Chapter 7: The Bathroom Queue and CCD Rescue

It was past 11 p.m., almost midnight, when the glass door slid open.

The room was still, the city lights throwing patterns on the ceiling. I was half-asleep, thinking of home.

"Rohan, are you asleep?"

"Ah, no, not yet." I quickly sat up. It was Lakshmi didi.

Her anklets jingled faintly as she stepped in, the sound oddly comforting.

"I’m going to have a smoke. Priya’s allergic, so I can’t smoke in the living room."

"Okay."

I nodded, moving my legs to make space. There was hardly any, but still, I tried.

"You smoke?"

"Uh, sure."

The kitchen wasn’t big, and with my bed there, there was barely any space left to stand. If Lakshmi didi faced me, it felt like she was looking down at a corpse. If she turned her back, it would be awkward to have her backside pointed at my face. After thinking it over, she just sat on my bed.

For a second, I froze. No one, apart from my mother and my little cousin, had ever sat on my bed before. She flicked her lighter with a practiced hand. The flame flickered, casting shadows, and a whiff of mogra from her hair drifted over, mixing with tobacco.

"Where are you from?"

"Rajpur."

I wondered if she even knew where Rajpur was—people in big cities rarely do.

After that, I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Small talk wasn’t my strength, especially with someone so confident. She smiled, not minding the silence.

"I think everyone in this flat is pretty nice," I offered lamely.

Lakshmi didi smiled, and with that smile, a cloud of smoke drifted onto my face, carrying that faint floral note. She leaned in, giving me a mock-serious look: "One tip for big city survival—never trust a landlord who says ‘full privacy’!"

She didn’t say anything more. The glowing tip of her cigarette reflected off her coral lipstick, looking a bit seductive. She only smoked half, then stubbed it out in the sink.

Her movements were quick and neat—no fuss, no mess. She gave me a little nod, almost like an elder sister wishing me goodnight.

"Go to bed early. Who knows when you’ll get another good night’s sleep."

I didn’t get what she meant, feeling a bit puzzled.

Her words lingered in the smoky air, mysterious. I decided not to overthink it and lay back down.

Around six in the morning, before my alarm even went off, I was woken by footsteps in the living room. Some people were already getting ready for work, bustling around.

There was the clang of bangles, the gurgle of the water filter, and the whirring of a hair dryer. This flat never really slept.

I rubbed my bleary eyes, stretched my sore arms and back. I had to get up, too—had to get to the city library early to grab a seat and start another busy day of studying.

"Yo, Rohan, up early," Sneha greeted me with a smile.

"Morning."

Sneha went straight to the bathroom and sat on the toilet. Someone was already in there—Ananya was brushing her teeth. When Sneha went in, she said something, and Sneha looked embarrassed and quickly closed the door.

I was embarrassed, too, and retreated to the kitchen to light a cigarette.

This was clearly their morning routine—like a train schedule at Howrah station: precise, crowded, no room for delays.

People have all sorts of habits. When a habit lasts long enough, it becomes second nature. And if a reflex lasts even longer, it becomes a physiological reaction.

For example, waking up and lighting a cigarette is a habit for many men. And smoking makes you want to use the bathroom—that’s a conditioned reflex for most guys.

I checked the time on my cracked phone screen. WhatsApp pinged—a message from my study group, probably about today’s GATE prep. As the bathroom door locked again, I groaned.

"I’m doomed."

My stomach twisted. I felt like a schoolboy who’d drunk too much water during assembly—trapped and desperate.

Even though I put out the cigarette, that urge doesn’t just disappear. Ananya was still washing up in the bathroom—how could I go in? Even if I could, Sneha was still in there.

I paced around the kitchen, cursing my own timing. The pressure was mounting.

Ananya came out. Sneha was getting water. Just as I was about to go in, Ritu didi slipped in ahead of me.

She barely looked at me, just shot me a quick, apologetic smile. I had no choice but to wait, doing a nervous little dance.

As a guy, it didn’t feel right to fight them for bathroom time.

In my house, Ma would just shout, "Arrey, line lagao!" Here, I didn’t even have that luxury. I was the outsider.

Before Ritu didi finished, Meera went in, still in pyjamas, to do her business.

I almost wanted to bang my head against the kitchen wall. Would I have to keep holding it in every morning?

It was as if these didis had a silent understanding, taking turns in that tiny space without disturbing each other—leaving me alone in the living room, clenching my fists and holding it in, eyes wild with desperation.

My only companion was the clock ticking on the wall and the smell of leftover biryani. I wondered if this was some secret rite of passage.

What was I going to do in the future? If every day my intestines and bladder had to compete in patience, could I survive?

Just as I was at my limit, hair standing on end, Priya noticed my predicament, covered her mouth to hide a giggle: "There’s a Cafe Coffee Day across the street downstairs."

She said it so sweetly, as if handing me a lifeline.

"Thank you, didi!" I vowed to buy her a coffee one day in thanks, grateful for this small act of kindness.

I grabbed a pack of tissues and dashed downstairs. Behind me, Priya’s soft voice floated over: "Put on a shirt, don’t catch a cold..."

I realised, as I stepped out in my vest and boxers, that I probably looked like a runaway from a boys’ hostel. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

I didn’t feel anything going into CCD, but coming out, I realised I hadn’t worn a shirt. The staff stared at me, wanting to ask but not daring to. It wasn’t cold without a shirt on a summer morning, but I felt a chill in my heart.

For a second, I was sure I’d end up as a viral meme: “Mechanical Engineer in Exile: Spotted at CCD.”

Just as someone pulled out their phone—about to make me an Instagram meme—I sprinted out of the café.

I ran up the stairs, cursing my own stupidity. On my way back up, I ran into Priya coming down. She was still blushing, covering her mouth as she laughed. I could only thank her again.

She mumbled, "Arrey, next time, just knock louder. We’ll make space."

Most people in the flat had already left. Only Meera was left, whistling as she put on makeup. From Lakshmi didi’s room came the rhythmic sound of snoring—she wasn’t up yet.

The flat seemed strangely peaceful with everyone gone. I quickly washed my face, grabbed my beloved green calculus textbook, and headed to the library.

The smell of sandalwood soap clung to my shirt, and for a moment, I felt a sense of hope. Maybe, just maybe, I could make this place home.