds, blues, each bag more beautiful than the next. Handbags? So many? He frowned. Who carries twenty handbags on an international flight?
He rolled his eyes. “Some people,” he whispered under his breath, “just don’t make sense.”
A little irritated, he thought, Maybe I should confiscate a few. Let her learn not to carry a shop in her luggage.
He picked up one of the purses — soft, warm, smelling faintly of lavender — and as he turned it, a small folded note slipped out.
Curious, he unfolded it and began to read.
“Please don’t pick me.
I’m handmade with love and compassion for my family.
My creator may seem ‘too much,’ but her art is her way of giving joy.
If you love her work, her phone number is below.
She will happily make one just for you, as a gift — with the same care she puts into each stitch.
Please be gentle.
Thank you,
Ila.”
Arjun blinked. He stared at the note for a moment, unsure how to react. Then he smiled — a real smile, the kind that starts in the eyes before it reaches the lips.
He picked another bag, half expecting it to be empty. But as he opened it, there was the same note. The same handwriting. The same little heart at the end of her name.
And another.
And another.
Each purse carried that tiny message of kindness — as if Ila had sewn her soul into every one.
Arjun felt something shift inside him.
He wasn’t looking at a silly overpacker anymore. He was looking at someone who loved deeply, someone who gave without expecting anything in return.
He gently put all the bags back. Then, almost without thinking, he slipped one of the notes into his pocket.
That night, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Who was she? What kind of person spends hours creating beauty just to give it away?
He tried to distract himself — watched TV, scrolled through his phone, read the newspaper — but every time, that small folded note seemed to whisper from his pocket:
"Please be gentle."
At midnight, he finally gave up. He took out the note again, ran his thumb over her name, and smiled.
"Should I call her?" he thought.
Then immediately, "No, what would I even say? That I found your note while searching your bag like a fool?"
But somehow, the thought didn’t leave.
In another part of the world, Ila was landing in India. She opened her bag to check if everything had survived the journey. When she saw all the little notes she had written, she smiled to herself. “At least someone might read them,” she whispered, amused at her own sentimentality.
She had no idea that one of those notes was already sitting in a man’s wallet thousands of miles away — carried close to his heart.
And maybe one day, that man would call.
Not as a customs officer.
Not out of duty.
But as someone who had finally learned what it means to be gentle.
