Aisha Verma Rohan Mehta did not believe in fate. He believed in laundry schedules, strong coffee, and Bluetooth headphones with decent battery life. Apartment 3R—third floor, right—had been his solo kingdom for the past eleven months, ever since he moved into the ageing but oddly charming Amar Residency in Indiranagar. It wasn’t love at first lease, but it was quiet, close to the metro, and—most importantly—his mother had approved of the vastu. It was a Thursday morning, the kind where Bangalore pretends to be cold but isn’t really, when he noticed something odd. As he reached out to pin his…