Chapter 8: Pizza Nights and Paper-Thin Walls

The city library closed at eight. It was only a half-hour walk back to the flat—another reason I liked living here.

I loved the walk—the city’s evening chaos, the aroma of vada pav stalls, the distant strains of a street singer practicing Kishore Kumar. It made the loneliness a bit less sharp.

As soon as I walked in, Meera greeted me.

Her lipstick was fresh, and she had a glow that only comes from being in love. “Aaja, khana kha le.”

"Have you eaten?"

"Uh, yeah, I have."

It was a lie, but hunger made my stomach growl audibly. She didn’t comment, just smiled knowingly.

"Have some more." She handed me a tiffin. "My boyfriend brought it—there’s one for everyone. I heated it up for you."

The tiffin was warm in my hands—a small kindness that made the world seem less harsh. I mumbled my thanks.

A handsome guy poked his head out of Meera’s room and waved at me.

He looked at me, grinned, and said, "Bhai, Meera told me you’re a topper!" I just smiled and nodded, unsure how to respond.

I was actually starving—I’d only had a vada pav for lunch and skipped dinner. I opened the box: Domino’s cheese burst pizza and some rice. It was my first time eating anything from Domino’s, and it tasted amazing—expensive, too.

Each bite felt like a luxury. I almost took a picture to send to my college group chat.

After ten, everyone went back to their rooms. I lay down on my narrow bed, ready to rest my brain after a long day.

The fan whirred, and my phone buzzed with a message from Ma: “Beta, khana khaya?”

"Mmm—"

That moan was like a drop of water in hot oil.

It took me a second to process—was that coming from Meera’s room? I turned over, plugging my ears.

Then a few suppressed giggles leaked out from Meera’s room, reaching my ears.

"No, it hurts, ah..."

The show had begun…

My face turned red. I felt like I was sitting in the front row at a play I had never bought tickets for.

The sounds rose and fell, a chaotic symphony—like bangles of all sizes clattering across a marble floor.

I shut my eyes, but my brain was wide awake. The city outside was noisy, but nothing compared to the drama inside these walls.

Friends, I’m a man—a young man in my twenties. I don’t know what women feel hearing these noises, but I really couldn’t sleep.

All those jokes about shared flats, I finally understood. My mind raced, embarrassment and amusement fighting for space.

It was my first time listening to such human music at such close range. It was like a thunderstorm passing right over my head—from a drizzle, to a downpour, to rolling thunder, then the rain subsided, leaving me drenched and wandering at a crossroads.

My mind wandered—maybe tomorrow, I’d joke about this with Sneha. Or maybe never. I mentally started drafting a ‘Survival Guide for Mumbai Flat Tenants’: Lesson One—never trust thin walls!

"Whew, finally over."

I checked my phone—it was eleven. I really needed to sleep, or I wouldn’t be able to get up tomorrow. I pulled up the blanket and turned over. But the sound was still there, like someone breathing right in my ear.

The thin walls offered no protection. I wondered if the landlord did it on purpose—city flats have no secrets.

"Mmm... again?"

I sat up with a jolt. "Seriously, again?"

Another rainstorm, drenching the me from an hour ago. How could I sleep?

I pulled out my cigarette pack, wanting a smoke, and sighed. I felt like something was mocking me—my empty eyes, empty wallet, and empty cigarette pack.

My only solace was the blue glow from my phone screen and the memory of Ma’s voice. “Sab theek ho jayega, beta.”

Clack—the glass door slid open. It was Lakshmi didi again. Seeing me sitting on the bed like a withered old tree, she burst out laughing.

She tossed me a spare cigarette with a wink and said, "Welcome to Mumbai, Rohan. Here, sleep is a myth." Her laughter echoed in the kitchen, and for the first time, I felt like maybe, just maybe, I belonged here after all.