Chapter 1: The Flatmate Reveal

The woman sharing my flat is the kind of beautiful that makes aunties gossip and delivery boys linger at the door.

Honestly, sometimes I feel like I’ve walked straight into one of those overdramatic Hindi serials, the kind where fate shoves a hero and heroine together in a shoebox Mumbai apartment. And yet, here I am—sprawled on our brown sofa with oil stains on the arms, a half-eaten plate of aloo paratha balanced on my knees, eyes flicking between Tulsi Virani’s latest death stare on TV and the bathroom door.

She was taking a shower while I lounged in the living room, eating and watching daily soaps like any self-respecting bachelor.

My bare feet stuck slightly to the cool, cracked tiles, and the faint scent of naphthalene balls mixed with the aroma of leftover sambhar. The pressure cooker sizzled somewhere in a neighbour’s kitchen, blending with the lazy hum of the ceiling fan. I adjusted my vest and scrolled through WhatsApp memes, trying to ignore my grumbling stomach and the gentle splash of water from behind the bathroom door.

Between us, there was only a rickety old door—one that couldn’t be locked to save its life.

This door was as ancient as the building itself, creaking if you so much as looked at it. The latches hung loose, the hinges screeched like banshees, and if a stray cat sneezed nearby, I swear it would fly open. Privacy here? Arrey, dream on.

Arrey—

A scream exploded from the bathroom, and she dashed out into the hall, panic written all over her face.

It was the kind of blood-curdling scream that makes even the street dogs pause mid-chase. And then there she was—bolting into the living room, hair dripping, eyes wild with terror.

She was completely naked.

For a split second, I thought I was on a hidden camera show. She stood there, clutching nothing but the air, eyes enormous with fear. Somewhere, an auto-rickshaw clanged down the lane and kids yelled over their cricket match, but my world shrank to three seconds of total shock.

Honestly, I was frozen. Three full seconds passed—

I stared so hard at the TV, I could’ve recited Tulsi Virani’s entire monologue by heart. My ears burned, and I prayed to all thirty-three crore gods to erase the last three seconds. My chai hovered, forgotten, halfway to my mouth. I scratched the back of my neck, wishing I could vanish behind the sofa cushions.

The geyser... electric shock...

In my confusion, she managed to stammer something about the geyser and an electric shock, her voice trembling so much I could barely piece the words together. Her hands hovered as if she wanted to cover herself, but she seemed more terrified by the phantom current than by me.

I mean, no matter how much bijli is leaking, at least put a dupatta, yaar! Log kya kahenge? I covered my eyes with my palm, peeking through my fingers like a kid at a horror movie. My head spun with embarrassment and a weird urge to laugh, but I kept my mouth shut, staring at the wall. Kya karu, bhai?