Siddharth Menon
1
It was a Tuesday night in T. Nagar, but the heat clung to the crumbling walls of Flat 104 like a desperate tenant refusing eviction. The creaky ceiling fan spun half-heartedly, threatening to fall with every rotation, while four men lay in various stages of exhaustion and hopelessness across mismatched plastic chairs and a cushionless diwan. Arjun, or AJ as he insisted on being called, stared at the ceiling with the focus of a man calculating the philosophical purpose of unpaid rent. “Four days left before the landlord removes us like expired chutney,” he muttered. Karthik, perched next to his Excel sheet on an ancient Lenovo laptop, corrected him, “Three days, twelve hours, and seventeen minutes.” Faheem, sprawled on the floor with a bottle of warm Thums Up, let out a noise somewhere between a burp and a sigh. Gokul paced around the tiny kitchen, holding a single onion like it was the last clue in a murder mystery. “We have one onion, half a pack of rice, and no Maggi,” he declared. The tension in the room was thicker than the masala in a marriage hall sambar.
Desperation had set in, and hunger was its drummer. They had no real jobs—AJ’s freelance clients hadn’t paid in weeks, Faheem’s food delivery app account was suspended for “excessive sarcasm,” Gokul had been fired from a meme agency for turning a breakup post into a Diwali campaign, and Karthik’s bank job barely covered his scooter EMI. The fridge offered no hope—a sad lemon, curd from Diwali, and three sachets of ketchup. The air smelled of disappointment and leftover detergent. That’s when destiny arrived in a paper bag. Gokul burst into the room holding a half-eaten biryani from a rejected party order—his former boss had thrown it out, cursing “too much clove.” They all stared at it like it was treasure. Faheem reheated it with flair, adding leftover potato chips, chili flakes, and what he claimed was “Kashmiri instinct.” The result was… strange. Spicy, crunchy, confused—but oddly comforting. AJ took a bite, then another. “Guys,” he whispered with sauce on his lip, “what if we sell this?”
The suggestion hung in the air like smoke. Karthik immediately protested. “Illegal. Dangerous. Stupid.” Gokul’s eyes lit up. “Viral. Midnight. Balcony.” Faheem grinned and clanged a spoon like a gong. The room burst into chaotic excitement. Plans were made, posters imagined, hashtags coined. AJ proposed naming it Bachelor Biryani Bhavan. Gokul insisted on “BB Bhavan” because it sounded modern. Faheem volunteered as the chef, mostly because he once fried pakoras during a cyclone. Karthik reluctantly agreed to manage accounts, muttering something about “civic jail conditions.” That night, under the blinking tube light and the roar of a distant auto, the dream of Flat 104 was born—not from brilliance or passion, but from the bottom of an oily, reheated, borderline expired biryani box.
2
By the next evening, Flat 104 resembled a war room powered by caffeine and overconfidence. AJ had already mocked up a digital poster on Canva that read “Midnight Biryani—Hot, Honest, Homemade (Kinda). Balcony Delivery Only!” The background was a photo of Gokul holding a steel plate like it was the Holy Grail, mouth open in staged ecstasy. The Instagram post went up with a flourish of hashtags: #MidnightMagic #BachelorBiryani #ChennaiCravings. Within minutes, Gokul tagged every food blogger from Velachery to Vadapalani and DM’d random strangers with lines like, “Want to be our first customer, bro?” Karthik had barricaded himself in a corner, writing down cost estimates with a pencil that didn’t have an eraser. He kept muttering about salt inflation and gas cylinder black markets. Faheem, on the other hand, was in his element. He had borrowed a pressure cooker from the flat downstairs, collected leftover spices from everyone’s kitchen shelf, and claimed he was “cooking by sixth sense and sixth YouTube video.”
At exactly 11:59 PM, the “stall” opened. Their balcony was cleared of drying underwear and old newspapers, replaced by a single plastic table with Faheem’s creation resting in a giant steel vessel. The menu? One item: “Bachelor Biryani – ₹79.” A small LED ring light was clipped to the railing for ‘aesthetic presentation’ and to keep mosquitoes out. They had zero expectations. But at 12:12 AM, a miracle occurred. A man in a rumpled shirt and disheveled tie—clearly fresh out of an IT night shift—knocked on their door. “Instagram said biryani available?” he asked, looking unsure if this was a prank or an underworld sting. Faheem scooped a portion, added a piece of fried papad from their emergency snack stash, and handed it over. The man took one bite, paused, nodded slowly, and said, “Very… different. Fusion style ah?” Gokul was already live on Instagram. “First customer says it tastes like Tamil meets Thailand, da!” AJ whispered to Karthik, “We’re onto something. He thinks this is intentional!”
By sunrise, the post had been reshared by a meme page that captioned it: “When you’re broke but brave enough to sell confusion as cuisine.” Comments poured in. Some laughed. Some were curious. One person even said, “Where in T. Nagar bro? I’m hungry and emotionally unstable.” Gokul replied instantly, “DM for GPS and soul healing.” Faheem beamed with pride and mild ghee sweat. Karthik refused to smile but was seen adjusting the new Excel sheet labeled “BB Bhavan Ledger.” The bachelors of Flat 104 had accidentally stepped into the food game—and Chennai had just taken its first bite. Whether it was a hit or a health hazard, one thing was clear: Operation Balcony Biryani had officially launched.
3
Within a week, Flat 104 transformed into a late-night culinary circus. What began as a desperate midnight experiment was now drawing in students, software engineers, night watchmen, and insomniacs like moths to masala. The aroma of Faheem’s ever-changing biryani floated through the corridors, past drying clothes and rusted window grills, settling into the memory of the building itself. Every night after 11 PM, Gokul would set the stage with dramatic Instagram Stories: “Brace yourselves. Balcony is open. Soul food dropping in 10…9…#BBBhavanReturns.” Their customer base multiplied. A group of college kids called their rice “emotional therapy,” while one woman claimed their raita cured her breakup. The crowd’s expectations, however, were rising faster than their skill. Faheem still relied on instinct—sometimes brilliant, sometimes dangerous. One night he used cornflakes instead of fried onions because “they looked similar under tube light.” Nobody noticed. In fact, someone called it “innovative crunch.”
But not everyone was amused. Mrs. Muthulakshmi, their 60-something neighbor, decided the bachelors had crossed all limits. “Balcony is not kitchen!” she screeched from her window every evening, sometimes brandishing a rolling pin. She called the landlord, the residents’ association, the fire department, and once even an astrologer, claiming, “Their spices have disturbed my Venus.” When nothing worked, she resorted to passive-aggressive tactics—pouring soap water on the stairs, unplugging their ring light extension cord, and sending her grandson to ask, “Uncle, why your food smells like mistake?” But for every complaint, ten new followers came in. Gokul, reveling in the fame, started calling himself “Head of Culinary PR.” He convinced a minor food vlogger named “TandooriBae” to do a review reel. The video showed Faheem stirring rice, AJ explaining the “philosophy” behind their flavor, and Gokul sprinkling coriander with unnecessary flair. Within 24 hours, the reel hit 80K views.
Then came the price of popularity. Among the reel viewers was Inspector Chinnasamy, a stocky, balding officer with a permanent scowl and a deep hatred for anything joyful after 10 PM. On a Thursday night, just as Faheem was ladling out a particularly spicy mutton biryani to a couple on a scooter, a loud whistle shattered the scene. “Stop illegal activities!” came the command, followed by a flashlight and heavy boots. The inspector marched in, surveyed the balcony operation like a crime scene, and growled, “License? Hygiene certificate? Fire safety?” Karthik turned pale, clutching his account book like a Bible. AJ tried reasoning, Faheem offered a free plate, Gokul offered a selfie—but nothing worked. “Next time I see smoke from here, I’ll shut down this whole apartment,” Chinnasamy thundered, stomping off into the night. The crowd dispersed. The lights dimmed. For the first time in days, the balcony went quiet. The biryani was still hot, but the dream was under fire.
4
The raid left Flat 104 in stunned silence. No customers. No midnight reels. No biryani aroma wafting through the halls. Karthik took it as divine punishment and immediately updated their group expenses sheet with a new column: “Potential Legal Damages.” Faheem sulked in the kitchen, staring at his spice boxes like betrayed lovers. Gokul kept refreshing Instagram, watching their engagement dip like a poorly fried samosa. AJ, in a rare moment of calm, sat them all down. “Maybe we were too loud, too soon,” he said, uncharacteristically serious. “Maybe we need to take this underground.” Karthik screamed into his pillow. “This isn’t a gangster movie! It’s just illegal food, da!” But even he knew the truth: they had something special. People loved the food—whether it was out of curiosity, hunger, or heartbreak didn’t matter. The question now was: could they run the operation quietly without getting caught again?
That weekend, the flat resembled a covert lab. No more Instagram blasts. No reels. No shouting. Customers were messaged personally through Telegram and WhatsApp groups like it was an exclusive cult. They rebranded temporarily as “BB Research Kitchen”. Faheem tweaked his cooking style—less smoke, more stealth. Gokul designed a sticker that read: “Silent Biryani. Loud Flavour.” Deliveries were done in blacked-out paper bags via old school tiffin carriers. It worked. Word of mouth returned. So did the customers. But with every plate sold, the tension rose. Every pressure cooker whistle felt like a siren. On the fifth night of their covert operation, two bloggers disguised as students showed up. Faheem, unaware of their identity, served his latest oddball creation: biryani with nutella-roasted peanuts. They posted about it as “post-modern biryani with Gen-Z guts.” The post went viral. Again. AJ cheered. Gokul danced. Karthik nearly fainted.
But this time, the reaction was different. The buzz caught the attention of ChennaiFoodRaja, a popular critic known for his sarcastic, scathing reviews. He turned up at 1 AM in a helmet and hoodie, tried a plate in complete silence, and left. The next day, he posted: “Biryani that shouldn’t work—but somehow does. Like a broken fan blowing flavor. 4.5/5.” That single line brought in floods. People came not for the food, but the experience. One man cried while eating, claiming it reminded him of his ex’s cooking. Another proposed marriage to Faheem. A college girl painted a portrait of their plate. But not everything was celebration. Amidst the madness, a food safety officer showed up again—tipped off anonymously. This time, the boys tried everything. AJ offered design services. Gokul offered brand consulting. Faheem offered the chicken leg. Nothing worked. When they slipped a ₹500 note inside the biryani box, the officer took it—and still issued a closure notice.
That night, they fought. Not just over the notice, but everything. Gokul accused Karthik of leaking their address to the municipality out of guilt. Karthik shouted about “morality and municipal code.” AJ called everyone dramatic. Faheem finally exploded, hurling a ladle across the room. “I cook every night, burn my fingers, feed people—while you all pose for selfies and count followers!” Silence followed. The flat, once filled with aroma and ambition, now smelled of burnt rice and bruised egos. The dream wasn’t just under threat. It was crumbling. And this time, it wasn’t an inspector that might kill it—it was themselves.
5
The closure notice sat pinned to the wall like a trophy of failure. Flat 104 turned quiet—eerily so. The balcony, once a makeshift kitchen of midnight wonders, now stood empty, its plastic table folded and shoved behind a stack of newspapers. Faheem refused to cook, even Maggi. AJ spent his time applying for odd gigs on freelancing websites. Gokul, detoxing from Instagram, took long walks in torn chappals and wrote melancholy haikus about biryani. Karthik, surprisingly, was the only one still functioning. He woke up early, went to the bank, came back with tea and vada for everyone, and silently updated their expense sheet as if to remind them: life still needed managing. One evening, Karthik returned home with a peculiar glint in his eye. “There’s a tea stall for rent near the bus depot,” he said calmly. “Small, legal, licensable. Dirt cheap. It even has a back exit.” The others stared. “Are you suggesting… we go legit?” AJ blinked. “Like, actual license legit?” Faheem snorted, “Do they allow biryani in tea stalls?” Karthik just smiled, folded his shirt sleeves, and said, “If we can fry cornflakes and call it fusion, we can sell rice next to chai.”
Within a week, they scraped together savings, begged loans from sympathetic ex-colleagues, and rented the rusting old shack. It stood between a cobbler’s stand and a Xerox shop that hadn’t seen toner since 2016. The signboard still said “Ravi Tea Corner.” AJ painted over it with bold white letters: Bachelor Biryani Bhavan—no balcony now, but still the soul of 104. Faheem cleaned the tiny kitchen space like a man reclaiming his lost shrine. They got a second-hand gas stove, a sturdy vessel, a bulk pack of basmati, and two aprons donated by a kind hotel waiter from Mount Road. This time, they applied for a food license—albeit under a friend’s cousin’s name. Gokul, after days of social silence, returned to Instagram with a reel titled “We’re back. Not hiding. Still broke. Still cooking.” It was grainy, chaotic, full of jump cuts—and it hit 30k views overnight. People commented: “The boys are back!” “OG taste only, bro!” “Bachelor Biryani lives!”
Now located just off a noisy bus stop, the new “stall” didn’t look like much—but word spread quickly. Office-goers, rickshaw drivers, and students started lining up. The prices were still low, the flavors unpredictable, and the service chaotic. On the third night, Faheem experimented with something odd—noodles biryani. AJ screamed. Gokul screamed louder. Karthik added it to the menu as “Item #3: Not Sure, But Spicy.” It sold out. Amidst the growing buzz, Gokul managed to connect with Preethi Ramesh, a sarcastic food blogger with a sharp tongue and sharper taste. She walked in wearing sunglasses, ordered a plate silently, ate two bites, raised an eyebrow at Faheem, and said, “This tastes like someone fried their emotions.” Faheem grinned shyly and replied, “That’s exactly what I did.” She didn’t say more. Just smiled, paid cash, and walked out. That night, she posted a one-line review on her blog: “The biryani is confused. But honest. Like the men who made it.” The post exploded across food circles, and for the first time in weeks, the boys of Bachelor Biryani Bhavan dared to believe again—not just in biryani, but in themselves.
6
The tea stall-turned-biryani joint was now the most talked-about midnight eatery in T. Nagar. What began as a desperation-born balcony stunt had morphed into a legit crowd-puller. Customers came in everything from office formals to lungis and flip-flops. One group even arrived with a Bluetooth speaker blaring Ilaiyaraaja’s greatest hits, claiming it enhanced the flavor. The menu was still minimalist—Bachelor Biryani, Silent Raita, and the newly infamous “Noodle Mutton Biryani.” Faheem, though visibly exhausted, remained the soul of the kitchen, stirring pots with the concentration of a brain surgeon and the instinct of a grandmother. Gokul ran the counter and socials like a man possessed, offering random discounts to customers who said the day’s “codeword” from Instagram Stories. AJ was busy pitching rebrand ideas to imaginary investors—he wanted to start a chain. “Imagine this in Bengaluru, bro. Or Dubai! Bachelor Biryani Global!” Karthik, meanwhile, had become the reluctant backbone, balancing accounts, keeping taxes in check, and yelling at everyone to stop giving free pappads to pretty girls.
But fame brought friction. The crowd kept growing—sometimes doubling on weekends. They were even approached by a local YouTube food channel for a mini-documentary. Faheem wasn’t thrilled. “I’m not a content creator. I’m just frying onions and trauma.” Gokul ignored him and set up a time-lapse camera anyway. One night, a woman in a saree proposed to Faheem across the counter. “Your hands have changed my life,” she declared, mistaking the masala burns for passion. He froze, dropped a ladle, and offered her extra pickle out of confusion. Meanwhile, Preethi kept visiting, though not regularly. She always came alone, ordered silently, sat in the corner, and left with a nod. Faheem started keeping a little extra raita on the side whenever she showed up. She never said much, but once left a note on a paper napkin: “You cook like someone who’s loved and lost.” Faheem folded it quietly and put it in his wallet.
Things started spiraling when AJ pushed for franchise meetings with a local investor who wore fake Ray-Bans and said things like “bro, scalability.” Gokul got carried away and designed uniforms without consulting anyone—bright yellow aprons with the logo embroidered in Comic Sans. Faheem hated it. “I look like a turmeric emoji.” Karthik flipped when Gokul gifted free biryani to influencers who came in just for selfies. One viral reel showed an influencer licking her spoon and saying, “Tastes like drama with a side of curry chaos!”—which, ironically, was true. The cracks deepened. Faheem missed a prep session. AJ accused him of “artistic moodiness.” Gokul spent more time with hashtags than customers. Karthik threatened to pull out and take his Excel sheet with him. Then came the tipping point—a customer complained publicly that the biryani “tastes different every day.” Instead of being proud of the spontaneity, Faheem took it personally. “They want factory flavor? Let them go to chain restaurants,” he muttered, walking out mid-shift. That night, Preethi showed up and found Faheem missing. She waited for fifteen minutes, left without eating, and messaged only one line: “When you start chasing perfection, you forget the taste of honesty.”
The message hit harder than any closure notice. The boys sat quietly that night, staring at their once-vibrant stall. The laughter had dimmed, the aroma had dulled, and the pressure had buried the magic. They had built something out of nothing—but now they were on the verge of turning it into just another biryani business. The question was no longer about success. It was about identity. Were they still those four broke bachelors selling soulful biryani from a balcony—or just a viral brand too scared to be simple again?
7
The tension had become so thick inside the stall that even the steam from the rice refused to rise. The laughter, the chaos, the late-night madness—it had all gone stale. Faheem showed up later and later, barely speaking. AJ was buried in business plans, obsessed with the idea of pitching Bachelor Biryani Bhavan as “India’s answer to Taco Bell.” He carried a notebook filled with franchise projections, startup jargon, and doodles of biryani in to-go cups. Gokul spent most nights glued to his phone, coordinating influencer drop-ins, offering coupons, and posting Reels with captions like “We don’t serve food. We serve lifestyle.” Karthik, once the reluctant adult in the room, was now caught in the middle of escalating fights and falling profit margins, his accounting sheet filled with red numbers and passive-aggressive notes like “Gokul gave 6 free biryanis to a girl who said ‘this vibe slaps’.”
The dream that had once brought them together was slowly morphing into a corporate nightmare. AJ began micromanaging everything—he wanted timers in the kitchen, QR codes on plates, and even printed feedback forms. “If we don’t systematize, we’ll collapse,” he argued. Faheem, already burnt out and creatively numb, muttered, “You can’t time turmeric, da.” Gokul pushed for a TikTok collab with a cringe dance group called “Masala Moves.” Karthik lost it that night. “We started this to pay rent, not become content clowns!” he yelled, slamming his ledger on the floor. Faheem quietly placed his ladle on the counter and walked out again. This time, he didn’t come back. The next day, Gokul found a note folded under the spice rack: “If the biryani doesn’t change, it’s not real. If we don’t change, we’re not human.”
The absence of Faheem left the stall in chaos. AJ tried to manage the kitchen with YouTube tutorials, resulting in a smoky mess that triggered the fire alarm of the nearby ATM. Gokul brought in a guest chef—a fusion specialist from Instagram—who created a “pineapple panner biryani” that caused three refunds and one customer to faint (from sugar shock, not joy). Karthik attempted damage control but couldn’t manage the growing number of complaints. Then came the online backlash. Foodie pages began calling them “Sellout Biryani.” One influencer posted, “They were raw and brilliant. Now they’re polished and pointless.” Even loyal customers stopped showing up. One regular wrote on Zomato, “It used to taste like heartbreak. Now it tastes like marketing.”
It was Gokul who snapped first. He stared at the empty counter one night, the Instagram live view count stuck at 7, and whispered, “We killed it. We became the very thing we laughed at.” He turned off the ring light, took down the bright yellow menu board, and tossed his Comic Sans apron into the trash. AJ, still clinging to his franchise plan, tried one last pitch about “pivoting into meal kits.” Karthik didn’t respond. He was already packing up the day’s accounts with a quiet, tired look. For the first time in months, nobody said a word during closing. There were no jokes, no reels, no leftover biryani to pack. The stall was clean. Too clean. Soulless.
Later that night, Preethi walked past the stall. She paused, noticed the shutter half-closed and the lights dimmed. She didn’t go in. Instead, she looked up at the night sky, smiled sadly, and walked away. The story of Bachelor Biryani Bhavan seemed to have cooked itself dry. But somewhere, deep inside each of them, the original taste still lingered—of mistakes, memories, and masala made from hunger and heart. All that remained was one final question: could they bring it back before it disappeared forever?
8
The aroma was different that night. It wasn’t just biryani—it was legacy, anxiety, and the scent of possible endings. The four bachelors stood shoulder to shoulder on the balcony, looking down at a crowd larger than ever before. News vans parked crookedly, food bloggers live-streamed, and even the local MLA had dropped in under the guise of “inspecting youth entrepreneurship.” The municipal officials were back, this time with smiles and a plastic file folder—clearly not here to raid. The viral fame of “Bachelor Biryani Bhavan” had somehow shifted public sympathy in their favor. Now, instead of eviction, the boys were being offered a legal permit and a stall at the Marina night food bazaar. But amidst the euphoria, there was a catch: they could no longer operate from their beloved balcony. That tiny space, with its leaking tap and wobbly stove, had become their sanctum, their startup garage. Relinquishing it felt like burying a part of their identity.
As they served what might be their last batch of balcony biryani, old regulars dropped by—Mutton Munusamy with a bottle of Thums Up, the silent lady from the fourth floor who never spoke but always tipped generously, and even Latha Aunty, who once threatened to call the police. Her eyes glistened as she muttered, “My son eats your biryani in Delhi now, don’t stop.” Phones flashed, selfies were clicked, and one overexcited fan proposed to Naveen with a plate of egg biryani. The four friends didn’t say much. For once, there was no banter, no argument over salt or garnish. Just quiet ladling, as the pot slowly emptied. When the final serving was made—one last messy, overcooked, overly spiced miracle—the pot scraped dry, and they sat down, not as cooks, but as dreamers who had tasted a slice of something bigger.
That night, they moved the stove off the balcony. A new journey awaited—permits, staff, real recipes, taxes, maybe even hairnets. But the soul of “Bachelor Biryani Bhavan” would always remain in that tiny, grease-smeared corner of their flat. As they stood in the dark kitchen, sipping on watery chai and licking leftover masala off their fingers, Naveen said, “You think we can make pulao next?” and the laughter that followed echoed down the empty corridor. Somewhere between hunger and hustle, love and laughter, they had stirred more than biryani—they had cooked up memories that would simmer forever.
-End-
