The Wrong Suitcase

She picked the wrong suitcase at the airport

A wave of humid air greeted Maya as she stepped out of Hazrat Shahjalal International Airport. She’d come from London for a three-month arts grant, her head full of plans to document traditional crafts. Exhausted, she grabbed a familiar-looking navy suitcase from the carousel, missing the small embroidered elephant patch near the handle—hers had a plain luggage tag.

In her rented flat in the lively Dhanmondi area, the lock refused her code. With a sinking heart, she pried it open. Inside were neatly folded panjabis, a soft gamcha, and leather-bound journals filled with flowing Bengali script. The scent was of sandalwood and ink. Nestled in the fabric was a polished wooden box containing a set of beautiful, hand-carved bird stamps.

Her own suitcase, with her camera and sketchbooks, was gone. Panicked, she searched for an owner. In a side pocket, she found a guidebook to Dhaka’s heritage sites and a business card: “Rahim Choudhury, Cultural Historian & Tour Guide.” A phone number was scribbled on the back.

Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: “I believe our suitcases have had an adventure. I have your blue case. I am Rahim.”

They arranged to meet at a café in Gulshan. Maya arrived first, the strange suitcase at her feet. When he entered, he was easy to spot—his eyes went straight to the bag. He was tall, with a thoughtful face that broke into a relieved smile.

“A strange way to meet,” Rahim said, rolling her suitcase forward. “I apologize. I opened yours to find identification. I saw your beautiful sketches of”Nakshi Kantha”A handmade Bangladeshi quilt embroidery. It put my worry at ease.”

“And I saw your stamps,” Maya said. “They’re exquisite.”

The swap was made. Business concluded. Yet, they lingered over coffees.

“You are here for the crafts?” he asked.

“Yes, to photograph and write about them.”

“Then you must see more than the museums,” he said, his eyes lighting up. “The city itself is the best workshop. Would you allow me to show you? Consider it my apology for the suitcase mix-up.”

It was an unexpected offer from a stranger, but his respect for her work felt genuine. She agreed.

Their first meeting was a tour. He didn’t start with grand monuments. Instead, he wove through the bustling alleys of Shankhari Bazaar in Old Dhaka. “This lane is centuries old,” he explained over the din of hammering, as artisans shaped intricate conch-shell bangles. “The sound you hear is the same music that filled the air of old Dhaka.” Maya’s camera, usually focused on objects, now captured the focused faces of the craftsmen, the spray of pearl dust in the sunlit air.

He took her to a tiny, hidden studio in Nimtoli where potters shaped terracotta on ancient kick-wheels. “Each piece holds a fingerprint of this city’s soil,” Rahim said, handing her a cool, wet clay cup. She told him of her struggle to capture not just the art, but its soul. He spoke of history as a living thread, connecting the hands of a potter today to those five hundred years past.

Days turned into weekly explorations. He guided her to the vibrant flower stalls at Shaheed Minar, a riot of marigolds and roses, explaining their symbolic language. They ate moglai parathas from a legendary street vendor in Puran Pultan, the flaky bread rich with egg and ”keema” Minced meat. At a quiet tea stall near the Buriganga River, he pointed to the painted cargo boats. “Those are the lifelines of the country. Each one has a name, a personality.”

One afternoon, a sudden monsoon shower caught them in the courtyard of the historic Star Mosque, its mosaic of blue stars and crescents glistening under the rain. They sheltered under the arched veranda, the world reduced to the drumming on the roof and the scent of wet marble. Maya shivered.

Wordlessly, Rahim opened his bag—the one she’d taken—and pulled out the soft”gamcha” A hand knit Bangladeshi cotton towelfrom that first day. He draped it over her shoulders. The gesture was simple, profoundly intimate.

“You had it with you?” she asked, pulling the cloth close.

“A good guide is always prepared,” he smiled, but his gaze was serious. The rain curtained them from the outside world. “This city has many treasures, Maya. Some are made of brick. Some are… unexpected.”

He leaned in and kissed her then, as the rain whispered against the century-old tiles. It was tender and certain, the natural end to a journey they had begun by accident.

When her grant period neared its end, they found themselves at a café again, a different nervousness between them.

“I’m not ready to leave,” Maya admitted, her hand over his on the table.

Rahim turned her hand over and placed one of his small bird stamps in her palm. “Then take this as a promise. A return ticket is not the only way back.”

At the airport for her departure, he pressed a final gift into her hands: a small, blank journal. On the first page, he had used one of his stamps to imprint a flying heron in deep blue ink. Beneath it, he had written: “For the next chapter. Your guide awaits.”

As her plane climbed, she opened her carry-on. There, wrapped in the soft gamcha, was his favorite guidebook, with new notes in the margins, written just for her. Dhaka’s map was no longer a mystery of streets, but a story of shared discoveries, beginning with a single, fortunate mistake.

Total words:900
Entry for: "The Writer's Cramp 24th Birthday"  Jan 21, 2026
Prompt: The Wrong Suitcase