Kabir Banerjee One Mihir Sen’s life had always hovered somewhere between barely-functioning adulthood and low-key disaster, but even he didn’t expect to be evicted on a Sunday morning because of a bag of popcorn. It had started innocently enough. The flat was silent, his flatmate Advaith was off at one of his weekend silent retreats in Coorg, and Mihir, in his red checkered boxers and a Bob Marley T-shirt that hadn’t been washed in a week, decided to reward himself with a Netflix binge and some butter popcorn. But fate, as always, had other plans. The microwave had conked off…
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Chapter 1 It all began on a Tuesday afternoon, the kind of day where even your tea tastes like it’s mocking your life choices. Samir “Sam” Mehta sat slumped at his aunt’s dining table, one slipper off, laptop open, staring at a blank Google Doc that refused to turn into the article his editor had demanded three days ago. Outside, a dog barked rhythmically as if keeping time with his failure. Inside, his aunt was blasting a 90s soap opera on full volume, which made it nearly impossible to think, let alone write. His only refuge was his headphone’s noise-canceling…
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Siddharth Bhattacharjee Part 1 Monday mornings had a peculiar smell at Dalal Street—part anxiety, part ambition, and a solid dose of stale filter coffee. For Rudra Sen, senior broker at Kothari & Sons Securities (no Kothari worked there anymore), it also smelled like danger. Not because of the stock market, but because his ancient laptop, nicknamed “Laxmi”, had a tendency to start only on alternate days. Today, unfortunately, was not one of them. Rudra’s day began, as always, with a lecture from his boss, a man with a moustache thick enough to have its own Aadhaar card. “Sen, Sensex is…
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Kabir Sanyal Part 1 It all started with a sandwich. Not the fancy kind with pesto and sun-dried tomatoes, but a simple, over-grilled aloo tikki sandwich that arrived with the wrong name scribbled on the delivery bag. To Ritu. Nayan stared at it, confused. He had ordered a classic cheese sandwich, and his name, in bold caps, was clearly Nayan. But the delivery guy was already halfway down the stairs, humming a Punjabi tune. Nayan sighed and peeled the sticker. Hunger won. Five buildings away, a woman named Ritu sat cross-legged on her balcony, staring into her phone with equal…
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Aarav Malik The Flatmate Interview from Hell Neil Patel had never considered himself particularly unlucky. He had a stable job, a reliable (if slightly moldy) flat in West London, and a wardrobe that was ninety percent navy blue. But when his longtime flatmate Raj moved out—citing “creative differences” after one too many passive-aggressive notes about unwashed dishes—Neil found himself diving headfirst into a living nightmare: interviewing strangers from the internet. It began on a Tuesday. Neil had placed a straightforward ad on a flatmate website. No smokers, no party animals, no pets that bark, bite, or recite Sanskrit. Just a…
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Deepak Sharma Chapter 1: If you had asked anyone in Pimplepur a month ago who Rajeev Banerjee was, they might’ve said, “Wasn’t he the boy who tried to bake a pizza on the car bonnet in Class 8?” Or, “Is he the one who added glitter to gulab jamuns thinking it was edible silver?” Yes. That Rajeev. The boy who left for “London” and returned with suspiciously little luggage, an accent thicker than mayonnaise, and a lot of ideas no one had asked for. Rajeev’s arrival back in Pimplepur was not exactly what one would call subtle. He didn’t just…
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Rajiv Dubey Part 1 Monday mornings have a reputation for being soul-crushing. For Ramesh Tripathi, forty-two years old, rapidly balding, and spiritually bankrupt, this particular Monday was… something else. He woke up at 6:45 a.m., precisely two minutes after his alarm, which he had snoozed in a half-dream state. The fan was whirring, the neighbours were already arguing, and Meenakshi, his wife of seventeen mostly silent years, was banging utensils in the kitchen like she was avenging her past life. Everything was painfully normal. Until he walked into the bathroom and screamed. There, on the cold, slightly cracked, blue-tiled floor,…
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Anupama Trivedi Chapter 1 It begins on a humid evening in Bengaluru. Manav, our protagonist, sits in the dark corner of a PG in Koramangala. He’s thirty, jobless, and surviving on day-old biryani. Once hailed as a promising coder from an IIT, he now codes half-heartedly on borrowed laptops. His roommate recently left to join an ed-tech unicorn, and Manav is left with unpaid rent, broken dreams, and a used whiteboard scribbled with failed app ideas: “Rent-A-Paratha,” “GhostTalk (for ghost believers),” and “DoggieGram.” The final blow comes when a food delivery company he freelances for fires him, citing poor performance…
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Rishi Kulkarni Monday Mourning The Monday morning at Chai & Chat Media Pvt. Ltd., a mid-sized marketing agency in the heart of Koramangala, Bengaluru, began like any other—late. The office, located on the third floor of a building with exactly one working lift (which frequently stopped at every floor uninvited), had a culture of “flexible timing”—which really meant “come in before lunch, if possible.” By 10:47 AM, only four people had arrived: Sonal had her headphones on and was busy typing ferociously, probably fighting with a vendor over Google Sheets. Tapan was slouched over his MacBook, staring at an empty…
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Priya Paul Chapter 1: Curse of the Jobless Genius If you had asked Nakul Joshi five years ago where he saw himself by the age of twenty-nine, he would’ve said something obnoxiously overconfident, like: “Running my own unicorn startup while sipping espresso in a glass tower overlooking Mumbai.” What he hadn’t seen coming was the actual reality: living back with his parents in a sleepy tier-3 town called Baneshwar, sharing a wall with his mother’s singing bhajan clock, and applying for the post of a government peon. But life, as Nakul often reminded himself these days, had a dark sense…