Amit Bhattacharya
Chapter 1: The Morning the Lights Died
It was a Thursday morning like any other in the quiet neighbourhood of Lakshmi Niwas Cooperative Housing Society. The air was already heavy with humidity and promise—promise of yet another gloriously uneventful day. Birds chirped, autos honked, and pressure cookers whistled in unison like they’d all rehearsed a morning raga.
In Flat 5C, Mr. Aniruddha Biswas stood in his kitchen, peering suspiciously into the refrigerator. He did this often—not because there was anything mysterious inside, but because at 64, routine was a sacred thing. Open fridge, scratch head, sigh dramatically. That was his morning ritual, right after muttering “Ei desh ta gelo bhenge” at the newspaper headlines.
But today was different.
The refrigerator wasn’t humming. The digital clock on the microwave was dead. The ceiling fan had frozen mid-spin, as if someone had pressed pause on his life.
“Eh?” he muttered.
He pressed the fridge light button. Nothing.
He flicked the switch to the fan. Nothing.
He pressed the power button on the TV remote. Nothing.
“Power cut,” he said out loud to no one in particular.
Bhombol, his ginger cat with one lazy eye and the patience of a saint, yawned from the sofa, utterly unimpressed.
Mr. Biswas sighed and shuffled to the living room window to peer outside, as if the street might offer answers. The usually buzzing building compound was still. The milkman’s cycle lay toppled over. The morning maid brigade was huddled near the gate, arms crossed, gossiping in hushed tones like detectives at a crime scene.
Mr. Biswas did what any seasoned Bengali gentleman would do in the face of adversity—he reached for his smartphone.
No signal.
“Arre baba,” he groaned. “Even mobile data is gone?”
He stormed (well, waddled) over to his router and stared at the single, unwavering red light blinking back at him like a judgmental auntie.
“NO. NO NO NO!” he whispered, horrified. “This isn’t just a power cut. This… this is personal.”
You see, Mr. Biswas had spent most of his adult life being proudly analog. He wrote letters to editors, used a fountain pen, and thought ‘streaming’ referred to either rivers or tears. It was only when his daughter Ruma, a UX designer in Pune, insisted that he join “the digital age” that he had reluctantly embraced the internet. Now he had a YouTube subscription to gardening videos, followed obscure cooking bloggers from Uttarakhand, and ran a personal blog titled ‘Wisdom from the Balcony’ (readership: 4, including Bhombol).
But without power or Wi-Fi, Mr. Biswas felt… rudderless.
He tried to stay calm. He opened the fridge again to check on the yogurt. It was warm. He closed it. Then opened it again, just to be sure.
“Conspiracy,” he mumbled.
He walked back to the router and poked at it.
He unplugged it. Plugged it back in. Unplugged again. Blew on the socket like it was an old Nintendo cartridge. Plugged again.
Nothing.
In desperation, he did something he hadn’t done in years—he picked up the landline phone. The dusty beige one with a spiral cord that always got tangled in itself like a snake with identity issues.
But the dial tone was dead.
Mr. Biswas placed the receiver down slowly, with all the reverence of a man laying a beloved pet to rest.
Just then, the doorbell rang.
He opened the door to find his neighbor, Mrs. Shalini Sen of 5B, standing with her trademark frown and her morning Tupperware box of idlis.
“You too?” she asked.
Mr. Biswas blinked. “Me too what?”
“No power. No Wi-Fi. No Tata Sky. I was watching that new serial—Love at First Ladoo. Just when Rakhi was about to slap Samar with a rolling pin—boom! Blackout!”
She walked in uninvited and plonked herself on the cane sofa, setting her idli box down with the air of a woman who had come to declare war.
Mr. Biswas sat beside her. “Even the router’s dead. I tried everything. This isn’t just a power cut. This is an attack on our lifestyle.”
Mrs. Sen nodded gravely. “Someone must be held accountable.”
Their solemn moment was interrupted by yet another ring. Mr. D’Souza from 4B appeared, half-shaven and wild-eyed. “Chess.com stopped in the middle of my Sicilian Defense! I was three moves away from crushing a 12-year-old in Canada.”
Soon, Neha from 3A joined them, waving her phone like it owed her rent money. “Zoom interview in fifteen minutes. I swear, if I don’t get this job, I’m blaming Rakhi and her ladoo.”
Uncle Ghosh from the top floor followed, proclaiming the blackout was “clearly a Chinese conspiracy.”
Within ten minutes, the entire hallway of Lakshmi Niwas looked like a post-apocalyptic support group. Everyone had their own tale of horror. Frozen Netflix screens, dead geysers, unfinished WhatsApp forwards, yoga tutorials left halfway through a stretch.
“We must investigate,” Mr. Biswas declared, suddenly finding purpose. “We must find the cause. And if necessary, the culprit.”
Mrs. Sen crossed her arms. “I nominate you as Commander.”
“Commander-in-Chief of the Wi-Fi Recovery Mission,” Mr. D’Souza added dramatically.
And so, the mission began—not with fanfare, but with a group WhatsApp name (typed on data-less phones that couldn’t send it), a borrowed torch, and Bhombol reluctantly placed in Mr. Biswas’s jhola like a disinterested sidekick.
They didn’t know then what they would find, or how much trouble a teenage cable operator named Bunty would cause.
But one thing was certain.
The lights were out.
But the fight?
Oh, the fight had just begun.
Chapter 2: Yogurt and Suspicions
By the time Mr. Biswas returned to his now dimly lit kitchen, the yogurt had reached what he considered “morally unacceptable” temperature. He sniffed it, wrinkled his nose, and declared it dead with the solemnity of a priest at a village funeral.
“No dignity,” he muttered. “It deserved better.”
Bhombol watched this dramatic display from atop the refrigerator, tail swishing like a metronome. He had seen Mr. Biswas mourn mangoes, tomatoes, and once even a particularly well-shaped brinjal. This didn’t faze him.
Just then, a knock came—more urgent this time.
It was young Shanky from 2A, clutching a portable Bluetooth speaker like it was a teddy bear. His eyes were wide and teary.
“Uncle,” he gasped, “Spotify’s not working.”
Mr. Biswas sighed. “Beta, nothing is working.”
“I was in the middle of my lo-fi morning playlist! Now I feel… anxious.”
“Young man,” Mr. Biswas said kindly, patting his shoulder, “in my youth we only had crows and rickshaw horns. You will survive.”
Shanky looked unconvinced.
Word had spread. The power cut was no longer a nuisance; it was a full-blown community crisis. At precisely 10:07 a.m., the entire building had formed what could only be described as a semi-agitated, semi-confused huddle outside the front gate.
Munna, the watchman, who had emerged from his tiny cabin with a toothbrush still stuck in his mouth, was now the unwilling center of a shouting circle.
“Check the meter box!”
“Call the power office!”
“I pay taxes! I demand answers!”
“I was watching Rakhi confess her love!”
Through it all, Munna kept mumbling, “Transformer trip hua hoga… ya cable wale ne kuch kiya…”
Mr. Biswas’s ears perked up. “Cable wale?”
“Haan saar,” Munna said. “That Bunty boy from CityLink came this morning. Said he had to ‘upgrade bandwidths’ or something. After he left—boom! No signal.”
Mr. Biswas’s eyes narrowed. “Convenient timing.”
Mrs. Sen, who was now fully in charge of angry eyebrow arching, leaned in. “That Bunty. I never trusted him. Always chewing gum like he owns the building.”
“And wearing those jeans with holes!” Uncle Ghosh added, as if denim-related fashion choices were clear indicators of sabotage.
Neha was more measured. “Wait, so you think the cable guy did this on purpose?”
“Not just him,” Mr. Biswas said, stroking his chin. “There’s a network. Pun intended.”
“You think there’s a gang of rogue broadband engineers out to ruin our mornings?” asked Mr. D’Souza, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
“Nothing is off the table,” Mr. Biswas replied, dramatic as ever. “Look around you! Cold coffee is now lukewarm! Zoom interviews interrupted! Lives… destroyed!”
He turned toward the crowd, arms outstretched.
“We must investigate. Form a committee. Demand answers!”
Someone in the crowd clapped. No one knew who.
Mrs. Sen piped up, “We need someone brave. Someone bold. Someone with a phone that still has 3% battery.”
Mr. Biswas nodded humbly. “I shall lead.”
Neha crossed her arms. “Do you even know where the CityLink office is?”
“Of course I do,” he lied.
It was clear that while Mr. Biswas had no idea where the office was, he had absolutely no intention of letting the truth get in the way of a good mission.
He turned to Bhombol. “Pack the jhola. We go at dawn.”
“It’s already 10:15,” someone whispered.
“Then we go… at brunch.”
Thus, Operation Wi-Fi Recovery officially began. Over the next half hour, plans were drawn. Roles assigned. Mr. D’Souza was put in charge of external communications (mainly grumbling to anyone nearby), Neha would navigate (using offline Google Maps she had downloaded for Goa last year), and Mrs. Sen volunteered her old Alto 800 with one working window and a mild curry smell permanently embedded in the upholstery.
Inside 5C, Mr. Biswas prepared.
He ironed his kurta. He filled his steel water bottle. He slid Bhombol into the jhola like a reluctant sidekick being drafted into war.
“You and I, old friend,” he whispered, “have faced many crises—lizards, ants, one unfortunate plumbing leak. But this… this is the Wi-Fi War.”
Bhombol meowed once. It sounded a lot like “leave me out of this.”
Mr. Biswas paused at his shelf, staring at a framed photo of his late wife, Sharmila, smiling in front of a mustard field.
“You would’ve laughed at this,” he said softly. “Called it all nonsense. Said I was just looking for something to do.”
He smiled.
“And you’d have been right.”
He gave the router one last glance. The red light blinked back. Silent. Menacing.
Then he stepped out.
Down in the building parking lot, the gang had assembled like a very elderly version of The Avengers. Mrs. Sen wore sunglasses. Uncle Ghosh brought binoculars (no one knew why). Neha was already on Google Street View, plotting the route.
“Ten minutes away if we don’t stop,” she said.
“We’re stopping,” Mr. D’Souza declared. “I want chai.”
“No one’s stopping,” Mr. Biswas snapped. “We’re on a mission.”
As they climbed into the Alto, a few residents clapped and waved like they were sending off freedom fighters. One child saluted. Another tried to sneak in, thinking this was a picnic.
It wasn’t.
It was vengeance.
As the car rolled out of the gate, Bhombol let out a low growl.
The last time he had seen this many people in one vehicle, it had ended in a vet’s office and a very awkward neutering conversation.
This, he feared, might be worse.
Chapter 3: The Blinking Red Light of Doom
Mrs. Sen’s Alto 800 groaned to life like an old man reluctantly waking from an afternoon nap. The air conditioning didn’t work, the FM radio was stuck on a station that only played flute instrumentals, and the left back door needed a firm shoulder slam to close. But it moved—and that was enough.
Mr. Biswas sat in the front seat, jhola strapped across his chest, Bhombol’s suspicious eyes peering through the gap in the flap. Behind him, Mr. D’Souza sat wedged between Uncle Ghosh and Neha, who was navigating with an air of confidence she absolutely did not feel.
“So where is this cable office exactly?” Mr. D’Souza asked, already annoyed that no one had stopped for chai.
“Google says third left after Shyam Bazaar signal,” Neha replied.
“Which Shyam Bazaar?” Mrs. Sen said. “There are two! One with the mithai shop and one near that weird fitness studio that looks like a nightclub.”
“Fitness studio,” Mr. Biswas muttered. “What a joke. No one in there looks fit.”
“Shh!” Neha snapped. “I think I missed the turn.”
“You think?” Mr. D’Souza groaned.
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Biswas said heroically. “We take the next left. Destiny will guide us.”
Destiny, it seemed, led them directly into a one-way street full of vegetable vendors, where a cow stood chewing something important and refusing to move.
After some honking, arguing, and one near accident involving a man balancing 12 plastic chairs on a scooter, they finally pulled up in front of a crumbling building with a hand-painted sign: CityLink Cable & Wi-Fi — Speed You Can Pray For.
“Are we… sure this is the place?” Neha asked, eyeing the building with suspicion.
“Of course,” Mr. Biswas said, though he was not sure at all.
The team disembarked. Bhombol leapt from the jhola, sniffed a discarded samosa wrapper, and decided this was his new favourite spot.
Inside the CityLink office, the atmosphere was… post-apocalyptic.
A single tube light flickered overhead. A fan whirred lazily, spinning only when someone coughed near it. There was a broken water dispenser, a spiderweb of wires tangled on the wall, and a life-size cutout of Virat Kohli promoting “Superfast Fiber 2G+” with a hopeful grin that screamed betrayal.
Behind the main desk sat a young man—skinny, sleepy-eyed, wearing a hoodie with a skull print that would have alarmed any Bengali mother. He was Bunty.
He was chewing gum.
Mr. Biswas saw red.
“Excuse me,” he said, stepping forward like a headmaster confronting a truant student. “Are you Bunty?”
The boy looked up, clearly confused. “Who’s asking?”
“Aniruddha Biswas. Flat 5C. Lakshmi Niwas. You came to our building this morning and now—coincidentally—our Wi-Fi is dead.”
“Power cut,” Bunty said, shrugging.
“But the router’s red!”
“That’s… still probably the power.”
Mr. Biswas narrowed his eyes. “Or sabotage.”
Behind him, the rest of the team assembled in a semicircle of mild fury.
“Do you know how many WhatsApp forwards I’ve missed?” Mr. D’Souza barked.
“I lost a chess match!” he added, raising a fist.
“I was mid-ladoo confession!” Mrs. Sen shouted.
“And I had an interview!” Neha chimed in.
Bunty blinked. “Uncle, I’m just the installation guy.”
“You tampered with our peace,” Mr. Biswas said.
“You tampered with my patience,” said Mrs. Sen.
“YOU TAMPERED WITH INDIA,” shouted Uncle Ghosh, still running on some strange conspiracy theory.
Bunty stood up slowly. “Okay okay, chill. I didn’t touch anything serious. I just updated the node box. Maybe someone tripped a switch. Did you check the circuit panel?”
Everyone looked at each other.
“…We have a circuit panel?” Neha asked.
Bunty sighed. “I can come check. But I need permission. And chai.”
“There it is,” Mr. Biswas hissed. “A bribe.”
“Uncle, it’s literally tea.”
Before the situation escalated into a full rebellion, Bhombol jumped onto the table and promptly knocked over Bunty’s cup of tea. It spilled into a tangle of open wires.
The office lights flickered violently.
The fan creaked and started spinning in reverse.
The router on the wall blinked… blue.
Everyone froze.
“Did… did we fix it?” Mr. D’Souza whispered.
“No. Bhombol fixed it,” Neha whispered back.
Bunty looked up, half in awe. “Your cat is a tech genius.”
Mr. Biswas puffed out his chest. “He takes after me.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Neha mumbled.
Regardless, the router’s light stayed blue. Something had jolted back into place. Bunty quickly scribbled something on a slip and handed it to Mr. Biswas.
“My supervisor’s number. If it dies again, call him. He’s the only one who understands the wiring diagrams.”
Mr. Biswas took the slip with an air of triumph. “Thank you. You may continue chewing gum now.”
Bunty shrugged and returned to his chair. Bhombol, now curled in a ball on the desk, refused to move.
Back in the Alto, the air smelled of sweat, samosa oil, and victory.
As the team drove back, Mr. D’Souza opened the window and yelled, “Long live Bhombol the Brave!”
Bhombol meowed once and immediately went back to sleep.
Mr. Biswas looked at the router slip, smiled, and tucked it into his wallet—right next to a faded photo of Sharmila and a Metro ticket from 2009.
The battle was half-won.
But the war for uninterrupted Wi-Fi?
It was eternal.
Chapter 4: The Rise of the Golden Tigers
By the time the team returned to Lakshmi Niwas, the building was abuzz.
News travels fast in housing societies, especially when fueled by bored retirees and one overzealous security guard who had live-commented the entire episode into his walkie-talkie.
As the Alto creaked into the driveway, residents leaned over balconies, peered through grills, and whispered among themselves like villagers awaiting the return of a missing cricket team. Children clapped. Someone actually tossed rose petals from the third floor (though they missed and hit Munna in the face).
Mr. Biswas stepped out of the car with the exaggerated gravity of a war hero. He held Bhombol aloft in both hands, like Rafiki with Simba in The Lion King. The cat, utterly indifferent to the symbolism, immediately leapt to the ground and began licking his paw.
Mrs. Sen waved to the crowd. “Wi-Fi is back!”
Cheers erupted. One elderly man began humming the national anthem until his wife smacked him with a rolled-up newspaper.
Inside Flat 5C, Mr. Biswas opened the door, placed his jhola on the sofa, and did something he hadn’t done in years—he bowed to the blinking blue router light.
“Jai bandwidth,” he murmured.
But the story did not end there.
The incident had awakened something in him. A sense of purpose. A calling. For too long, the residents of Lakshmi Niwas had suffered in silence—faulty elevators, mysterious water leaks, unidentifiable noises from flat 2C at odd hours. They deserved better.
And so, that very evening, Mr. Biswas created a new WhatsApp group:
“Golden Tigers Roar (Official)”
The name, he felt, conveyed power, nobility, and the unmistakable growl of mature middle-class dissatisfaction.
By dinner, the group had 14 members. By breakfast, 38.
Mr. Biswas, naturally, was made Admin. (He made himself.)
Rules were established.
- No good morning flower GIFs (banned by unanimous vote)
- No political rants unless they were “mild and slightly humorous”
- All complaints had to end with “thank you” and one positive comment
For example:
The lift has smelled like pickle for three days. Please address. Thank you. Lovely roses in the garden this week.
The group was a hit.
People began reporting every minor glitch and incident, from flickering lights to stolen doormats. There were subcommittees for maintenance, gardening, and an ill-fated group dedicated to reviving the building’s old carrom board tournament.
And through it all, Mr. Biswas ruled with the benevolent chaos of a retired man who finally had something to do that wasn’t Sudoku.
His phone buzzed constantly.
“Pavement tiles near gate 2 loose. Nearly fell. Kindly replace.”
“Pigeon laid eggs on my AC. Is this society property now?”
“Shalini Sen has been yelling again during serial climax. Please wear headphones.”
Mrs. Sen took offense, of course. She responded with a 43-second voice note explaining that emotions cannot be bottled.
Then she sent another voice note just of herself laughing—possibly at her own joke.
Despite the drama, the group thrived.
One afternoon, during chai on the terrace, Mr. D’Souza leaned over and said, “You know, Biswas… this feels nice. Like… we’re all connected.”
“Yes,” Mr. Biswas replied, sipping his tea, “and not just by cable.”
He paused, staring dramatically into the distance.
“We are the Golden Tigers.”
Mr. D’Souza nodded, a little confused but mostly touched.
Bhombol rubbed against his leg, clearly only interested in biscuits.
By the end of the week, the group had already resolved two plumbing issues, formed a building cricket team made up entirely of wicket-keepers, and organized a movie night screening of Sholay on a projector borrowed from a school.
The community had never been more alive.
And Mr. Biswas had never been more busy.
In fact, he started taking calls with a special “Golden Tiger Hello”—a long purring noise followed by a polite “Yes, speak.”
He also began wearing a gold-colored kurta on Sundays, claiming it was symbolic.
When his daughter Ruma called that weekend, she was surprised.
“You sound… energetic, Baba. What’s going on?”
“I’m a leader now,” he said.
Ruma paused. “Did you join politics?”
“No,” he said with great seriousness. “Worse. I started a WhatsApp group.”
She groaned. “God save the building.”
“Oh, they already did,” he said proudly. “We even fixed the Wi-Fi.”
There was a pause. Then laughter.
Ruma, smiling on the other end, said, “You sound happy.”
Mr. Biswas leaned back, glancing at the router.
“I think I am.”
Then he sent a selfie to the group.
Caption: “Your humble admin. Still glowing. Still roaring.”
Someone replied with a tiger emoji. Another with a confused thumbs-up.
And just like that, Golden Tigers became not just a group—but a movement.
A very slow, very tea-driven, semi-organized movement led by a man, his cat, and a blinking blue light.
Chapter 5: The March to Bunty
It was precisely 10:03 AM on a Sunday morning when the Wi-Fi blinked red again.
Mr. Biswas had just settled into his armchair with a cup of perfectly steeped Darjeeling and a YouTube video titled “7 Surprising Benefits of Cabbage Leaves on Your Knees.” The thumbnail featured an elderly man smiling suspiciously at a salad.
And then—static.
Buffering.
Spinning wheel.
Red light.
“TRAITORS!” Mr. Biswas roared, spilling tea on his lungi.
Bhombol, perched atop the bookshelf, startled awake and fell into a half-full laundry basket. He emerged with a sock stuck to his tail and an expression of personal betrayal.
Mr. Biswas leapt to action. Well, “leapt” might be generous. He shuffled dramatically to the router, tapped it, then pressed his ear to it as if it might whisper its secrets.
“Don’t you dare die on me now,” he hissed.
It blinked. Once. Then died completely.
Elsewhere in the building, panic spread like spilled sambar.
Mrs. Sen’s morning bhajan livestream froze mid-‘Shankara.’ Mr. D’Souza’s online chess app auto-resigned him after ten minutes of inactivity, dropping him 147 points and costing him bragging rights. Neha’s yoga instructor froze mid-downward dog, leaving her stuck in an unnatural position that would haunt her spine for days.
A single word echoed through all fourteen WhatsApp threads of Lakshmi Niwas:
“Bunty.”
By 11 AM, a crowd had gathered under the gulmohar tree in front of the building, once again led by the indignant gait of Mr. Biswas. He held the router in both hands like it was a wounded soldier.
“It’s not enough,” he bellowed, “that our lives have been disrupted again. It’s not enough that our data has dried like summer ponds. Now they send this plastic coffin back to mock us.”
“Power’s still there!” Munna the watchman said, showing off a working mobile flashlight. “But no internet.”
“Sabotage,” muttered Mr. Biswas darkly.
The Golden Tigers were assembled: Mrs. Sen in a new floral sari that somehow still looked aggressive, Mr. D’Souza with a backpack full of extension cords (“just in case”), Neha in a baseball cap that read “Buffering…,” and Uncle Ghosh holding a framed portrait of Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose—no one knew why.
“We march again,” Mr. Biswas announced.
Mrs. Sen stepped forward. “Shall I warm the Alto?”
“No,” said Mr. Biswas. “We walk.”
Everyone gasped.
“Walk?!” Mr. D’Souza squeaked. “It’s hot! My knees!”
“It’s a matter of principle,” Mr. Biswas replied, now brandishing the router like a torch. “We walk to reclaim our signal. This isn’t just broadband anymore—it’s our legacy!”
“Legacy,” Mrs. Sen echoed, without understanding but with great enthusiasm.
Neha groaned but joined. “Let’s get it over with.”
So off they went—six residents, one cat in a jhola, and a broken router—marching down the lane with the fierce awkwardness of a protest group that hadn’t really planned beyond the first corner.
Children on bicycles followed, assuming it was a parade.
One old man selling kulfi joined them halfway, not for the cause but because business was slow.
Bunty’s office had not changed. The peeling paint, the lifesize cardboard Virat Kohli, the sleeping lizard in the tube light—all were still present.
But the moment Mr. Biswas opened the door, Bunty knew.
He was ready.
He had a cold Limca in one hand, his feet up on the desk, and an air of practiced defiance.
“Oh hello,” he said, not moving. “Did you try turning it off and on again?”
“You,” Mr. Biswas began, “have defiled the very thread that binds this nation.”
“…Wi-Fi?”
“Exactly.”
Mrs. Sen pushed forward. “I missed the entire final of Love at First Ladoo. Samar was supposed to marry Meenakshi, but then Rakhi ran in wearing her bridal lehenga, holding a ladoo with a ring inside it and—”
“We’re losing the plot,” Neha interrupted.
Bunty sighed. “Uncle, I told you last time. Your building’s box is old. We need to replace the cable node. But that means talking to my supervisor. And he…”
He trailed off.
“…he what?” Mr. D’Souza demanded.
“He’s on leave.”
The air grew still.
“What kind of supervisor takes leave when the city is on the brink of civilizational collapse?” Mr. Biswas demanded.
“His goat gave birth,” Bunty offered.
Mrs. Sen gasped. “He skipped work for livestock?!”
“I have pictures,” Bunty said, pulling out his phone.
Everyone leaned in. There was indeed a photo of a confused-looking goat and three very fuzzy baby goats wrapped in old T-shirts.
“Aww,” whispered Neha. “Okay that’s fair.”
“Focus!” Mr. Biswas snapped. “What can you do now?”
Bunty scratched his head. “Well… I could give you the spare router from our demo kit. Temporarily.”
“Do it.”
“But it’s experimental.”
“We like danger,” Mrs. Sen said proudly.
Five minutes later, the group walked back carrying a box marked ‘CityLink Experimental Router: Not For Public Use’ with the grace of smug winners. Bhombol sat in the jhola atop the router like a prince.
As they turned the final corner, the building security clapped slowly.
“Golden Tigers,” Munna muttered in awe.
Once reinstalled, the new router blinked… green.
Neha googled it. “Green means… turbo.”
Everyone cheered.
Bhombol yawned.
Mr. Biswas raised his tea in toast. “To the Tigers!”
“To the goat babies,” added Mrs. Sen.
And so ended their second march. But not their last.
Because in Lakshmi Niwas, nothing ever stayed fixed for long.
Chapter 6: Cat in the Cable Office
Though the experimental router hummed peacefully in the corner of Mr. Biswas’s drawing room and the signal strength was stronger than the average family WhatsApp debate, a certain unease lingered in the corridors of Lakshmi Niwas.
For one, the green light had begun blinking rapidly at night, casting strange patterns across the walls like a possessed disco ball. Mr. Ghosh claimed to see Lord Krishna’s face in the reflections. Mrs. Sen claimed it was just her own hand shadow while looking for her missing slipper.
More importantly, Bhombol had become… different.
The formerly sleepy, indifferent, food-motivated feline now sat alert before the router for hours, eyes fixed, tail twitching like a metronome of suspicion. He hissed at the microwave. He refused to eat near electronics. He swatted at smartphone screens that dared to display buffering wheels.
“He’s seen too much,” Neha declared during the next emergency chai meeting.
“He’s traumatized,” said Mr. D’Souza, “like those soldiers in those Hollywood movies.”
“He’s dramatic,” said Mr. Biswas. “Takes after me.”
Still, something was off.
And then came the incident.
It was a sunny Wednesday afternoon. Mr. Biswas had just settled into his armchair with a plate of muri, a single boiled egg, and the latest YouTube recommendation: “Can plants hear gossip? The answer will shock you!” When—suddenly—everything went black.
Not just the screen. The entire flat.
No power.
Again.
“OH COME ON!” Mr. Biswas shouted, nearly choking on the egg.
He scrambled up, jhola over shoulder, router under arm, Bhombol in tow. A minute later, he stormed into the corridor only to find five other doors opening in sync, as if the building itself was sighing in frustration.
“Same?” Mrs. Sen shouted from across the hallway.
“Same!” Mr. D’Souza called.
Neha popped her head out of the lift, still holding her laptop. “I was on a call with HR! HR, for God’s sake!”
But this time, Mr. Biswas wasn’t angry. He was calm. Too calm.
“This ends now,” he said.
And without warning, he walked out.
No speech. No gathering. No group vote.
Just him, the router, and a cat possessed by paranoia.
At the CityLink office, Bunty was napping with his legs on the desk and a pencil stuck in his ear. The moment he heard the jhola rustle and felt a pair of judgmental old eyes on him, he sat up.
“You again?”
“Me,” said Mr. Biswas. “Us,” he corrected, nodding to Bhombol, who had climbed onto the desk and was sniffing the tangle of wires like a police dog in training.
“You didn’t tell me the experimental router had… side effects,” Mr. Biswas said.
“Side effects?”
“It glows green at night. It broadcasts someone’s FM station in the bathroom. My cat thinks it’s possessed.”
“It might be,” Bunty said casually. “That model was part of a test batch. Had some software bugs.”
Mr. Biswas blinked. “What kind of bugs?”
“Well… some users said their Alexa started flirting with them. Others reported the router singing Bengali lullabies at 2 a.m.”
Mr. Biswas blinked again.
Bunty leaned forward. “Has it… spoken to you?”
Mr. Biswas frowned. “No. But last night, it emitted a beep and my pressure cooker exploded.”
“Unrelated,” Bunty said quickly. “Definitely.”
At that moment, Bhombol leapt from the desk and vanished into the back room of the office.
“Oi! Cat’s not allowed there!” Bunty shouted.
But it was too late.
There was a crash, a loud meow, and then a long silence.
Moments later, the light above flickered back on. The computer restarted with a triumphant beep. And most miraculously—Mr. Biswas’s phone buzzed with a WhatsApp notification.
“Wi-Fi’s back,” he whispered.
Bunty looked stunned. “What… what did he do?”
They entered the back room.
Amid the mess of old routers, dusty modems, and mysterious broken keyboards, Bhombol sat atop a dusty fuse box, one paw resting on a lever.
Bunty scratched his head. “He… rebooted the entire mainline?”
Mr. Biswas looked at his cat with a newfound reverence.
“You’re no longer Bhombol the Lazy,” he said solemnly. “You’re Bhombol the Technician.”
Bhombol blinked slowly, then licked his paw as if to say, I’ve always been this good. You were just late to notice.
Back home, Mr. Biswas plugged in the original router.
It blinked… blue.
Stable. Calm. Non-lullaby-emitting.
The green experimental unit was returned with a note that read simply:
“Thanks, but no thanks. Also, it sang to my cat. Unacceptable.”
As the sun set, Lakshmi Niwas returned to normal. Videos played. Meetings resumed. Rakhi married Samar (again). And the Golden Tigers disbanded for the day.
But Bhombol?
He sat beneath the table, beside the blue-blinking box, ears alert.
Waiting.
Because he knew what they didn’t.
The routers… they were learning.
Chapter 7: Paneer Roll Diplomacy
The next day, Lakshmi Niwas woke up to flawless connectivity. No blinking lights, no buffering circles, and not a single complaint on the “Golden Tigers Roar” WhatsApp group—aside from a minor debate over whether guavas should be eaten with salt or not (Mr. D’Souza insisted anyone who didn’t add salt was “uncultured”).
But Mr. Biswas couldn’t relax. Something gnawed at him. A mix of curiosity, pride, and a very particular kind of middle-aged anxiety that forms when you realize your cat has better technical skills than you.
He decided it was time to take things a step further.
Operation: Paneer Roll.
He called Neha.
“Come for tea,” he said. “Bring… the roll.”
Neha knew what that meant. Last time he’d said those words, he had used her Wi-Fi hotspot to update all his apps and send a strongly worded email to LIC customer support.
Twenty minutes later, she arrived with two paneer rolls wrapped in foil and one deeply skeptical expression.
“Why do I feel like I’m walking into a conspiracy?” she asked, sitting on the edge of the cane sofa.
“Because you are,” said Mr. Biswas, placing a hand dramatically on the table. “We need Bunty.”
Neha blinked. “Excuse me?”
“We need him on our side. As an ally. A friend. A… technical consultant.”
“So you want to recruit the teenager who wears dragon T-shirts and lives on instant noodles?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Biswas. “Exactly.”
Neha stared at him for a long moment. Then slowly unwrapped a paneer roll. “I’m listening.”
Mr. Biswas outlined the plan. They would invite Bunty over for chai. They’d pretend it was just to thank him. But during that time, they’d charm him with food, hospitality, and praise until he agreed to be the unofficial, underpaid, mildly coerced tech advisor for Lakshmi Niwas.
“And what if he says no?” Neha asked.
“Then we show him Bhombol’s resume,” said Mr. Biswas.
So it was set.
At 5 PM sharp, Bunty arrived. Reluctantly. Wearing a hoodie that said “404: Motivation Not Found.”
Mr. Biswas welcomed him like a visiting dignitary. “Come in, my dear Bunty. May I take your phone? No? That’s fine. Please, sit. Neha, more paneer roll!”
Bunty, thoroughly suspicious, sat on the edge of the chair like it might explode.
“Sir,” he said cautiously, “why am I here?”
Mr. Biswas clasped his hands. “Bunty, you are… how shall I say this… indispensable.”
Bunty blinked. “I am?”
“Yes,” Neha chimed in, buttering a paratha. “Without you, we’d still be stuck watching buffering wheels and spiritual satsangs from 1994.”
“Also,” Mr. Biswas added, “we’d like you to be part of the team.”
“What team?”
“The Golden Tigers,” Mr. Biswas said proudly.
“There’s a tiger club?”
“Of course. We are the guardians of connectivity. The warriors of signal. The defenders of 5G dreams.”
Bunty stared blankly.
Neha sighed. “We’re offering you free chai, unlimited paneer rolls, and mild social respect in exchange for occasional tech support.”
“Ohhh,” Bunty said. “Yeah, okay. That sounds cool.”
Mr. Biswas almost fell out of his chair.
“That’s it? You agree?”
“Yeah. I mean, I get bored anyway. And your cat is dope.”
Bhombol, who had just walked into the room with the swagger of a feline deity, paused, licked his paw, and flopped down on Bunty’s shoes.
Bunty grinned. “See? Instant bond.”
Neha looked at Mr. Biswas. “Well, that was… shockingly easy.”
But Mr. Biswas was already digging through his side drawer. “Wait, I have a badge!”
“You made a badge?” Neha asked, horrified.
He pulled out a circular sticker with a hand-drawn tiger and the words “Golden Tigers – Executive Intern (Probationary)”
Bunty slapped it onto his hoodie with pride.
For the next hour, they sat together discussing router brands, cable companies, signal boosters, and the ethics of hiding a second modem behind a bookshelf “just in case.”
By the end, Bunty had scribbled a handwritten guide titled: “Ten Things to Check Before Calling Customer Care and Crying” and pinned it to the fridge.
Mrs. Sen dropped by, saw Bunty, and frowned.
“He’s still chewing gum.”
“He’s on our side now,” Mr. Biswas said.
She narrowed her eyes. “Fine. But if he touches the AC wiring, I will break his kneecaps.”
“Fair,” Bunty said.
As the sun dipped behind the apartment blocks and the building slipped into evening calm, Mr. Biswas leaned back in his chair, smiling.
“You know,” he said, “this is what the British Raj never had.”
“Wi-Fi?” asked Neha.
“No,” he said. “Intergenerational paneer roll diplomacy.”
Chapter 8: Victory, Vine Videos, and Bhombol the Brave
The official induction of Bunty into the Golden Tigers marked a turning point for Lakshmi Niwas.
Within forty-eight hours, the entire building’s Wi-Fi ecosystem was transformed.
Old routers were updated. Cable junction boxes were re-soldered and color-coded. Signal extenders were installed in the corridor between Flats 2B and 2C, where the internet had historically behaved like a moody teenager—available only when it felt like it.
Bunty even created a laminated troubleshooting chart with headings like:
“Is Your Internet Dead or Just Feeling Sad?”
and
“If It’s Blinking Red, Don’t Panic (Unless You Smell Smoke).”
This chart was stuck in all elevator cabins, above switchboards, and—somehow—inside the community washing machine.
Neha taught Bunty how to use Google Calendar and set reminders for maintenance checks. Mr. Biswas introduced him to crossword puzzles. And Bhombol, now a local legend, continued his mysterious nighttime patrols across the building, stopping to paw at suspicious wires and nibble on unattended ethernet cables.
One evening, Mrs. Sen called a general assembly in the courtyard.
“Golden Tigers,” she began, wearing sunglasses despite it being after sunset, “we have emerged from darkness. We have walked through buffering. We have endured Rakhi’s paused romance and D’Souza’s broken checkmates. But we persevered.”
Mr. D’Souza nodded. “Even my chess app gives me a daily quote now.”
Bunty, standing sheepishly in the back, was handed a medal made out of a milk lid, a safety pin, and glitter glue. It read:
“TECH HERO OF THE BLOCK.”
He looked down at it, then at Mr. Biswas. “Sir… I never won anything in school.”
“Well, you’ve won the Wi-Fi War,” said Mr. Biswas, who looked suspiciously emotional.
Neha raised her phone. “Say cheese!”
Bunty, Mr. Biswas, Bhombol (held like Simba again), and Mrs. Sen (mid-eye-roll) were immortalized in a slightly blurry but very heartfelt photo.
The image was posted on the newly created Lakshmi Niwas Instagram page, which Neha ran and updated with captions like:
“Router revolution complete. Fear us. Or follow us. #GoldenTigers #BandwidthBrigade”
Overnight, it gained 24 followers. Including one very confused intern from the actual CityLink office.
But the story doesn’t end with medals or Instagram likes.
No, the final twist came from Bhombol.
Late one Friday night, while Mr. Biswas was halfway through a Vine compilation video titled “Old People Trying TikTok Trends,” the internet cut out again.
He froze.
Not again.
Not when he had just figured out what “sus” meant.
But this time, he didn’t panic.
He followed the sound—a soft, rhythmic tapping. Not the dreadful silence of a dead router, but the deliberate pat-pat-pat of small paws with purpose.
He stepped into the hallway.
Bhombol was standing in front of the fuse box, tail twitching. He looked at Mr. Biswas, then at the panel, then back again. The look said, “Well? Are you coming or should I do everything?”
Mr. Biswas opened the box, flipped the main switch, and—boom—everything returned. The green lights. The hum. The signal.
He looked down at Bhombol. “You’re not a pet,” he said. “You’re the IT department.”
From that day onward, a little brass plaque appeared on the router table:
“Monitored by Bhombol – Network Security Officer (NSO)”
He received regular gifts of fish crackers, and his water bowl was upgraded to a smart one that glowed gently at night.
Bunty started visiting more often, sometimes even bringing his younger cousin who claimed he could build a satellite dish from leftover TV parts. The building began hosting monthly “Tech & Tea” sessions, where seniors were taught how to email, mute WhatsApp groups, and stop replying “Good Morning” to work emails.
Lakshmi Niwas had evolved.
But the most touching change came in Mr. Biswas himself.
He now walked a little straighter. Smiled a little more. Checked the router less obsessively (though he still winked at it every morning). He wrote a blog post titled “What Wi-Fi Taught Me About Community,” which received 17 views—4 from real people and 13 from bots selling cryptocurrency.
Ruma, his daughter, called him one Sunday.
“Baba, are you… okay? You sound… fulfilled.”
Mr. Biswas chuckled. “Fulfilled? No. But the internet’s working, Bhombol’s been recruited by the building committee, and Bunty now knows how to brew chamomile tea.”
She laughed. “Sounds like a sitcom.”
“It is,” he said. “But with better signal.”
That evening, Mr. Biswas sat on the balcony with a cup of chai. Bhombol curled beside him, snoring softly. Downstairs, the lights of every window blinked warmly. No buffering. No frustration.
Just… peace.
A WhatsApp notification dinged.
Mrs. Sen: “TV’s working, but I think someone’s switched my channel to Urdu news?”
Mr. Biswas smiled, typed back: “Just press 104 again. Or learn Urdu. Both good options.”
He sipped his tea.
And for the first time in years, he didn’t feel alone.
He felt connected.
THE END
