Darren's blog

The First-Tier AC coupe was a chamber of refrigerated air sealed against the thick, humid night. Outside, the suburbs of Mumbai spread into long ribbons of flickering streetlights, blurred signage, and shuttered stalls. The train glided through them like a bullet through smoke, carrying its passengers toward quieter, darker country.

Inside the compartment, Ayan had taken the Lower berth.

He was a broad-shouldered man, frame thick with weight training and the aggressive rigidness of someone who did not back down from confrontation. His hair was still slicked from a meeting; his tie loosened, his jacket discarded in a careless heap. The tension written across his posture was real. An unresolved business betrayal, a deal collapsing, pressure building behind his eyes. Tonight, anger was the only thing holding him together.

The berth he occupied did not belong to him. His ticket was for the Upper Berth.

But Ayan’s belief was simple:

The world was divided into takers and those who let themselves be taken from.

He had already chosen which one he would be.

The door slid open. The Ticket Conductor stepped in, followed by Veer. Veer was no less physically capable than Ayan. Leaner, perhaps, but built with the balanced tension of a man who knew how to spend his strength efficiently. His gaze moved once across Ayan. Brief, assessing then settled on the berth.

 “Tickets, please,” the conductor said, routine and tired. Veer handed his over. “Veer. Lower berth.” Ayan did not get up. He handed his ticket without shifting his position. 

 The conductor glanced. “Mr. Ayan, you are assigned to the Upper. Mr. Veer has the Lower.” Ayan spoke without looking up. “He will take the upper. I’m already settled.” 

 The conductor shrugged, uninterested, uninvested. “As long as both tickets are valid and you remain in this coupe, it’s your arrangement.” He stepped out. The door slid shut. The latch clicked.

The compartment was sealed.

Veer stepped closer. Not threateningly but just enough to make it clear he wasn’t going to accept the situation by accident.

“You’re in my berth,” he said simply.

Ayan finally turned his head toward him. The smile he gave was not friendly.

“I don’t climb.”

Veer’s voice stayed calm. “And I won't give up what I’ve paid for.”

“That’s cute,” Ayan said.

There was a moment - thin, cold, suspended where either man could have deescalated. Neither did.

Veer reached back and quietly slid the deadbolt into place. A firm metallic thunk sealed them in.

Ayan sat up slowly, deliberate, shoulders rolling as though loosening before a match.

“So that’s how it is,” he said.

Veer didn’t answer. Instead, he moved to the wall and released the latches holding both the upper and lower berths. The padded platforms folded up, locking into place. The compartment transformed into no beds, no pretense of rest,just a tight, enclosed arena.

Ayan stood.

For a few seconds, neither moved. They simply watched each other - weight shifting slightly, measuring reach, footing, temperament.

Then Ayan struck.

He came in heavy, leading with his weight. His punch was fast for someone his size but Veer blocked, but the impact still pushed him backward. Veer countered a low sharp kick to the thigh, enough to bruise deep muscle. Ayan grunted, barely acknowledging it.

The train curved. Their balance adjusted instinctively.

Ayan drove Veer against the padded wall, forearm under his collarbone.

“Just climb up,” Ayan murmured. Not a suggestion. A declaration.

Veer twisted sharply, breaking the hold, and struck two clean shots to the ribs. Ayan’s breath hitched, but he didn’t retreat. He answered with a knee that knocked the air clean from Veer’s lungs.

They locked up chest to chest, arms tangled, the fight shrinking to leverage, pressure, breath, sweat. There was no elegance here. No style. Just determination and anatomy.

Ayan tried to throw Veer down. Veer hooked a foot, tried to sweep but failed. So he changed strategy and pulled, forcing both bodies off balance. They crashed to the floor together, rolling hard, fists and elbows in tight, punishing arcs.

Ayan got on top first.

He struck once - twice - three times. Raw, heavy blows.

Veer blocked the fourth, barely.

His vision blurred. His chest burned.

He could feel himself slipping.

Then the train hit a rough joint in the track.

The whole world jolted.

Ayan’s next punch went just wide only by inches but it was enough.

Veer surged upward, driving his forehead into Ayan’s nose.

A sharp, wet crack.

Blood flooded instantly.

Ayan reeled.

Veer scrambled to his feet, breathing ragged, body screaming, but still moving. He struck not cleanly, not beautifully but with what remained of him ; 

He throw a hook followed by shove, strike to the jaw and a desperate knee right to Ayan guts. A final, heavy right hand to end it.

Ayan’s body sagged ,not unconscious but just finished.

He sank to the floor, breathing hard, eyes open but unable to rise.

The compartment went still again.

Veer stood in the quiet, chest heaving, ribs throbbing, sweat cooling fast in the air-conditioned chill. He didn’t celebrate. He didn’t look triumphant.

He was simply the one still standing.

Slowly yet painfully he lowered the Lower berth back into place.

He sat, leaned back and closed his eyes.

Ayan remained on the floor, bloody but breathing steadily, recovering in silence.

No apology, No conversation, No victory was claimed.

The train sped forward through the night.

Both men knew this would not be the last time they fought each other.