Chapter 1: Welcome to Bigg Boss, Rohan

Counting coins at the bus stop, I’d dream of a Maggi meal and a room of my own, but Mumbai had other plans for me. Each clink of a rupee felt like a reminder that privacy was a luxury, and sharing a flat—no matter how cramped—was the only way to survive in this city of dreams.

Those days, every paisa mattered—sometimes I’d count coins before hopping on a bus, and dream about a Maggi meal on a rainy evening. The thought of sharing a flat, even if it meant compromising on privacy, felt like a small price to pay for a roof over my head in this city.

When I found out that all seven of my flatmates were women, my heart started racing. I fidgeted with my phone, swiped sweaty palms on my jeans, and opened WhatsApp, hoping for some moral support from my friends. I kept wavering, unsure if I should go through with it. But the lure of cheap rent was just too tempting.

My friends had a field day. "Arrey, Rohan, you are entering Bigg Boss, boss!" one messaged, sending me a Bigg Boss meme. Another threatened, "Survive one week, or we’ll vote you out!" My cheeks burned. I imagined aunties from my colony whispering about my sanskaar if they ever found out. Still, rent at this price? Even my father would say, "Chal, try kar le."

Every day, I’d listen to the lively banter of men and women drifting from other flats, feeling as if I must have committed some grave sin in a past life.

The sounds of pressure cookers whistling, kids shouting, and Lata Mangeshkar’s voice drifting from a neighbor’s transistor radio filled the air. Sometimes, I’d stand at the grill balcony, wondering if karma was catching up with me—maybe I was a zamindar’s son in my previous birth, now paying off my debts.

"Rohan, do you want to come along?"

I pointed at myself, startled. "Me? Together? Is that really okay?"

My voice squeaked a little—like the time Ma caught me stealing an extra gulab jamun from the fridge. I shuffled my feet, heart thumping like during board exam results.