Ritika Rao
1
The building looked innocent enough from the outside—three floors of faded pink walls, a rusty blue gate, and a peeling nameplate that read Leelamma PG for Gents & Others. Rohan Nambiar stood at the gate with his duffel bag in one hand and a sinking feeling in his stomach. After a brutal breakup, a client ghosting him on payments, and being evicted from a decent flat due to an “accidental” toaster fire, this paying guest accommodation in the middle of Koramangala was all he could afford. He had found it through a very enthusiastic post on a Facebook group titled “Bangalore Rentals for Bros.” The ad had promised “quiet surroundings, friendly inmates, high-speed WiFi, and homely food.” What greeted him instead was the smell of curry leaves burning somewhere in the distance and a loud shout from the balcony, “Are you Rohan beta? Come fast, I don’t wait for second boys!” This was Mrs. Leelamma Varghese — PG owner, part-time sabzi grower, and full-time chaos controller. She had curly hair tied into an ambitious bun, wore a nightie with cartoon ducks, and held a steel ladle like it was a weapon of mass discipline.
Leelamma didn’t walk — she marched, leading Rohan through the ground floor like a tour guide of the underworld. “Here’s fridge. Don’t put fish. Vegetarians cry. Here’s common toilet — don’t sing inside. One boy used to sing Arijit, I threw him out.” Rohan tried to nod and keep up, navigating narrow corridors lined with abandoned slippers, half-dead indoor plants, and a poster that said “WiFi is privilege, not right.” His room was a compact rectangle with a creaky bed, a plastic chair, and a table fan that made a sound like it was in pain. He barely had time to process the cracked walls and questionable mattress before the door to the next room burst open. “New guy, ah?” grinned a lanky man in Bermuda shorts and a tee that said Trust Me, I’m Funny. “Welcome to Hotel Hell. I’m Tarun, comic by night, disappointment by day.” Before Rohan could respond, another door opened slowly, revealing a spectacled girl holding a cactus and whispering something to it in Tamil. “That’s Sowmya,” Tarun whispered dramatically. “She works in tech. Only talks to humans once a week.” Behind them, a soft chanting could be heard from the terrace stairs — Gurpreet Singh, a man in saffron robes and wired earphones, was meditating with a Swiggy parcel balanced on his lap. “He’s our in-house Cyber Baba,” Tarun said. “Claims he left worldly pleasures. But he ordered KFC twice last night.”
That evening, as Rohan tried to find a plug point that didn’t spark and a corner of the bed that didn’t squeak, he heard the unmistakable clang of a steel plate being hit with a spoon — the traditional South Indian dinner bell of doom. Everyone shuffled into the small dining hall where Leelamma served idli, chutney, and unsolicited life advice. “Eat beta, you look thin like a string bean. You need protein and purpose.” The meal was interrupted by a shriek from Sowmya’s room — apparently PG Cat (an entitled stray with diva tendencies) had stolen her USB cable and was now perched like royalty atop the inverter. Leelamma chased it with a broom while muttering prayers, and Tarun tried to live-tweet the incident with hashtags like #CatHeist2025. Amid all the madness, Rohan sat at the dining table in stunned silence, watching this parade of human weirdness with a plate of cold idli in front of him and the realization slowly sinking in — this was his new home. Not a peaceful creative sanctuary like he had imagined, but a full-blown sitcom. Somewhere between a soap opera and a stand-up stage, with curry leaves in the air and chaos in every corner, Rohan Nambiar had officially entered the jungle of Leelamma PG — and it looked like he wouldn’t be getting out anytime soon.
2
It all began on a humid Tuesday morning when the geyser made a sound that could only be described as a dying buffalo, followed by a dramatic puff of smoke. Rohan, half-asleep and shivering with shampoo in his hair, ran out of the bathroom yelling “short circuit!” while Tarun filmed him for “content.” Within an hour, chaos engulfed Leelamma PG. Gurpreet “Cyber Baba” claimed his aura had been disturbed, Sowmya sent a strongly worded message on the PG WhatsApp group, and Flat the Cat chose the geyser’s corpse as its new throne. With only one bathroom fully functioning and five residents (counting the cat), war lines were drawn. Tarun put up a whiteboard titled “Toilet Time Slots” — but no one followed it. Leelamma refused to install a second geyser, citing an ancestral family curse involving water and unpaid electricity bills. What followed was a week of sabotage, manipulation, and strategic flushing — a psychological battle of will and wipe, played out in half-sleeps, cold water screams, and passive-aggressive knocks.
Rohan tried to stay neutral at first, choosing to wake up early and sneak in before the rush. But Gurpreet began conducting “spiritual cleansing” rituals at 4 a.m., hogging the bathroom with candles and chanting. Sowmya, who had a 9-to-5 WFH job, claimed permanent occupancy between 8:00 and 8:45 with the fierceness of a territorial hawk. Tarun, meanwhile, developed an annoying habit of playing motivational music while showering — often starting with “Eye of the Tiger” at full volume. Desperate, Rohan proposed a Google Calendar system to assign slots fairly. Leelamma responded by taping a handwritten chart to the bathroom door, which Flat the Cat promptly tore down in a fit of feline rebellion. One evening, Tarun discovered the bucket he’d kept filled was mysteriously emptied — triggering accusations, group messages in all caps, and a dramatic monologue involving his shampoo-to-conditioner ratio. Sowmya locked herself in the bathroom for an hour the next day, claiming “mental health break,” and Cyber Baba retaliated by placing a spiritual crystal in the flush tank that made it sound like a haunted well.
The climax came when Leelamma hosted her church group meeting in the main hall, asking everyone to “behave like gentlemen,” just as the geyser exploded again and sent hot water spraying through the ventilation grill. Rohan, who had just stepped in for a quick rinse, slipped and fell with a crash, dragging down the shower curtain and part of the rod with him. Tarun, ever the opportunist, uploaded the CCTV footage with a caption: When your PG has more drama than your ex. The video went semi-viral in a WhatsApp group of frustrated bachelors, earning the PG the nickname “Leelamma’s War Zone.” Furious yet mildly amused, Leelamma finally called a plumber. The geyser was fixed, a water timer was installed (a cruel 7-minute limit), and she declared, “From tomorrow, hot water is like gold. Use wisely, or I cut you from rice also.” Rohan, sore but oddly proud, realized that surviving this bathroom war meant he had finally been accepted as a true inmate of this madhouse. The war was over, for now — but the emotional scars of cold water trauma would remain.
3
Despite the geyser-induced trauma and the ongoing tension over flush timings, a strange thing started happening at Leelamma PG—people began… bonding. It began innocently enough: one night, Rohan found Tarun sitting cross-legged on the floor with a kettle, four packets of Maggi, and the kind of seriousness usually reserved for rocket launches. “This,” Tarun declared, “is not food. It’s therapy.” Gurpreet joined in uninvited, quoting the Bhagavad Gita between slurps. Sowmya appeared without warning, handing Rohan a fork and sitting next to him with a bowl like it was the most natural thing in the world. Even Flat the Cat curled up in the middle, purring as if to approve of the gathering. Every evening soon turned into a ritual—Maggi at 11 p.m., with chai, gossip, postmortems of failed Tinder dates, and debates over which biscuit best represents depression (the consensus was Marie Gold). The conversations drifted from silly to sincere: Tarun shared how his last comedy set ended in silence, Sowmya revealed her fear of public speaking, and Rohan, somewhat awkwardly, admitted he missed his ex and had no idea what he was doing with his life. No one judged. No one interrupted. The Maggi nights, in their cheap masala glory, became a comfort they didn’t know they needed.
Of course, peace is never permanent at Leelamma PG. The problem arose during mornings. Leelamma, like a strict headmistress with a soft corner for filter coffee, believed in early starts. She would bang on everyone’s doors by 7 a.m., chanting “Rise and shine, sleepy frogs!” and brew a giant steel pot of coffee whose aroma could wake the dead. Rohan, who was more night owl than functioning human, found himself dragged out of bed and force-fed steaming hot coffee while listening to lectures on life, marriage, and the dangers of junk food. “You millennials have no stamina,” Leelamma would grumble, pouring coffee with the flourish of a priest conducting a ritual. “Drink this. It’s strong. Like your mother’s disappointment.” Tarun used to hide under the dining table to escape the lectures but was always sniffed out by Flat the Cat, who took betrayal very seriously. Sowmya, meanwhile, learned the art of nodding without listening and perfected it to avoid discussions about her love life. Gurpreet used the opportunity to teach Leelamma basic meditation techniques, which she accepted, only to modify into “5-minute mindful filter coffee sessions.” The mornings were chaotic, loud, and peppered with unsolicited advice, but somehow, they became the glue that held this dysfunctional household together.
By the end of the week, Rohan stopped questioning the madness. He no longer flinched when the kettle whistled at midnight or when Leelamma burst into his room holding an extra bedsheet “in case you get dreams of failure.” The PG was still absurd—there were days when the electricity tripped because of someone using a hair straightener and an electric cooker at the same time, and nights when Flat the Cat meowed like it had existential dread—but it was becoming home. Not the home he imagined with soft jazz music, clean walls, and a window view of trees. But a home with loud laughter, burnt Maggi, overly strong coffee, and people who, for all their madness, showed up. Rohan found himself laughing more, worrying less, and even considering writing again. And when one night Tarun brought out a broken guitar and sang an off-key version of Kal Ho Naa Ho while Sowmya clapped along and Leelamma banged a steel bowl in rhythm—Rohan looked around the table, smiled, and realized: this mess, this madness, this PG… was exactly where he was meant to be.
4
It started with a buffering symbol and ended in a full-blown revolution. One unassuming Monday morning, Rohan sat hunched over his laptop, waiting for a client’s logo file to upload. It froze at 37%. He refreshed. Nothing. Reconnected. Still nothing. Meanwhile, in the room next door, Tarun screamed, “What do you mean your internet speed is low? I’m uploading my open mic reel, bro!” From upstairs, Gurpreet bellowed, “This is the third time today my mantras are stuck in between ‘Om’ and ‘Shanti’!” Panic swept through the PG like a dropped samosa in front of Flat the Cat. The WiFi, the sacred invisible thread binding this madhouse together, was under siege. Rohan checked the router—it blinked red, tauntingly. Leelamma was unbothered. “You people depend on WiFi too much. In my day, we depended on faith and DD National,” she declared while chopping beans with terrifying efficiency. Her solution? “Switch it off and on. If that doesn’t work, switch yourselves off and on.”
Attempts to reset the router led to accusations. Gurpreet claimed the router’s aura was “contaminated by dark energy,” offering to cleanse it with incense sticks. Sowmya suspected someone was leeching bandwidth, so she hacked into the admin panel and renamed the network SufferYouFreeloaders_5G. Tarun threatened to write a Twitter thread about digital oppression. Rohan, caught between work deadlines and WiFi tantrums, suggested a practical solution—calling ACT Broadband. Leelamma, however, had a long-standing feud with ACT after one technician had once walked into her prayer room with shoes on. “Over my dead modem,” she said. A war council was formed in the dining room, with whiteboards, Ethernet cables, and printed speed test results. PG Cat chose this exact moment to sit on the router like a Himalayan sage and refused to move, which some interpreted as divine intervention and others as sabotage. A brief truce was declared, and a second-hand range extender was ordered via midnight Amazon. But the delivery guy rang the bell at 6 a.m., waking up everyone, including Leelamma, who promptly accused the entire PG of running a black market cyber café.
The final straw came when Tarun’s YouTube video refused to upload and he dramatically screamed, “This is a violation of my fundamental right to go viral!” In a last-ditch attempt to salvage sanity, Rohan used mobile hotspot to connect his laptop and finished the project while sitting in the corridor near the washing machine. Sowmya, impressed, gave him an approving nod and handed him a samosa. Leelamma, seeing the PG slowly crumble, finally caved—not for the sake of the residents, but because her Smart TV had stopped playing her Malayalam serials. “Fine, get the technician. But if he steps on the prayer mat again, I’ll cut his connection to heaven.” The new router was installed, passwords were reset, and Sowmya added a firewall tighter than her facial expressions. Order was restored. Rohan finally uploaded the logo file. Tarun’s video reached a glorious 212 views. And Cyber Baba went back to meditating in 1080p. In the end, the PG didn’t just survive the WiFi mutiny—it emerged stronger, with faster bandwidth and a new WhatsApp group rule: “No memes during working hours unless they’re spiritual or motivational.” Peace, like the connection, was fragile—but for now, it held.
5
It was a Wednesday morning like any other—chaotic, half-asleep, and heavily caffeinated. The PG inmates shuffled into the dining area one by one, collecting their stainless-steel tiffins packed neatly by Leelamma with what she called “homely lunch, spiced with care and mild resentment.” Rohan had palak paneer, Tarun had egg curry, Sowmya had vegetable biryani (minus the vegetables, by request), and Gurpreet had boiled dal with three almonds—“for ascension.” As per the sacred routine, everyone placed their tiffins in the blue delivery crate near the gate, ready for pickup by the local delivery guy, Murugan, who biked across Koramangala delivering PG lunches to hungry employees. But this time, the crate never left the compound. Around 2 p.m., the first signs of disaster surfaced—Rohan got a text from his client: “Lunch?” Confused, he opened his Swiggy, only to find his backup sandwich still stuck in “preparing.” By 2:30, Sowmya called in from her room with the same complaint: “No lunch. No life.” Gurpreet, who hadn’t spoken in four hours, emerged from his room whispering, “The universe is testing us.” That’s when Leelamma, arms folded and eyebrows raised, announced from the balcony: “The tiffin crate is missing.”
Panic set in. Tarun ran downstairs and returned with breaking news: the crate had vanished. No tiffins. No clue. Only Flat the Cat remained, lounging suspiciously near the now-empty space where the crate once stood. Accusations flew. Rohan suggested the crate might’ve been picked up early. Tarun suspected the delivery guy was kidnapped by a rival PG. Sowmya, tapping furiously on her laptop, declared she’d tracked Murugan’s phone using a “Find My iPhone” hack—except Murugan had a Nokia. Gurpreet blamed the planetary alignment, and Flat the Cat hissed when anyone came too close. Leelamma, unshaken by the chaos, summoned everyone to the hall and turned it into a courtroom. With a kitchen knife in one hand and a tiffin lid in the other, she declared, “We will find the thief. Even if it takes all day. I made beetroot thoran for nothing!” An investigation commenced. Rohan was made note-keeper. Tarun became “chief suspect interrogator.” Gurpreet took charge of spiritual oversight. Sowmya installed a temporary CCTV app using an old smartphone to monitor the main gate footage. By evening, they had one blurry screenshot of a suspicious person in a red hoodie walking away with a silver object. Tarun zoomed into it so hard it looked like abstract art.
Just when tempers were hitting boiling point, a bell rang. A breathless teenage delivery intern stood at the gate holding a crate and mumbling, “Sorry, bhaiya… wrong PG. I gave yours to the aunty next lane who has four cats and thinks every man is her missing nephew.” Leelamma stormed out, tiffins in tow, and returned fifteen minutes later victorious and slightly smug. “I told her those weren’t her cats’ lunches. She said she thought the palak paneer was for ‘Mittens.’” As everyone finally sat down for a late evening meal of reheated love and misplaced spice, the tensions melted. Rohan savored the now-soggy paneer like it was gourmet. Tarun performed a mock TED Talk titled The Tiffin That Almost Broke Us. Sowmya gifted Murugan a reflective badge so he’d “never vanish again,” and Flat the Cat received an honorary tiffin filled with boiled fish and forgiveness. Leelamma, with a sigh of relief and a proud smile, declared: “This is why I never trust people who don’t eat thoran. No sense of values.” In the chaos of daily PG life, where bathrooms flooded and WiFi crashed, the missing lunch had briefly thrown them all into madness. But like every great Indian sitcom, it ended with food, forgiveness, and a lingering suspicion that the cat knew more than it let on.
6
It began with a tap of the thumb and a tragic misunderstanding. One sleepy morning, as the PG WhatsApp group buzzed with its usual madness—Tarun sharing yet another meme about his failed comedy gigs and Gurpreet posting cryptic Sanskrit quotes about detachment—Rohan accidentally long-pressed Sowmya’s message and tapped the “heart eyes” emoji instead of the thumbs-up. The message? “Finished module deployment early. Making dosa for self. Anyone wants?” The heart-eyes emoji blinked ominously on everyone’s screens. Within thirty seconds, Tarun replied with, “Oooooh, romance is brewing faster than Leelamma’s coffee!” Sowmya didn’t respond. Rohan stared at his phone in silent panic, his soul screaming louder than the pressure cooker downstairs. Flat the Cat, ever the bringer of ill omens, chose that exact moment to sit on his keyboard. Desperate, Rohan sent a follow-up message: “Sorry, wrong emoji. Meant to like. I mean… not like like. Just normal like. Not that normal is bad. Ok, I’ll stop.” It only made things worse. Gurpreet sent a voice note that began with a shloka and ended with, “The heart leads where WiFi cannot follow.”
The air in the PG grew thick with awkward glances and overcooked sambhar. Sowmya didn’t speak to Rohan for two days, which was longer than the average peace duration in Leelamma’s household. Tarun began narrating their “love story” at dinner in soap-opera style: “In a world where chutney meets cheese spread, two awkward millennials find common ground in dosa.” Leelamma, oblivious to the digital drama, kept dropping hints in the dining hall: “You both should get married soon. Saves rent. And you’ll get filter coffee lifetime free.” Rohan tried everything—changing his profile pic to a quote about professionalism, avoiding eye contact in the kitchen, even offering Sowmya the last of his Hide & Seek biscuits as a peace offering. Nothing worked. Then, one night during a power cut, as they all sat in the living room fanning themselves with newspapers and phones, Sowmya finally broke the silence. “You’re weird,” she said, looking at Rohan. “But at least you didn’t forward me good morning GIFs. That’s worse.” And just like that, the tension cracked. They both laughed. Rohan dared to ask, “You really making dosa that day or was it bait?” Sowmya smirked, “Maybe both.”
Their relationship—if you could call it that—didn’t become some grand romantic explosion. It unfolded slowly, awkwardly, like two introverts dancing near the edge of possibility. They began sharing midnight snacks more often. She started leaving an extra cup of chai for him. He started picking the chillies out of her biryani without being asked. Tarun noticed first and began composing love shayari. Gurpreet took it upon himself to perform “vibe analysis” through astrology charts. Leelamma, seeing them talking over filter coffee one morning, sighed loudly and declared, “Ayyo, if this turns serious, tell me in advance. I’ll call my cousin who makes the best wedding leaflets.” But Rohan didn’t care anymore. He was happy—confused, uncertain, but happy. Because in the chaos of PG life—where WiFi crashed, bathrooms were battlegrounds, and cats stole socks—there was something quietly beautiful about two misfits finding comfort in each other. Not dramatic, not filmy, but just enough to make the dosa taste a little better.
7
It was meant to be a simple evening—a few songs, some pakoras, and a birthday cake that Leelamma had declared “eggless, guiltless, and gluten-free though no one asked.” But nothing at Leelamma PG ever remained simple. It began when Tarun returned from Brigade Road carrying a second-hand karaoke machine he’d bought for ₹900 after convincing the shopkeeper it was “for emotional therapy, not just noise.” Leelamma, thrilled by the idea of a “PG family night,” declared the living room off-limits for non-participants and turned it into a full-blown stage. She even placed a rangoli near the plug point for “auspiciousness” and covered the karaoke mic in plastic wrap “because COVID taught us cleanliness.” Rohan tried to excuse himself, citing fake client deadlines, but was dragged in by Sowmya, who whispered, “If I have to sing in front of Tarun, you have to suffer with me.” Gurpreet, meanwhile, brought a bell and incense sticks “to cleanse the performance area of negative notes.” Flat the Cat took its usual seat atop the refrigerator, twitching its tail in time with the growing chaos.
Tarun went first, of course, choosing “Chaiyya Chaiyya” and delivering it like a man possessed—complete with table-top dancing and a failed attempt to moonwalk in socks. Leelamma clapped like a proud aunt at a school annual function and yelled, “Wah wah!” so loudly the neighbours texted, “Are you okay?” Sowmya followed next, nervously adjusting her glasses and picking “You Belong With Me” by Taylor Swift, singing it half in English and half in Tamil while hiding behind a pillow. The PG erupted in confused applause, partly out of encouragement and partly because no one expected her to hit the high notes like that. Gurpreet surprised everyone with an original Sanskrit rap about inner peace, beatboxing over a temple bell. “Peace is within, not in WiFi pin / Om om om, I always win.” Tarun declared it “spiritually fire.” Then came Rohan’s turn. Backed into a corner with no escape route and a mic already shoved into his hand, he chose the first song his brain remembered—“I Want It That Way” by Backstreet Boys. He began nervously, cracking on every note, until Leelamma—yes, Leelamma—suddenly joined in. “Tell me whyyyyy,” she belted out, standing on her plastic chair, flipping idli batter with one hand and channeling her inner pop diva. The PG was in shock. Tarun filmed the whole thing. Sowmya choked on her juice. Gurpreet declared this a divine moment. Flat the Cat meowed in harmony.
But the real disaster came the next morning. Tarun, in his infinite wisdom, uploaded the karaoke highlights reel to Instagram with the caption: PG Party Gone Wild (Ft. Aunty’s High Notes and Backstreet Blunders). The video blew up. Within hours, it was shared on local meme pages, sent to unknown relatives, and even reached the WhatsApp group of Leelamma’s church choir, where someone commented, “Sister Leela has hidden talents. Hallelujah.” Rohan, now dubbed “Backstreet Biryani Boy,” became the unwilling face of PG cringe. Leelamma, however, was thrilled. She printed out screenshots of the video and stuck them on the fridge like achievement certificates. “I always knew I was meant for something bigger than sambhar.” Rohan tried to go into hiding, but Sowmya just laughed and said, “Well, at least now you’re famous.” And so, the karaoke night, born out of boredom and stale pakoras, became legend. In a house where the WiFi once caused mutiny and lunch theft nearly tore them apart, it was a viral moment of embarrassing harmony that somehow brought them even closer—off-key, off-beat, and oddly perfect.
8
The announcement came one lazy Sunday morning, sandwiched between the smell of reheated dosa and the low hum of Gurpreet’s morning chants. Rohan stood in the kitchen doorway holding his phone like it was radioactive. “I got the job,” he said, voice flat, unsure whether to grin or gulp. Everyone froze. Tarun dropped his spoon mid-bite. Sowmya blinked twice. Even Flat the Cat paused mid-lick. “Job?” Leelamma echoed from the dining table, frowning like someone had just suggested putting pineapple in sambhar. “Where?” “Mumbai,” Rohan replied. “Starting next month.” And just like that, the countdown began—not just to Rohan’s departure, but to the end of something none of them had seen coming. Tarun immediately began planning a farewell roast (“I already have 27 jokes about your hair and three about your emotional damage”), while Gurpreet offered to bless Rohan’s career path with turmeric, tulsi, and a USB drive full of guided meditations. Sowmya quietly returned his favorite coffee mug to his room without a word. Leelamma said nothing. She simply served him two extra dosas the next morning and muttered, “Eat properly. Mumbai food will make your skin sad.”
As the days passed, everything started to feel like a montage from an overly sentimental indie film. Tarun and Rohan got into a pillow fight over who ate the last of the peanut chikki. Sowmya gifted Rohan a pen and said, “In case you ever feel like writing instead of running away.” Gurpreet gave him a tiny laughing Buddha and said, “Place it on your desk. Or under your pillow. Or both.” Even Flat the Cat began sleeping near Rohan’s suitcase, claiming territorial rights. Rohan, despite the excitement of a stable job and a sea-facing flat, felt a growing unease. Every corner of the PG held a memory—the midnight Maggi sessions, the karaoke disaster, the tiffin war, the endless filter coffee mornings. He packed slowly, carefully, lingering over even the broken chair he used as a clothes stand. Leelamma still didn’t say anything emotional. But every evening, she sat beside him while chopping vegetables and began sentences with, “When you come back on holiday, you will…” Never if, always when. That was her way. On the final night, they all gathered in the living room for one last “PG family dinner.” Tarun gave an emotional speech which started with a joke and ended with a sniffle. Sowmya made pasta. Gurpreet recited a farewell mantra. Leelamma made payasam and insisted, “This is not goodbye. Only interval.”
The next morning, the auto arrived. Rohan stepped out with two bags, one overstuffed with clothes and the other packed with memories—old socks, sticky notes, a cracked coffee cup, and the scent of too much laughter in too small a space. As he hugged each of them goodbye, no one said much. The silence was louder than usual. Sowmya smiled but looked away. Tarun handed him a USB labelled “In Case of Existential Crisis.” Gurpreet pressed his palm to Rohan’s forehead in dramatic blessing. Leelamma handed him a small Tupperware box. “Lemon pickle. Your new PG won’t have this.” Just as Rohan climbed into the auto, Flat the Cat jumped inside and refused to budge. It sat on his lap, purring like it had filed permanent adoption papers. The auto driver sighed, “Saab, cat bhi le jaa rahe ho kya?” Rohan looked at the PG one last time—the peeling walls, the broken nameplate, the chaos within—and said, “Maybe I am.” As the auto pulled away, he didn’t look back. Not because he wasn’t going to miss it—but because he already knew this place, these people, this messy little madhouse called Leelamma PG, had somehow become a part of him that no new city could replace.
_End_
