The train whistle blew as the Rajdhani Express pulled into New Delhi Railway Station. Passengers shuffled off the train, hauling suitcases, duffel bags, and an assortment of oddly shaped bundles. Among them was Mr. Mehta, a middle-aged man sweating profusely despite the cool December air. He looked calm, but his suitcase groaned under the weight of its contents.

Behind him, Mrs. Singh, an elderly woman with a suspiciously lumpy handbag, was walking with exaggerated nonchalance. Meanwhile, a group of college students stood at the edge of the platform, trying not to giggle as one of them stuffed a pillow into his backpack.

The TTE (Traveling Ticket Examiner), Mr. Sharma, stood at the exit, arms crossed. He had seen it all: fake tickets, illegal stowaways, even someone trying to smuggle a parrot. But today, he had a hunch. Something was off.

“Random luggage check,” Sharma barked, blocking the exit. “Step aside, please.”

A collective groan rippled through the passengers. Mr. Mehta froze mid-step. Mrs. Singh adjusted her handbag. The students exchanged panicked glances.

“Open your suitcase,” Sharma demanded, pointing at Mehta.

“Oh, uh, it’s just clothes,” Mehta stammered, his hands shaking as he unzipped the bag.

Inside was a neatly folded stack of pristine white sheets, each embroidered with the words Indian Railways Property. Sharma raised an eyebrow.

“These… these are gifts!” Mehta said, trying to smile. “For my cousin’s wedding.”

“Your cousin’s wedding needs 10 railway sheets?” Sharma shot back, pulling out a pillowcase to match.

Before Mehta could reply, a loud ripping sound came from Mrs. Singh’s handbag. One end of a pillow peeked out as the strap snapped under its weight. She glared at Sharma. “I’m old! I get cold at night! These pillows are... a public service!”

Sharma pinched the bridge of his nose, already regretting his job.

Meanwhile, the students decided to make a run for it. But as one sprinted, his overstuffed backpack burst open, releasing a cascade of blankets and pillowcases onto the platform. “Every man for himself!” one of them yelled as they scattered in all directions, leaving a trail of stolen bedding behind.

By now, the crowd was in hysterics. Sharma barked orders to his assistants, who scrambled to collect the contraband.

As chaos unfolded, Mrs. Singh, now emboldened, wagged her finger at Sharma. “You charge us for tickets, you give us terrible tea, and now you won’t let us keep a few sheets? Shame on you!”

Sharma sighed. “Ma’am, these sheets are reused, not souvenirs!”

“Reused?!” Mrs. Singh’s outrage echoed across the platform. “Well, you can keep your unhygienic blankets then!”

She tossed the pillow onto the pile and marched off, muttering under her breath. Seeing this, the other passengers began abandoning their loot in a similar act of defiance.

By the end of it, Sharma stood surrounded by a mountain of linens, while the platform erupted in applause. Someone even started filming him, promising to post the video online with the hashtag #SheetShowdown.

That evening, Sharma became an internet sensation, with memes declaring him the Guardian of Indian Railways Linens. As for the passengers, they learned an important lesson: some things are too heavy—literally and metaphorically—to steal.