It all started with a cup of tea. Not just any tea—the tea. The kind you can smell from across the street. The kind served in tiny glass cups with chipped edges, brewed by that one guy near the station who doesn’t talk much but makes a brew that could resurrect the dead. You know the one.
I was early. For once. My train to Rajshahi was at 9:20 AM, and I was proudly standing on Kamalapur platform at 8:45 with my backpack, my book, and a full bottle of water. Life was good. Until I smelled it.
That divine swirl of milk, tea dust, and a dangerous amount of sugar hit my nose like an old friend. And suddenly, the water bottle in my hand felt… inadequate. I told myself, “There’s time. Five minutes max. What could go wrong?”
I found the tea stall like a bloodhound on a mission. It wasn’t even far—just behind Platform 3. I ordered one cup. Then another. Each sip melted time. I started chatting with a fellow tea addict about how the tea guy should honestly open a franchise. We laughed. We bonded. I even wrote a haiku on a napkin:
Steam curls through morning
Train waits, but so does the brew—
Sip, and miss the world.
And then, panic.
I glanced at my phone. 9:18. I sprinted like my life depended on it (because it did). Backpack swinging like an uncoordinated toddler on a swing, my slippers slapping the pavement, I zoomed past people like a rogue mosquito in July.
I saw my train. It was there. It was real. And then it started moving.
I don’t know what came over me. Adrenaline? Tea-fueled bravery? I leapt on with the elegance of a fish flopping into a canoe. Two aunties clapped. A kid laughed. I wheezed and collapsed onto the floor just as the train fully left the platform.
Moral of the story?
Life’s too short to skip a good cup of tea. But maybe… hold the second round if you’re traveling.