Chapter 5: The Kitchen Chronicles Begin

My space was about 1.5 metres wide, 1.8 metres long. A perfect rectangle.

It felt less like a room and more like the kind of berth you get in a second-class sleeper—without even a window for company. My knees nearly brushed the walls.

If I really slept here, every time I opened my eyes, the chimney would be grinning at me, oil stains dripping down. Pots and pans would be dancing around, and the occasional bowl would leap to its doom rather than remain whole.

Sticky kitchen tiles clung to my feet, the faint sizzle of leftover tadka lingered, and I spotted a cockroach darting under the fridge as if welcoming me to the neighborhood. The faint smell of haldi and burnt onions clung to the air, a reminder of all the past meals cooked in this tiny space. I could almost hear my Ma’s voice: “Beta, kitchen mein toh bhoot rehte hain raat ko.”

"Isn’t this the kitchen?"

"Uh, yes, technically it’s the kitchen, but the other girls rarely cook. So living here isn’t really a problem."

The words "technically" and "rarely" felt like a cruel joke. In my mind, I saw myself waking up next to yesterday’s curry.

"This bed—is it just a wooden board on top of beer crates?"

"No, it’s on bricks."

No way. I can’t do this.

My inner monologue was screaming, “Bas, ho gaya! Main nahi reh sakta!”

I turned to leave, but the agent hurried to stop me.

"Arrey bhai, think about it—a house full of beauties!"

He was still stuck on that point. Maybe he thought I was some kind of hero from a Bollywood comedy. "Bhai, main Akshay Kumar nahi hoon," I wanted to say.

"Not interested."

"I’ll knock 300 off the rent."

I admit, I was tempted.

A voice inside me said, “Mufat ka toh doodh bhi meetha lagta hai.”

"1,700 a month? Doesn’t sound great."

"Then 1,750."

"Bas karo na."

"Bhai, bhai, 1,650, okay? Baba Ambedkar ki kasam, ask around the whole city—where else can you get a place for 1,650 a month, with water, electricity, and a bathroom? You really won’t find it, main paan box ki kasam khata hoon!"

He put his hand on my shoulder, as if we were brothers-in-arms, fighting against Mumbai rent.

I moved my luggage into the cramped space, pulled out a bedsheet, shook it out, and hung it over the glass door.

For a moment, my feelings were complicated—hard to describe.

Part of me wanted to laugh at the absurdity, part of me wanted to cry. Maybe this was the first lesson of adulthood: adjust kar le, beta.

I took out a cigarette and lit it. Watched the smoke curl up to the ceiling fan and vanish, feeling a wave of homesickness.

The click of my lighter was the only sound. The cigarette’s bitter tang reminded me of home, of lazy afternoons on the terrace, watching clouds drift by.

Knock, knock—someone tapped on the glass.

I pulled back the curtain. It was Priya. Our eyes met, and her cheeks instantly turned red. "Um... you’re smoking..."

She spoke so softly, as if afraid the others would scold her for even speaking to me. Her hands nervously fiddled with the hem of her dupatta, tucking her hair behind her ear in a nervous gesture. Her eyes flicked to my luggage again, as if still deciding if I was trustworthy.

"Oh, I can’t smoke here? Sorry, sorry."

I was about to put it out, but she stopped me and pointed at the exhaust fan.

A small, shy gesture—almost apologetic, as if she didn’t want to inconvenience me, but needed to look after her own health too.

I understood and turned on the fan. Wisps of smoke floated up into the vent, and the rumbling noise grew louder, like an old uncle nearly choked by my cigarette.

The fan shuddered, dust motes dancing in the sunlight. I wondered how many secrets it had already carried away.

After I finished, I tidied up and looked around the living room and bathroom—everything was pretty clean.

Clearly, the girls had a system here—no overflowing dustbins, no hair clogging the drain, no mysterious stains on the tiles. I made a mental note to do my bit.

"Um... in the future... remember to turn on the fan when you smoke. I’m allergic to smoke..."

Her voice was barely above a whisper. The way she glanced sideways, then back at her feet, made her look even younger.

"Okay, okay, I’ll try not to smoke in the room."

"It’s fine. Most people here smoke—only me and one other girl don’t."

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and I could see her relief at my quick agreement.

"Uh, okay." Not bad, I’d have smoking buddies.

Wait. Six people smoke? Did I misunderstand something? Maybe my room isn’t a kitchen at all—it’s a smoking lounge.

In my head, I pictured a shady club from a black-and-white movie, everyone puffing away, sharing stories late into the night.