The Great Indian Flatmate Hunt

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 the previous night (after years of heroic service reheating Maggi and momos), so Mihir, in an act of curious optimism, decided to use the toaster. Yes, the toaster. “Popcorn is just dry corn with attitude,” he had reasoned. “It’ll be fine.” Three minutes later, he wasn’t just wrong—he was spectacularly wrong. Flames shot out from the toaster slots like a budget Diwali rocket, acrid smoke filled the tiny 2BHK, the fire alarm (for once) worked, and his landlord, Mr. Dinesh Rao—a man who wore sunglasses indoors and hated noise more than he hated taxes—stormed in like a Bollywood villain. Mihir, half-dressed, coughing, and holding a scorched toaster like a guilty schoolboy, had little defense. “This is the third time, Sen! Third time! First the flooded bathroom, then the cockroach fogger incident, and now this!” Mr. Rao had yelled, waving his arms like he was summoning demons. “You have till Tuesday. Vacate. Or I call my cousin who’s a sub-inspector.” Thus began the Great Indian Flatmate Hunt.

By Monday morning, Mihir was frantically Googling “Bangalore single room no deposit no advance no blood rituals” while sipping expired coffee and ignoring his boss’s Slack messages. His job as a graphic designer at a tiny ed-tech startup paid him just enough to survive but not enough to thrive, especially not in Koramangala, where even windowless cubbyholes cost more than a Goa weekend. His social circle, which largely consisted of ex-flatmates, Tinder dates who never replied, and the guy who sold him weed, was of no help. One friend offered him a beanbag to sleep on, another tried to rope him into a pyramid scheme in exchange for free rent, and a third was currently living in a PG with thirteen boys and one shared bathroom. Meanwhile, Mihir was being spammed with listings like “Spacious Room for Male Vegetarian Non-Smoker Brahmin Only” or “Sharing Flat with 4 Cats and a Parrot, Must Love Silence.” Desperate, he posted a story on Instagram: “Looking for a room. Must have WiFi and a ceiling. Dignity optional.” To his surprise, responses poured in—not helpful ones, just a flood of memes, roasts, and a cousin’s offer to “come back to Kolkata and work in Papa’s accounting firm.” That evening, while eating banana chips for dinner and debating whether he could shower at the gym without looking homeless, Mihir stared at his suitcase and sighed. He had three days. And no backup plan. Except, maybe, faking a coma.

By Tuesday morning, Mihir had entered what he called “flatmate frenzy mode.” Armed with a spreadsheet, ten bookmarked listings, and enough paranoia to suspect even the cat on the street, he began his expedition. His first visit was to a so-called “creative co-living space” which turned out to be an old bungalow with one working tap, “artistic graffiti” that looked like a child’s tantrum in crayon, and a self-proclaimed startup founder who brewed his own kombucha and believed WiFi was “a capitalist distraction.” The next place had a guy who introduced himself as “a full-time crypto evangelist, part-time bodybuilder” and demanded Mihir’s birth chart before proceeding. One girl insisted on a full NDA because she was working on a “top-secret screenplay based on aliens and Ayurveda.” Then came the horror show: a PG where five boys shared two mattresses and one plate, and the landlord’s idea of cleanliness was sprinkling Ganga water every Sunday. Mihir, by then mentally exhausted and physically traumatised by one too many public bathrooms, began to consider the unthinkable—calling his NRI uncle in Whitefield. The man owned a 3BHK but had rules like “no music after 7 PM,” “lights out by 9,” and “no women in the house unless married.” Mihir imagined dying alone, surrounded by Swaminarayan pamphlets. In one final attempt to salvage his dignity and sanity, he decided to reply to a vaguely normal listing titled “Flat available – no nonsense, no drama, no patriarchy.” He didn’t know what to expect, but at that point, even drama sounded like an upgrade.

He arrived at the listed address—a quiet lane in Indiranagar with bougainvillea spilling over old compound walls and the faint smell of filter coffee in the air. The flat was a modest 2BHK, second floor, and oddly peaceful. The door was opened by Trisha D’Souza, tall, sharp-eyed, and wearing a Guns N’ Roses sweatshirt over pyjama pants covered in legal terms. “You’re here for the room?” she asked without smiling. Mihir, trying to look calm despite the sweat stains and exhaustion, nodded. “I don’t smoke, I only eat meat on weekends, and I can fix WiFi routers in under three minutes.” Trisha raised an eyebrow. “I don’t care about any of that. Can you do your own dishes and respect silence after midnight?” Mihir, suddenly grateful for years of being ignored by his exes, nodded again. The interview lasted exactly six minutes. Justice, her overweight grey cat, walked past Mihir, sniffed his shoe disapprovingly, and went back to sleep. “You seem… tolerable,” Trisha finally said. “You can move in tomorrow. Rent’s non-negotiable. We split groceries. No weird guests. And Justice bites people who lie.” Mihir, for the first time in seventy-two hours, felt an emotion dangerously close to hope. “Deal,” he said. They shook hands. In that moment, neither knew they were about to enter a domestic ecosystem so chaotic, so illogical, that even Justice would eventually give up and sleep in the fridge.

Two

Mihir moved into the Indiranagar flat with the urgency of a man escaping not just eviction, but existential failure. His worldly possessions consisted of one battered suitcase, a laptop adorned with “Design is Love” stickers, a Bluetooth speaker shaped like a pineapple, and a plastic bag full of clothes that smelled vaguely like forgotten hope. Trisha didn’t help him carry anything; she just pointed to the empty room, mumbled something about “coexistence through boundaries,” and went back to her laptop, where Mihir saw at least six different browser tabs open—two legal documents, one YouTube video on constitutional rights, and an Amazon cart containing lavender incense sticks and pepper spray. Justice the cat stared at him from the kitchen counter like a judgmental auntie. The room was functional: bed, cupboard, one window, no curtains, one suspicious crack on the wall that looked like Bengal during Partition. But for Mihir, it was paradise. He unpacked in record time, which is to say he just threw everything on the bed and collapsed on it dramatically. Trisha knocked once, handed him a printed house rule sheet (titled “Non-Negotiables”), and said, “Groceries are split 60–40, because I cook more. We have one cleaning lady—Kamla aunty. She hates men. Don’t provoke her.” Mihir blinked. “Got it. 60–40. Kamla aunty. Silence after midnight.” Trisha nodded and disappeared. Mihir lay back, staring at the ceiling fan that wobbled slightly like a drunken uncle at a wedding, and thought, This might actually work. I didn’t even need to fake a coma.

But like all of Mihir’s optimistic assumptions, this too began to unravel by Day Two. It started with the fridge. A silent war began over shelf space. Trisha had labelled hers: “Top Shelf – Vegan Smoothie Supplies,” “Middle Shelf – Meal-Prepped Boxes,” and “Left Door Rack – For Sauces I Actually Paid For.” Mihir, caught off-guard by such aggressive organisation, placed his humble offerings—leftover pizza, a half-eaten Dairy Milk, and a suspiciously aging pack of eggs—on the bottom shelf and tried to pretend he was invisible. On Day Three, his precious Bluetooth speaker went mysteriously missing, only to be found in the bathroom playing feminist podcasts at full volume. On Day Four, he tried to make noodles at midnight, only to be confronted by Trisha in full courtroom rage mode. “Rule three, Sen. Midnight means silence. Noodles are loud. And Justice has anxiety.” Mihir looked at the cat curled up like a judgemental fur ball and whispered, “You are not the only one, my friend.” Then came the revelation that hit him like a rented lorry—Trisha was not just serious, she was ruthlessly efficient. She worked 14 hours a day, paid her taxes on time, had an emergency fund, and even had a will. Mihir, by contrast, still had a folder named “Important Documents” filled with memes and his 2016 college ID. Over the next week, as he tried to adjust to this disciplined ecosystem, he realized that adulting wasn’t a skill—it was a superpower. Trisha was a mutant. He was still figuring out how to wear socks that matched.

Meanwhile, Mihir’s workplace decided to implode in slow motion. The CEO of his ed-tech startup was now promoting “AI-based yoga for toddlers” and wanted new branding that screamed “spiritual disruption.” Mihir was given three days to come up with logos, mood boards, and a PowerPoint deck explaining how chakra alignment could be gamified. He worked from home, which meant surviving on black coffee, battling slow WiFi, and watching Trisha walk past him in a blur of speed and sarcasm. “You work from that beanbag?” she asked one day, eyeing his low-sitting office setup. “Do you also eat soup with a fork?” Another time she peeked at his screen and said, “If you use Comic Sans again, I will report you to the Ministry of Good Taste.” Despite the jabs, there was an odd rhythm forming. Trisha brewed strong filter coffee at 7 AM every morning. Mihir woke up at 10:30 and stole some. She meditated at 9 PM. He played Lofi beats on his phone and pretended it counted as meditation. Justice would jump on Mihir’s bed at random hours, demand cuddles, and then leave claw marks on his T-shirts. The cleaning lady, Kamla aunty, turned out to be a retired school principal who yelled at Mihir for leaving wet towels on the bed and once told him his aura was “immature.” Despite all this, Mihir began to feel something resembling… stability? At least until his broker called.

His name was Ashok Bhai, but he introduced himself as “Bangalore’s Housing Hulk.” He had been the middleman for Mihir’s last flat, and now, sniffing opportunity like a predator, he had returned with “killer deals.” “Sir, listen na,” Ashok Bhai said over the phone. “One BHK, only 20k, near MG Road. Little haunted, but very Vastu compliant.” Mihir tried to explain that he’d already found a place, but brokers have the persistence of tax collectors and the moral flexibility of reality show producers. “Okay okay, sir. New plan. Co-living flat, only foreigners. Very quiet. You will become more intelligent, sir, just by sharing bathroom.” That afternoon, Mihir made the mistake of humoring him and visited one listing. It was a three-bedroom apartment with six people, a broken fan, and one showerhead that had to be turned on with a spoon. The current flatmate was a Dutch man named Bjorn who spoke five languages but refused to wear shirts. “Sharing space means sharing soul,” Bjorn said while doing headstands. Mihir returned home, opened the fridge, ate a spoonful of Trisha’s quinoa salad by accident, and didn’t even feel guilty. He realized with a strange clarity that his chaotic flatmate, militant cat, and even Kamla aunty’s lectures were now part of his daily story. Maybe that was the secret to surviving adulthood—not having control, but finding someone else who also didn’t have all the answers, and still managed to keep the WiFi running.

Three

It was a rainy Thursday morning when Mihir, half-asleep and fully job-hating, found himself dragged into Trisha’s whirlwind scheme: finding a third flatmate. “Rent’s going up,” she announced over a breakfast of oats, almond milk, and something green that looked like regret. “Unless you’ve invented a way to make money through sarcasm, we need a third.” Mihir, mouth half-full of toast and brain still booting, blinked. “But… we’ve got two rooms.” Trisha pointed a perfectly manicured finger at the study—the room Mihir had assumed was off-limits, like Justice’s litter box or the top shelf of the fridge. “I’m converting the study. Temporary arrangement. We interview today.” And just like that, Mihir was enlisted in the hunt for a stranger who would pay part of the rent, not set the flat on fire, and ideally not believe in flat Earth or Bitcoin evangelism. “Wait,” Mihir paused, “What if we get someone… weird?” Trisha didn’t even look up from her phone. “Define weird. Because so far, the only one who accidentally boiled an egg in the electric kettle is you.” Justice meowed in judgment from under the sofa. The interviews began at noon. Trisha had created a Google Form titled Flatmate Compatibility Audit (Verbal Round), which included questions like “Do you believe deodorant is optional?” and “On a scale of 1 to 10, how aggressively do you reheat fish in shared microwaves?” Mihir wanted to ask if they liked pizza, stand-up comedy, or believed dogs should be allowed to vote. Trisha threatened to evict him if he said anything remotely cute.

The first candidate was a girl named Priyanka who walked in, looked around once, and said, “Oh… this isn’t a rooftop commune?” and left. The second, Manish, was a civil engineer by profession and a conspiracy theorist by passion. “You know,” he whispered, leaning forward, “microwaves alter your third eye. I wear this copper ring to block them.” Mihir, intrigued and slightly terrified, offered him a glass of water. Trisha showed him out within three minutes. Then came Anand, an aspiring stand-up comic who wouldn’t stop doing impressions of Virat Kohli. Trisha was visibly grinding her teeth by the end. “No stand-up comedy inside the house,” she said in a tone that made Mihir hide his old gig tickets. By 4 PM, they were emotionally drained, mildly traumatized, and dangerously close to giving up. “I’d rather sell my kidney on OLX than live with one more crypto bro,” Trisha muttered, sipping her third black coffee. “Even Justice is losing faith in humanity.” The cat sneezed, dramatically. That’s when he walked in—Aarav. Early thirties, tall, linen shirt, carried a steel tiffin carrier and a Kindle. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, smiling. “I had a quantum computing webinar.” Mihir raised an eyebrow. Trisha’s expression was unreadable. Aarav sat down like he’d always lived there. “I’m between cities,” he explained. “I travel for research, consult on sustainability design, and occasionally teach meditation to exhausted techies.” Mihir whispered, “So, like, a monk with a LinkedIn profile?” Trisha ignored him and asked, “Do you smoke? Drink? Snore? Play EDM at midnight?” Aarav smiled serenely. “Only silence. And ambient rain tracks.” Justice leapt onto his lap, purred, and fell asleep. It was the first time that had ever happened.

That night, Mihir sat on the balcony, sipping cold coffee and staring at the Bengaluru skyline that flickered between neon hope and traffic-induced despair. Aarav had moved in with eerie efficiency—his belongings fit into one neat backpack, his food was all home-cooked and smelled like actual nutrition, and he washed his own utensils without passive-aggressive Post-its. Mihir wasn’t sure if he was real or a hallucination sponsored by FabIndia. “You think he’s hiding something?” he asked Trisha. She looked up from her laptop. “Of course. No one is that calm unless they’ve committed at least two financial crimes or lived in an ashram.” Still, Aarav’s presence had a weirdly pacifying effect on the apartment. He played soft instrumental music in the evenings, watered all the houseplants (including the one Mihir thought was plastic), and even fixed the creaky bathroom door. One evening, he taught Trisha a breathing technique that somehow made her less likely to commit murder after 9 PM. Mihir, out of curiosity and mild jealousy, joined Aarav for a meditation session. He lasted three minutes before his thoughts spiraled into whether potato chips could be considered a vegetable. “You are vibrating on a lower frequency,” Aarav had said, not unkindly. “It’s okay. Your journey is beginning.” Mihir wasn’t sure if he was being blessed or diagnosed. But there was something oddly comforting about Aarav’s rhythm—like sharing space with a human mood lamp. Mihir still wasn’t sure if he liked him. But he no longer feared midnight noodles. That had to count for something.

The peace didn’t last long, of course. Because nothing in Mihir’s life ever did. It began with a mysterious power cut that only affected their flat. At 11 PM on a Saturday, while Mihir was trying to stream Die Hard and Trisha was drafting an affidavit, the lights flickered and died. “The fuse?” she asked. Mihir tried the box. Nothing. Aarav lit three candles, placed them in a triangle, and began humming what sounded suspiciously like Sanskrit. “Did you summon the moon?” Mihir asked. Aarav smiled. “Energy is flowing. Trust it.” Trisha called BESCOM. They said the issue was “karmic”—or maybe “transformer-related,” she couldn’t tell over the static. Meanwhile, Justice was chasing shadows and knocking things off counters. At midnight, the three of them sat in candlelight, eating leftover rajma and laughing over the worst flatmate stories they’d ever had. Aarav once lived with someone who tried to build a drone army in the living room. Trisha had shared a hostel room with a girl who stole shampoo and claimed it was “communal property.” Mihir’s worst was a guy who used his towel as a doormat. For the first time, they weren’t just cohabiting—they were bonding. The rain outside grew louder. Justice curled up next to Mihir, perhaps in resignation. Trisha leaned back, watching the candle flicker. “You’re not so bad, Sen,” she said. “You’re chaotic, but at least you’re honest.” Aarav nodded sagely. “Sometimes, good energy doesn’t need order. It just needs intention.” Mihir raised his spoon of rajma like a toast. “To low expectations and working WiFi.” The lights blinked back on. For a moment, everything felt perfectly ridiculous. And almost like home.

Four

To understand Trisha Mukherjee is to accept that control can be an art form. Born and raised in Delhi, law graduate from NALSAR, trained debater, champion of five Model UNs, she had mastered the skill of making a room fall silent with just a single eyebrow raise. Trisha didn’t walk; she arrived—always two minutes early, dressed like she had court in the morning and a protest in the evening. Her voice had that deliberate calm found in seasoned litigators and people who never lose remote controls. Mihir first met her on a sweltering April afternoon, through a Facebook flatmate group that resembled an online fish market with overpriced rooms and underwhelming ethics. Her ad had read: “Looking for flatmate. Gender no bar. Entropy not welcome.” Intrigued, Mihir had shown up at her door wearing an Avengers T-shirt, holding a Subway sandwich, and dripping sweat like a broken tap. Trisha opened the door, scanned him from head to toe like a customs officer, and said, “We’ll start with house rules.” There was no small talk, no chai offered, just a Google Doc titled ‘Flatmate Terms of Engagement – Updated’ shared to his email within minutes. Mihir, desperate and nearly evicted from his previous flat for “chronic vibe disruption,” nodded at everything. Rent split 50/50. Quiet hours post-11. Kitchen hygiene non-negotiable. The cat has emotional priority. That last one confused him. “Cat?” Trisha gestured behind her. Out slinked Justice—her sleek, black-and-white feline, with the cold stare of a retired judge and the grace of a retired ballerina. Mihir sneezed. Trisha raised an eyebrow. “If you’re allergic, I suggest Benedryl or another flat.”

Justice, like his name, was moody, aloof, and ruled the house with claws sharpened by decades of inherited feline superiority. He slept on Trisha’s laundry, stalked the window sills like a panther guarding invisible secrets, and maintained a strict policy of scratching only Mihir’s favorite clothes. But Trisha doted on him with the fierceness of a mother and the precision of a bureaucrat. Morning rituals included brushing his fur (with a brush imported from Finland), feeding him chicken pâté (store-bought but organic), and conducting a 5-minute mindfulness session with whale music to “balance his nervous system.” Mihir, who barely brushed his own hair and sometimes ate Maggi off the lid of a pressure cooker, found the entire arrangement surreal. But he kept quiet. Because this was Trisha’s kingdom. Her room was minimalist—one mattress, one desk, one shelf filled with hardbound books on law, feminism, and one unexpectedly dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice. She didn’t have a TV, but she had three potted plants with names—Ruth, Amartya, and Gloria. Her Sunday afternoons were reserved for laundry, yoga, and ‘rage-cleaning’ the kitchen while listening to Ambedkar podcasts. And yet, amidst this structure, she was also strangely warm. Not in words, but in actions. The first time Mihir fell sick, she handed him a hot water bottle and made a turmeric latte without saying a word. The second time, she left a Post-it on his door: “Drink water. You look like a prune.”

Their dynamic was less roommate and more reluctant co-defendants in the lawsuit of urban living. Mihir, with his freelancing gigs and attention span of a goldfish in a disco, often forgot to take out the trash or left his wet towel on the chair. Trisha would glare, he would mumble an apology, and Justice would hiss. But strangely, over months, a system emerged. Mihir began to learn the rhythms of the flat. He preemptively cleaned the bathroom every second Saturday. He restocked the toilet paper without needing a formal complaint. He even learned to pour cat food with a ceremonial sense of importance. Trisha, in return, softened. Slightly. Once, he walked in on her crying softly while watching an old interview of Ruth Bader Ginsburg. She looked up, mascara streaked and red-eyed, and snapped, “Don’t make it weird.” He didn’t. He just handed her the last piece of dark chocolate from the fridge. Another time, after a long, exhausting day, they sat on the floor and devoured an entire tub of ice cream in silence while Justice snoozed across both their laps. “This city,” Trisha murmured, “wasn’t designed for rest.” Mihir nodded. “Or for men with no health insurance.” They laughed, unexpectedly and loudly. The laughter cracked something open. They never discussed it, but since that day, Mihir noticed her returning his jokes with smirks instead of sighs, and once—just once—she actually laughed at his impression of an HR manager on her fifth cup of chai.

The power dynamic in the house wasn’t equal, but it was stable. Trisha handled the bills, spoke to the society watchman in Kannada, and fought with the broadband company like a warrior queen. Mihir handled the house playlist (under supervision), assembled IKEA furniture without a manual, and made French toast on bad days. Trisha liked boundaries. Mihir ignored them. She made to-do lists. He made excuses. But somehow, the edges blurred without breaking. One Saturday, after a particularly bad week involving late payments, a leaking ceiling, and an argument over who left the bathroom tap running (Justice was the actual culprit), Mihir offered to cook dinner. “You can’t cook,” Trisha said, peering suspiciously at his chopping technique. “I’m evolving,” Mihir replied, slicing mushrooms with the seriousness of a surgeon. Dinner turned out edible. Almost tasty. They ate on the balcony, sipping cheap wine and watching auto-rickshaws dart through the rain. “Do you ever miss Delhi?” he asked. She didn’t answer for a long time. “Only when I’m angry. Delhi gives you space to be furious. Bangalore just makes you passive-aggressive.” Mihir chuckled. “That’s poetic. You should write it on a tote bag.” Trisha smiled. “Maybe I will. After I sue you for eating my hummus again.” Justice meowed in agreement. Mihir raised his wine glass. “To shared hummus, passive-aggression, and the only roommate who’s both a lawyer and a cat mom.” Trisha clinked her glass lightly. “To tolerable chaos.” The city roared beneath them, but their tiny flat, for that one brief night, felt like the most peaceful place in the world.

Five

It started, as all legendary flatmate wars do, with a Tupperware lid gone rogue. Mihir came home late one Thursday night, tired, greasy from a comedy club mic set that had earned three laughs and two pity claps, dreaming of the butter paneer he had lovingly boxed and labeled “Mihir—Touch & Die.” Instead, he opened the fridge to a horror scene: his container sitting open, the once-creamy paneer now floating in an alien liquid that smelled faintly of turmeric, sandalwood, and sorrow. Next to it, in a glass jar labeled “Aarav—Sacred Gut Culture,” a colony of chia seeds swam smugly. Mihir sniffed, recoiled, and declared a code red. “TRISHAA!” he yelled, storming into the living room like a man who’d just witnessed food blasphemy. Trisha, curled up with a Ruth Ware thriller and Justice purring against her ankle, looked up lazily. “What did you destroy this time?” “My dinner,” Mihir replied solemnly, holding up the violated box like a CSI agent. “Aarav’s kitchen karma has officially collided with my butter paneer. We have cross-contamination. Possibly spiritual possession.” Aarav entered the room at that very moment, barefoot, holding a tiny bowl of fermented beetroot. “I believe food absorbs emotion,” he said calmly. “Your paneer seemed… tense.” Mihir blinked. Trisha closed her book. Justice sneezed with perfect timing. “Alright,” she sighed. “We need rules. Because if I find ghee on my almond milk again, someone’s getting disbarred from the fridge.”

Thus began the Great Kitchen Constitution Drafting Day, which felt less like a domestic agreement and more like the Indo-Pak ceasefire of 2003—tentative, fragile, and possibly doomed. Trisha, naturally, assumed the role of Chairperson. A whiteboard was dragged from her room. Mihir brought markers and a bowl of nachos. Aarav lit incense. “Kitchen Rules, Version 1.0,” Trisha announced. “Clause One: All items must be labeled. Clause Two: No overlapping cuisines in shared containers.” Mihir raised a hand. “What if the vibes of my biryani and Aarav’s herbal khichdi want to mingle?” “This is a kitchen, not Tinder for curries,” Trisha shot back. Aarav suggested a color-coded shelf system, to which Mihir protested: “Why am I always stuck with the bottom shelf? I feel like a culinary outcast!” Aarav shrugged. “You keep bread in the freezer, Mihir. That’s serial killer behavior.” Justice, bored, swatted a spoon off the counter and walked away. The next hour involved heated debates on acceptable microwave durations, a near fistfight over the dishwasher schedule (which didn’t exist), and a minor meltdown when Trisha discovered someone had used her Himalayan pink salt for boiling Maggi. “You’re all uncultured!” she exclaimed. “That salt costs more than my old boyfriend’s brain cells!” Mihir, caught mid-slurp, muttered, “Still worth it.” By 11 PM, three adults stood over a fridge that now sported laminated labels, a magnetic calendar, and a solemn oath stuck to the door: “We, the Flatmates of 3B, pledge to maintain peace, flavor, and fridge neutrality.”

Peace lasted a record-breaking six days. On the seventh, disaster struck—again. Mihir, in a sudden health kick inspired by guilt and an Instagram reel, decided to make breakfast smoothies. He dumped bananas, spinach, peanut butter, and exactly one drop of honey (for balance) into Trisha’s blender. Unfortunately, he forgot the lid. One dramatic whirr later, the kitchen resembled a Jackson Pollock painting—if Jackson had painted with kale pulp and banana chunks. Mihir froze. Aarav entered. He surveyed the carnage, nodded, and said, “You’ve upset the alignment of the blender chakra.” Trisha arrived moments later, took one look, and silently opened the cleaning cabinet. For the next 20 minutes, no one spoke. Mihir scrubbed. Trisha wiped cabinets. Aarav burned sage. It was a cleansing in every sense. Later, as they sipped leftover smoothie (Justice refused his), Mihir attempted a joke. “Next time, I’ll let Aarav’s kombucha make breakfast. Maybe it’ll levitate.” Trisha didn’t laugh. But she added an extra line to the kitchen rules: “No smoothie experiments without protective gear.” Aarav smiled serenely and handed her a glass of something purple. “Try this. It balances the liver.” She sniffed it. “Smells like regret and beetroot. I’ll pass.” Yet despite everything—the spice confusion, the passive-aggressive Post-its, the mysterious case of the vanishing garlic—the kitchen became their unlikely place of communion. Somewhere between the dishwasher drama and late-night samosa-sharing, the kitchen transformed from war zone to truce territory. They still bickered, still disagreed on what constituted “clean.” But now, they cleaned together.

It was on one such weekend afternoon, post-cleaning and post-chai, that Trisha declared, “This flat needs a dining table.” Mihir blinked. “What’s wrong with the couch?” “I’m tired of eating like I’m on a first date with Netflix,” she replied. Aarav nodded. “A table grounds intention.” Within hours, they were at IKEA. Mihir got distracted by bean bags. Trisha tried to sue a wobbly chair. Aarav picked a table shaped like a lotus. They settled for a simple round one—affordable, humble, and un-wobbleable. Assembling it took hours, multiple fights over the instruction manual (which Mihir kept upside down), and one accidental hammering of Justice’s tail (he retaliated with scratches on Mihir’s pillow that spelled ‘traitor’ in claw marks). But when the table finally stood—four-legged, sturdy, and centered under their absurd ceiling fan—they all sat around it, exhausted but oddly content. Trisha poured wine. Mihir brought nachos. Aarav made beetroot hummus no one wanted to try. Justice jumped onto a chair and sat like a king presiding over his oddball court. That night, they didn’t talk much. They didn’t need to. The table held it all—the chaos, the compromises, the unspoken rules. And for the first time, it felt like a home built not just from walls and windows, but from mismatched spoons, spilled smoothies, and three people trying very hard not to kill each other before dinner.

Six

It began, like most catastrophes, with an innocent knock. Mihir opened the door to find a woman in oversized sunglasses, glossy suitcase in tow, and a scent trail of vanilla-something lingering behind her. “Hi, I’m Riya. Aarav’s cousin,” she beamed, stepping in as if she’d rehearsed the moment in a Bollywood montage. Aarav emerged from his room like he’d been summoned by a spell. “Riyu!” he said, arms wide. “You made it!” “You didn’t tell us she was coming,” Trisha muttered from the couch, eyes scanning Riya like a scanner at immigration. Mihir, having learned the language of roommate tension, felt the shift in air. Riya, meanwhile, had already occupied the couch, taken off her shoes, and was plugging her phone into the only working charger in the room. “I’m just here for a couple of nights,” she said, grinning. “Maybe three. Or five. It depends on the job interview schedule. Or vibe.” Aarav nodded blissfully. “We have space.” Mihir looked around. “We don’t.” But it was too late. Riya had arrived. With glittering nails, curated playlists, and a voice that could slice through 3-inch concrete. Justice took one look, hissed from under the dining table, and did not reappear for 72 hours.

The first 24 hours passed like a mild thunderstorm. Riya was all chatter, crop tops, and chaos. She colonized the bathroom counter with twelve bottles of serum, two sheet masks, and a jade roller that required refrigeration. Mihir lost all access to hot water. Trisha’s toothbrush vanished. Aarav, naturally, was floating in a cloud of cousin-love and nostalgia, declaring things like “Remember when we used to fight over the blue beanbag!” while Riya played BTS at speaker-shattering volume and did yoga in the hall at 6 AM. Trisha’s restraint lasted until Day 2, when Riya opened the fridge and used her oat milk without asking. “This,” Trisha said, holding the near-empty carton like a prosecutor, “was a war crime.” Mihir tried diplomacy. “She’s just… energetic.” Trisha gave him a withering look. “She’s a Category 4 cyclone in Louboutins.” Riya, oblivious, had also invited a few friends over for drinks. “Just chill wine and chill vibes,” she’d said, casually turning the kitchen into a prosecco battlefield. Mihir’s beer was taken hostage. Aarav made artisanal sangria. Trisha stayed locked in her room, muttering case law to herself. Justice, traumatized by EDM, peed in Mihir’s laundry. No one survived unscathed. By Day 4, the apartment smelled like dry shampoo and existential dread.

It all came to a head on the infamous Frypan Friday, when Riya, in a burst of culinary ambition, decided to make shakshuka. The resulting mess resembled a crime scene from MasterChef: Apocalypse Edition. Tomato splatters on the ceiling, eggshells on the cat, a burnt frying pan that once belonged to Trisha’s mother. When Trisha discovered the scene, she said nothing. She merely stared at the pan, then at Riya, then back at the pan. “You know,” she said calmly, “in some jurisdictions, this would qualify as arson.” Riya laughed. “Relax, it’s just breakfast.” Mihir winced. Aarav started to explain that tomatoes are healing, but Trisha held up one finger. “If one more egg touches this kitchen, I will draft an eviction notice so brutal, it’ll be studied in law schools.” Riya blinked. “Wow, intense. You need to sage your aura.” Justice jumped on the counter and knocked over a salt jar, as if in protest. Mihir attempted to mediate. “Maybe she can stay at a friend’s?” “I am the friend,” Aarav said, visibly torn between loyalty and his own rising discomfort. That evening, a flat meeting was called. No snacks. No smiles. Just three exhausted adults and a cat who hadn’t purred in days. Trisha laid it out: “You have 24 hours.” Riya shrugged. “Fine. I’ve been meaning to try Koramangala anyway. The vibe here is a little… judgey.”

When she finally left the next morning, suitcase rolling behind her like a defeated general’s drum, the apartment sighed in unison. Mihir lay flat on the carpet. Aarav lit incense. Trisha made coffee so strong it could wake ancestors. “I didn’t know whether to hug her or call the police,” Mihir muttered. Trisha looked at Aarav. “You owe us. Deeply.” Aarav, looking ten years older, nodded. “I will clean the bathroom. Forever.” Justice reappeared at dusk, took one sniff of the air, and leapt onto the dining table like a king reclaiming his kingdom. Peace returned—tattered, but intact. The cushions were rearranged. The frypan was mourned but forgiven. And as they sat together that night, sharing leftover pizza and silence, Mihir raised his glass and said, “To future guests—may they all come with return tickets.” Trisha smiled. Aarav groaned. Justice purred. The flat, at long last, had exorcised its glittering demon.

Seven

It all began with a single swipe. Mihir, having recovered from Riya’s tornado-like visit, found himself in bed one lazy Sunday, spooning popcorn into his mouth and doom-scrolling through his dating app of choice: Flare. A swipe here, a “meh” there—until he stumbled upon someone who looked suspiciously familiar. “Trisha, is that… you?” he yelled from his room. No answer. He stormed into the hall, phone outstretched. “Explain this betrayal!” Trisha, sipping iced coffee and buried in legal paperwork, glanced at his screen. “Yes, that’s me. It’s called being an adult human.” “But—why would you use the same app as me?!” Mihir squawked. “You’ve just turned this into Game of Thrones. What if we both match with the same person?” Trisha rolled her eyes. “Then that person would die of exhaustion.” Aarav, sitting cross-legged in a patch of sun, added serenely, “I too have joined Flare. It’s good for understanding modern relationship energies.” Mihir choked on a popcorn kernel. “Is this flat turning into a reality show? Next week: Flatmates Fight for the Same Date—Justice judges them all.” The cat flicked his tail smugly. By evening, all three were swiping furiously on their respective devices, occasionally pausing to shriek “Wait, I saw him first!” and accusing each other of bio-plagiarism. It was supposed to be harmless. It was not.

Things took a sharp left when Trisha matched with a man named Neil. Lawyer, well-read, vaguely pretentious, but devastatingly attractive. “We’re meeting Friday,” she declared, smoothing her hair and polishing her rage-filled earrings. Mihir, meanwhile, was spiraling into his own Flare adventure—he had matched with a woman named Aanya, whose profile described her as “sarcastic, spiritual, and slightly allergic to bullshit.” Their chat was electric, their memes perfectly aligned, and he was convinced this could be real. “We’re meeting Saturday,” he said, puffed up. Aarav, still unmatched, declared dating apps shallow and retreated to brew herbal rose tea. Justice joined him in silent judgment. Friday night came, and Trisha stepped out in black jeans, red lipstick, and the aura of someone prepared to cross-examine a man for his political opinions over dinner. Mihir sat at home, playing FIFA and pretending not to care. But then something odd happened—Trisha returned early. “What happened?” Mihir asked. “Was Neil a fraud?” Trisha looked shaken. “Neil,” she said slowly, “is a talker. He monologued about blockchain for twenty-three uninterrupted minutes. I timed it. I could smell his cologne through my garlic bread.” She collapsed on the couch. “And I think he tried to mansplain murder law to me. I wish I were joking.”

But the real chaos unfurled the next night. Mihir dressed up—shirt ironed, shoes polished, breath mint tested on Justice. He left early to meet Aanya at a quirky café known for its overpriced brownies and intense lighting. Thirty minutes later, his phone buzzed. It was Trisha. “Where are you?” He texted back: “On a date. Big moment. Do not sabotage.” Pause. Then Trisha called. “Mihir,” she said, “what’s the name of the girl you’re meeting?” “Aanya.” Silence. “Full name?” Mihir hesitated. “Aanya Kapoor.” Another pause. “You idiot,” Trisha said. “That’s Neil’s ex-girlfriend. I just saw her on Instagram. She dated him for five years, and they broke up last week. You’re probably her rebound.” Mihir blinked as Aanya approached his table, smiling like nothing was wrong. “I have to go,” he whispered. “Send help.” The date was fine. Too fine. Aanya laughed too hard, leaned in too much, spoke about Neil just enough to make it awkward. Mihir tried to steer the conversation toward films. She steered it toward therapy. By dessert, Mihir felt like a walking TED Talk on emotional baggage. He returned home defeated. Trisha sat waiting, wine glass in hand. “So?” she smirked. “Did she cry?” “She cried and made me listen to a voice note from her ex. I think I’ve been spiritually de-aged,” Mihir muttered. Justice jumped on his lap in sympathy.

The next morning, Aarav burst into the hall with the glee of a man who had discovered fire. “I have matched!” he announced. “With a woman named Janhavi. She raises rescue iguanas and performs spoken word poetry.” Mihir and Trisha groaned. “Please tell us she’s not related to Neil,” Trisha muttered. “Or Aanya,” Mihir added. Aarav ignored them and began preparing for his date—which involved steaming his kurta, meditating for fifteen minutes, and consulting his tarot deck. But the date never happened. Janhavi canceled last minute, citing “chakra dissonance and monsoon-induced melancholy.” Aarav solemnly blamed Mercury retrograde. That night, the three flatmates gathered on the couch, phones tossed aside, takeaway boxes in hand. “Maybe we’re not built for modern love,” Mihir sighed. “Or maybe,” Trisha said, “we just live in Bangalore, where everyone has a podcast and unresolved trauma.” Aarav nodded. “The heart is a fickle tandoor.” Justice meowed, unimpressed. They clinked their glasses—coffee, wine, herbal tea—and agreed: dating could wait. Friendship, however messy, was safer. For now. The apartment exhaled in contentment, even as Mihir’s phone buzzed with a new Flare match. He looked at it, smirked, and hit ignore.

Eight

It began with a flicker—a small, innocent buffering symbol on Mihir’s laptop screen. One second he was watching an office drama on YouTube, the next, the screen froze mid-sarcastic-smirk, and his world tilted off its axis. “No. No. Don’t you dare,” he whispered at the router, blinking in the corner like a dying firefly. In the living room, Trisha screamed. “My client meeting just froze mid-share screen!” Aarav, from his room, bellowed like a mythological sage in crisis, “My meditation livestream has turned into pixelated purgatory!” Justice, the cat, swatted at the blinking lights on the modem with suspicion. And thus began the most passive-aggressive war the flat had ever seen. The Wi-Fi had become unreliable, moody, and clearly biased. Mihir swore it worked better when Trisha was angry. Aarav claimed it disconnected only during moments of spiritual awakening. And Trisha, seething with unshakeable legal fury, threatened to sue the ISP on charges of emotional damage and digital negligence. The flat was no longer a home. It was a battleground for bandwidth.

In the absence of stable internet, tempers ran wild. Mihir attempted to hotspot from his phone, only to discover that Trisha had already connected three devices to his network. “I PAY FOR DATA,” he shouted, clutching his phone like it was a rationed water bottle in a desert. Trisha didn’t even look up. “My meeting is with a partner at a Supreme Court firm, Mihir. You can watch your dog videos later.” “They’re therapy videos!” he barked. Meanwhile, Aarav had taken to meditating near the router, chanting softly in Sanskrit while holding up crystals to “stabilize energy flow.” When Mihir asked if that was working, Aarav calmly replied, “The router blinked in rhythm with my breath once. That’s a sign.” Tensions mounted when Trisha tried to secretly order a second router and have it installed in her room. Mihir intercepted the technician at the door and offered him tea in exchange for information. “They’re plotting a private connection,” he hissed to Aarav, who immediately began work on a handmade “Flatmate Wi-Fi Constitution,” which included Article 4: Equal Access for All Devices, and a warning in Sanskrit that loosely translated to “he who throttles shall be throttled.”

By Day Four, a cold silence fell over the flat. Every person had chosen their digital hill to die on. Mihir set up his desk practically inside the modem cabinet. Trisha developed a legal-looking spreadsheet tracking “bandwidth hogging.” Aarav went rogue and claimed he had tapped into the neighbor’s Wi-Fi using spiritual focus and a bamboo flute. (He hadn’t—it was just a forgotten login from a party.) Justice, sensing revolution, refused to sit on anyone’s lap. A ceasefire was only declared when Mihir’s mother called and scolded all three for acting like “data-deprived donkeys” instead of mature adults. “Just buy a better plan and split the bill, na?” she scolded. They stared at each other in silence. No one had considered the obvious. Trisha broke first. “Fine. We upgrade. But I want password control.” Mihir countered, “We use my Airtel account. I get priority.” Aarav added, “And I get to name the new Wi-Fi. Something sacred. Like Routeramayana.” Trisha sighed. “You’re impossible.” Mihir grinned. “But connected.” Aarav high-fived them both, and thus peace was brokered—not through negotiation or diplomacy, but by mutual exhaustion and the promise of 200 Mbps.

The new router arrived like a beacon of modern civilization. It was sleek, shiny, and strong enough to stream three YouTube videos, a Netflix thriller, and a Spotify sitar session simultaneously. Mihir danced with joy. Trisha ran speed tests like a woman possessed. Aarav burned incense in its honor. Justice purred and finally returned to his favorite laptop bag. That night, the flatmates gathered on the sofa with snacks and a sense of pride. They streamed a documentary on digital addiction just to be ironic. “To peace,” Mihir toasted. “To speed,” Trisha added. “To Routeramayana,” Aarav whispered. But deep in the corner of the living room, a small blinking light on the old router flashed red. Forgotten. Angry. Vengeful. Justice stared at it warily. The war was over—for now. But in the world of shared flats, even the strongest signal can drop without warning. And when it does, the true test of friendship is not love, nor loyalty. It is whether someone lets you use their hotspot.

Nine

The flat was dying. Slowly, tragically, and one unwashed mug at a time. Plates with fossilized curry formed geological layers in the sink. Dust bunnies rolled like tumbleweeds across the hall. Something green and mildly sentient had started growing inside Aarav’s forgotten smoothie bottle, and Justice had stopped walking on the kitchen tiles out of protest. Trisha, who had long accepted a certain level of urban squalor as the price of shared living, finally snapped when she stepped on a sticky puddle near the fridge and her slipper stayed there. “That’s it!” she declared. “We’re doing a Deep Clean.” Aarav looked up from his corner yoga session and said, “Let’s clean our inner spaces first.” Trisha threw a dirty fork at him. Mihir, hearing the commotion, poked his head out of the bedroom, eyes glazed from a ten-hour gaming session. “What’s happening?” Trisha pointed at the fridge with legal intensity. “You are all accessories to domestic negligence.” Aarav blinked. Mihir blinked slower. “We’ll make a plan,” Trisha said, already pulling out a whiteboard, three markers, and what looked like a laminated weekly rota of doom.

The conspiracy began when the chore chart was unveiled. Trisha had created a color-coded masterpiece of militant efficiency. Mihir was on bathroom duty. Aarav was assigned kitchen counters and fridge. Trisha herself had taken floors and common areas—mainly to supervise. Aarav squinted at the board. “Why is Mihir on toilet cleaning three times but you only have one window wipe?” Trisha didn’t blink. “Seniority. And I’m the only one who owns Dettol.” Mihir protested. “You’re literally making us scrub the floor while you hum to Spotify and sip iced coffee.” Trisha smiled. “It’s called delegated leadership.” What followed was a week of rising tensions and passive-aggressive sabotage. Mihir ‘accidentally’ dropped shampoo bottles everywhere after bathroom duty. Aarav replaced Trisha’s scented mop solution with rosewater “to align the energies.” Justice, sensing chaos, contributed by dragging dead lizard parts onto the welcome mat. On Friday, Trisha returned from court to find Mihir napping on the freshly mopped floor with a cold bottle of Thumbs Up and a towel on his face. “This is not how deep cleaning works,” she hissed. Mihir groaned. “This is how burnout works.”

The truce finally shattered during the Great Vacuum Incident. Trisha, enraged at the cat hair carpeting the rug, ordered Mihir to vacuum while she sanitized the couch. Mihir complied—half-heartedly. Unfortunately, the ancient vacuum had two modes: “Suck Nothing” and “Suck Everything.” It inhaled a sock, a USB cable, and Justice’s favorite toy mouse within ten seconds. Justice retaliated by pouncing on Mihir mid-operation, claws out. Mihir yelped, flailed, and accidentally knocked over Aarav’s incense tray, scattering ash across the entire room. Aarav emerged from the kitchen holding an empty fridge drawer and howled. “My alfalfa sprouts! My cheese alignment!” Trisha screamed. Mihir ran. Justice climbed the curtains. The vacuum cleaner wheezed once, then died permanently. The house was a warzone, and all dreams of cleanliness drowned in cat fur and shattered expectations. That night, they sat in silence around a pizza box, exhausted. “I tried,” Trisha whispered, staring at a fallen sponge like it was a war comrade. “We were not meant for neatness,” Aarav admitted. “Chaos is our natural scent,” Mihir sighed. Justice purred, victorious.

But something changed after that disaster. Maybe it was the collective trauma. Maybe it was the guilt of seeing a toothbrush floating in the toilet (Mihir never admitted how it got there). But slowly, organically, they began to clean—not because of a chart, but because the flat had become part of them. Aarav began lighting incense before every dishwashing session, calling it “purification.” Mihir, surprisingly efficient at organizing, created a snack shelf that even Trisha complimented. Trisha, in return, stopped using legal jargon as threats and started baking banana bread, winning goodwill and subtle forgiveness. They found a rhythm. The flat became… livable. Maybe even nice. And one Sunday afternoon, as sun filtered through freshly wiped windows and Justice napped on a clean cushion, they sat together, tea in hand, and marveled. “We did it,” Mihir said. “We survived cleaning.” “No, I survived you two,” Trisha corrected. Aarav smiled. “Clean house, clean karma.” Justice twitched his tail and knocked a coaster off the table. The great clean-up had ended, not with bleach, but with balance. Until next month’s dust storm, of course.

Ten

It started with a note. A passive-aggressive, emotionally ambiguous Post-it stuck to the fridge in Trisha’s unmistakable block-cap handwriting: “STOP EATING MY GREEK YOGURT – I KNOW IT’S YOU.” Mihir read it three times, insulted that the yogurt thief was assumed to be him, and also mildly confused because he hated Greek yogurt. He stormed into the hall where Trisha sat cross-legged with her laptop, working on something mysterious and clearly judgmental. “I am lactose-intolerant in principle,” he announced. Trisha didn’t look up. “Which means you definitely ate it out of spite.” Aarav wandered out of his room, holding a turmeric face mask and looking aggrieved. “Why is there so much anger in the milk products of this house?” That morning, what began as a misunderstanding escalated into a symphony of silent treatment, door slams, and fridge rearrangements. Aarav declared himself Switzerland and moved Justice into his room “until peace is restored.” Mihir launched a counterattack by changing the Netflix password. Trisha retaliated by hiding the house Wi-Fi password behind a riddle involving three Supreme Court judgments and the year of GST implementation.

By midweek, the apartment was divided into warring zones. The kitchen became a neutral battlefield where eye contact was avoided and utensils were labeled with initials. Mihir adopted the toaster. Trisha monopolized the blender. Aarav brewed mysterious teas in silence. The bathroom had its own schedule: Mihir from 8:00 to 8:20, Trisha from 8:21 to 8:45, and Aarav when “the moon feels calm.” Justice, unimpressed, left passive-aggressive fur on everyone’s pillows. The final straw came when Mihir accidentally used Trisha’s expensive shampoo, thinking it was “organic kitchen soap.” She burst into his room at midnight wielding the half-empty bottle like a weapon. “This costs more than your emotional depth!” she screamed. Mihir, holding a game controller, yelled back, “You’re turning this place into North Korea with conditioner!” Aarav attempted to intervene with calming chants and a cucumber slice in each hand, but no one was in the mood for herbal diplomacy. At 2 a.m., Trisha packed a suitcase and declared, “I’m moving out. Congratulations, boys, you win your frat house.” Mihir, momentarily stunned, shouted back, “Fine! I’ll convert your room into a library-slash-podcast studio!” Aarav sat down with Justice in his lap and muttered, “This is why my previous roommates were Himalayan goats.”

But in the harsh morning light, something shifted. Trisha’s room, half-packed and unusually quiet, felt wrong. Mihir stared at the empty shelf where her judgmental plants once sat. Aarav missed her overcritical analysis of his tea infusions. Justice tried scratching on her locked door. The silence grew heavy, not peaceful. Around noon, Mihir made peace muffins (store-bought, but still) and slid a note under her door: “I still didn’t eat your yogurt. But I might have used your loofah once. Sorry. Come back?” She didn’t reply. Aarav went next with a poetic Post-it: “Flatmates are temporary. But grudges cause acne. Forgive and return.” Silence again. But that evening, Trisha emerged, suitcase still by the door. She sat silently on the couch, took a muffin, sniffed it, and said, “These are from Megabake, not homemade. But thanks.” Mihir exhaled. Aarav brought her a peace tea. Justice climbed into her lap. “This flat’s a mess,” Trisha murmured. “But it’s our mess,” Mihir offered. She rolled her eyes. “Let’s make rules. Like, actual ones.” Aarav smiled. “Chore chart v2?” “Chore democracy,” Trisha corrected.

And so, balance returned—not perfect, but real. The new flatmate constitution included weekly clean-ups (non-negotiable), shared snack shelves (with diplomatic labeling), and a group therapy movie night every Friday where feelings were processed through dramatic Bollywood dialogue. Mihir stopped using sarcasm as a defense mechanism—well, mostly. Trisha learned to let go of yogurt. Aarav agreed to limit his flute playing to daylight hours. Justice, eternal and aloof, approved silently. The final scene of their story wasn’t dramatic, nor explosive. It was three people—comically mismatched, gloriously dysfunctional—sharing a couch on a Saturday morning, eating leftover pizza, arguing over whose turn it was to vacuum, and laughing too hard when Aarav declared, “The floor is clean because I have cleansed it spiritually.” The war was over. The feud had faded. And somehow, despite all odds, they had become a team. Not perfect, not always harmonious, but unmistakably—and hilariously—a family.

***

Three months later, the landlord called. He sounded cheerful, which was immediately suspicious. “Hello beta, just reminding you—your lease ends next week!” Trisha nearly dropped her coffee. Mihir choked on cereal. Aarav blinked thrice and whispered, “The end is near.” Panic spread like undercooked biryani. They had survived Wi-Fi wars, bathroom battles, chore conspiracies, and one near-catastrophic fondue night. But the idea of not living together? That hit differently. They convened for an emergency flatmate summit, complete with banana chips and a spreadsheet titled “Operation: Re-Lease or Release?”

Each had options. Trisha had an offer to move in with two junior lawyers in a ‘quiet’ flat that came with a no-pet policy. Mihir’s cousin offered him a bachelor pad with a gaming rig but no kitchen. Aarav’s yoga mentor offered a hut in Rishikesh with a goat named Prasad. They looked at each other, at their scuffed table, their too-small fridge, their weirdly spiritual cat… and said nothing. Then Mihir muttered, “The Wi-Fi here is finally stable.” Aarav added, “The house spirits have accepted us.” Trisha took a long breath and said, “Fine. But this year, we label the food properly.”

And so, the lease was renewed. A little wiser, slightly cleaner, and still just as weird. The flat lived on—not perfect, but perfectly them. Somewhere in the corner, Justice flicked his tail and approved. Probably.

 

THE END