The Lounge Bar 

The soft thrum of EDM played under the laughter and clinking glasses. A dimly lit rooftop lounge buzzed with the Friday night crowd — influencers taking selfies, finance bros arguing over crypto, and clusters of friends winding down from the week.

Vaibhav Bajaj leaned back in a high-backed barstool, sleeves rolled to his elbows, sipping a whiskey on the rocks. His usual polished demeanor was intact — neat, sharp, unreadable. But tonight, his two oldest friends weren’t letting him stay quiet for long.

“Bro, don’t lie — she was totally into me,” said Nakul, tossing back a shot.

“Please. She asked me for my number,” countered Aditya, smirking. “She even followed me on Instagram right after. That’s basically a proposal these days.”

Vaibhav rolled his eyes, half-smiling.

“You two fight like schoolboys. One girl shows a little interest and you both think it’s eternal love.”

“At least we have love lives!” Aditya shot back. “You’re what — twenty-six now? Running a business empire, yes. But bro... single as a government printer.”

Nakul leaned in, grinning. “Exactly. CEO by day, monk by night. What’s going on, Vaibhav? When are you getting a girlfriend?”

Vaibhav took a slow sip, his gaze flicking out to the city lights before he replied, voice cool.

“Later.”

Both friends blinked.

“Later?” Nakul repeated. “That’s it?”

Vaibhav shrugged.

“Right now, my focus is on the business. We’ve got two major expansions lined up, a global merger in six months, and my family depends on me to steer all of it. Relationships can wait.”

Aditya whistled.
“Man’s treating love like an investment portfolio.”

Nakul raised an imaginary glass. “To Vaibhav Bajaj — married to the market.”

They all chuckled.

Vaibhav’s smile faded just a bit, and he looked down at the glass in his hand.

“When I do get into something... it won’t be casual.”
“Ohh...” both friends said in unison, mockingly dramatic.
“So we’re waiting for The One, huh?”

Vaibhav smirked, not answering directly.
Instead, he looked up again, eyes distant for a moment — and just for a flicker, an image of a certain sharp-eyed doctor shouting on the street that morning flashed through his mind.

He shook it off.

“Anyway. You guys enjoy your love stories. I have an early morning call with Singapore.”

Aditya groaned. “Buzzkill.”

Nakul slapped his back. “But still — respect, bro. One day, though, someone’s gonna walk into your schedule and turn it upside down.”

Vaibhav laughed, deep and brief.
“We’ll see. She’d have to be pretty damn extraordinary.”

As they clinked glasses and turned to order another round, Vaibhav's phone buzzed on the bar.

Vaibhav's phone buzzed again.
This time, it was a message from Utkarsh:

“Bhai, when are you coming back? Bari Ma was asking.”

Vaibhav stared at the screen for a second, the weight of family expectations pressing in again. The brief peace of the lounge felt like borrowed time.

He typed back:

“Will come soon.”

He locked the screen, slid the phone into his pocket, and exhaled slowly.

Nakul noticed.
“Family drama?”

Vaibhav nodded slightly.
“When is it not?”

Aditya raised a toast.
“To love, fish fights, and never being truly off duty.”

Vaibhav clinked glasses, managing a wry smile.
“Cheers to that.”

Next day,

The community hall of Saraswati Residency hadn’t been this full since the Diwali tambola night.

Plastic chairs screeched against tiled floors as residents filed in, fanning themselves with newspapers and muttering under their breath. At the front, a long plastic table was set up with the housing society's Secretary, Mr. Talwar, already looking exasperated as he organized his notes.

In bold marker on the whiteboard behind him:

"SOCIETY EMERGENCY MEETING — Agenda: Bajaj vs. Roy"

Near the back, a frazzled Mrs. D’Silva muttered to her husband,
“I came here for peace and pension. Not daily fish fights and gourd wars!”

A few chairs down, Mr. Mehta, the retired bank manager, folded his arms.
“Honestly, this isn’t a society anymore. It’s a battlefield.”

Finally, Mr. Talwar stood, tapping the mic. “Testing, testing—ha! Good morning, everyone. Thank you for coming at such short notice. As you all know, yesterday’s... incident... was the last straw.”

A loud sigh passed through the room.

“Every other week,” he continued, “we have complaints. Shouting across gates. Food deliveries being accused of espionage. Public insults about onions, Tagore, and apparently... diabetes.”

A few people chuckled.

Mrs. D’Silva raised her hand.
“Last week, I was on a video call with my daughter in Canada. The Roys and Bajajs started shouting again and my Alexa thought it was an emergency and called the police!”

Laughter erupted. Even Talwar cracked a smile before holding up his hand.

“We are not here to mock anyone. But this is a residential community. Not a daily soap opera.”

Right on cue, the Bajaj family arrived, led by Mahendra Bajaj, wrapped in his shawl like armor. Behind him: Yamini, looking dignified but visibly tense, and Vaibhav, expression unreadable, phone in hand.

From the opposite entrance, the Roy family walked in: Durga Prasad Roy at the front with his walking stick, followed by Bhumi, Mahua, and a very sleepy-eyed Dhruva still chewing a mishti from breakfast.

All eyes turned.

Talwar cleared his throat.
“Ah. The honored guests.”

Mahendra immediately began:
“We were not informed about this meeting properly. This seems like a setup.”

Durga Prasad shot back,
“Setup? You think the whole society has nothing better to do than conspire against your lauki?”

Talwar raised both hands. “Gentlemen, please. This is exactly what we need to discuss.”

“With pleasure,” said Mrs. D’Silva, standing up again.
“We can’t take this anymore. Every day, there’s yelling. Our kids are scared to play in the courtyard. Delivery men avoid this lane like it’s cursed.”

“Even the sabziwala switched to the next society,” someone added.

Talwar read from a list:

1. Three noise complaints in one week
   
   

2. Two incidents of “verbal assault by vegetable”
   
   

3. One accusation of “fish as cultural sabotage”
   
   

Talwar looked up. “What even is that?”

No one answered. Vaibhav rubbed his forehead.

“So,” Talwar concluded, “the society is proposing a few new rules: no shouting across balconies, no deliveries without labels, and—this is serious—no public confrontations. Or we start issuing formal warnings.”

Yamini stood, graceful but firm.
“Mr. Talwar, we are not troublemakers. But we also cannot be blamed for every mishap. The Roys provoked us.”

Bhumi immediately rose.
“Oh please! We didn’t throw the fish over the wall! It was a mistake!”

Deepali (from the back):
“Then stop acting like your fish is holy water!”

Durga Prasad:
“And stop acting like your gourd is the Kohinoor diamond!”

The hall erupted again.

Vaibhav stood suddenly, voice calm but commanding.
“Enough.”

The room fell silent.

He turned to Talwar.

“We understand the society’s concern. And I, for one, am willing to respect the rules. No more drama. From us, at least.”

Eyes turned to the Roy side.

Mihiksha, who had just arrived from her shift, stepped forward quietly.
“Same here. We’ll keep to ourselves. As long as they do too.”

A pause.

Mahendra and Durga Prasad grumbled but nodded.

Talwar clapped his hands. “Wonderful. Then let’s end it here before this becomes Part Two of Mahabharat.”

As people began filing out, murmuring, Mrs. D’Silva whispered to her husband:
“It’ll last two days. Maximum.”

Roy Residence – Later That Day

The air inside the Roy household was thick with frustration — and the lingering smell of fried brinjal and mustard oil.

Durga Prasad Roy slammed his walking stick down beside the dining table as he sat, muttering to himself.

“Gourd diamonds, holy fish — the man has lost his mind!”

His sons, Santanu and Anirban, sat across from him, both equally flustered.

“Baba, they made it look like we’re the problem! In front of the entire society!”

“And Vaibhav Bajaj — did you see the way he talked? Like he’s addressing a boardroom, not neighbors.”

Durga Prasad grunted.
“That boy has no idea what respect means. Raised with money, not manners.”

From the kitchen, Bhumi emerged, rolling up her sleeves.
“And Yamini! So calm and smug, as if their house is the temple of peace and we’re running a fish bazaar.”

Mahua added sharply.
“They said we provoke them. Hah! As if we don’t have better things to do than throw potatoes at their gate.”

Durga Prasad leaned forward, voice rising:
“ENOUGH. This is not just about vegetables anymore. This is about our reputation. They want to humiliate us publicly, then pretend to be noble? No. We cannot let them win.”

Ipsita nodded.
“We need to give them one solid reply. Something that shuts them up for good.”

Bhumi, fiery as ever.
“We’ll organize our own society event. Invite everyone. Show them how cultured we are.”

“Or we lodge a complaint of our own — reverse the blame.”

Mahua spoke.

“Or we just start throwing fish again…”

Dhruva is mumbling with a mishti in his mouth.

Everyone turned to him. He froze mid-bite.

But then, quietly, from the corner, a voice broke through — soft, steady, and unexpected.

Ipsita, who had been silent all this time, looked up from her knitting, her tone calm.

“Why not let them burn out on their own?”

They all blinked.

“What?” Durga Prasad asked, confused.

Ipsita put her knitting down, meeting their eyes one by one.

“Why fight fire with fire? They shout, we shout louder — it goes in circles. We end up looking just as bad.”

“So you’re saying… we just do nothing?”

Santanu frowned.

“No. Dada ,I’m saying, let’s act better. Kinder. Polite. Unshakeable.”

Ipsita smiled faintly.

“You want us to play nice?”

Anirban raised an eyebrow.

“Exactly,” Ipsita said.
“In front of the society, we become the calm, graceful family. Respectful. Peaceful. The opposite of them. While they keep fighting, we win everyone’s sympathy.”

A pause.

“Actually… that could work.”

Bhumi slowly sat down.

Mahua’s eyes lit up.
“Yes. Let them yell. We smile. Let them accuse. We host pujas and sing Rabindra Sangeet.”

Dhruva, impressed.
“Turn the whole society against them without even raising our voices. Brilliant Maa.”

Ipsite smiled in proud.

Durga Prasad finally nodded.
A proud smile cracked across his face.

“Haan… yeh toh ekdum Chanakya neeti hai. Bahu”

Ipsita picked up her knitting again.
“Yes Baba , Sometimes the best way to win a war… is not to fight it the way your enemy expects.”

Afternoon

The local bazaar near Saraswati Residency was buzzing — vendors shouting offers, auto rickshaws honking, and the smell of freshly roasted corn and incense blending in the air.

Yamini Bajaj, flanked by her daughters-in-law Dhriti and Deepali, strolled through the colorful chaos, gold bangles jangling as she picked out vegetables with practiced authority.

“Don’t take that karela,” Yamini said, eyeing a basket. “It’s been kept out too long. And beta, remember — always check coriander by smell, not look.”

Dhriti nodded. Deepali rolled her eyes slightly, half-smiling.

Just then, a giggle rose from behind them.

They turned.

Walking down the opposite side of the street were Mihiksha Roy — dressed simply in jeans, kurta, and stethoscope still swinging from her bag — and her younger cousin, Anwesha, just 16, wearing bright orange shorts, a baggy printed t-shirt, and wireless earbuds dangling from her ears.

She laughed at something on her phone and nudged Mihiksha.

Yamini’s eyes narrowed immediately.
She stared openly — not at Mihiksha, but at Anwesha’s outfit.

“Tch tch,” Yamini muttered, just loud enough. “No shame these days. Girls walk around like this in public?”

Dhriti looked uncomfortable. Deepali smirked. “Must be the Bengali modern culture, Maaji.”

Mihiksha heard it — and so did Anwesha.

Anwesha stopped. Her eyes flared, and she turned sharply.

“Excuse me? What did you just say?”

Yamini raised her chin.
“Oh, we don’t talk to children who forget to wear proper clothes before leaving the house.”

Anwesha took a step forward, fists clenched.
“I’m sixteen, not stupid. Just because I’m wearing shorts doesn’t mean you get to insult me—”

But Mihiksha stepped in front of her, gently holding her arm back.

“Anu. No.”

Anwesha’s eyes flicked to her cousin, confused and still fuming.

Mihiksha turned to Yamini, her expression calm.
“Clothes don’t decide a person’s character, Mrs. Bajaj. Values do.”

A pause.

Yamini blinked, clearly not expecting a soft but clear retort.

Mihiksha smiled — not sarcastic, not sharp. Just firm.

“Let’s go, Anu.”

Anwesha hesitated, still glaring, but obeyed — stomping off with her cousin as they disappeared into the crowd.

Deepali scoffed.
“Acting like they’re saints now.”

Yamini muttered, almost to herself:
“This is what they call good behavior now? Shorts and lectures?”

Dhriti didn’t say anything. She just looked in the direction the Roy sisters had gone — quiet, thoughtful.

Evening

The Bajaj household buzzed with energy. A distant relative of Yamini had come to visit — some Sharma Aunty from Jaipur, draped in an elegant Rajasthani saree and dripping with old-world judgments.

She was seated like royalty on the sofa, sipping chai slowly, eyes scanning the room.

Yamini peeked into the hallway and shouted:
“Kartik! Come here, na! Stop walking around like a hero with that phone. Go get some namkeen or sweets. Guest aaye hai!”

Kartik, who was scrolling reels and laughing to himself, groaned.
“Dadi, it’s late… most shops will be closed!”

“Then find one that’s open. This is not a dharamshala — we don’t serve empty hands.”

With a defeated nod, Kartik grabbed his keys and walked out.

Shutter after shutter was down. Closed shops, lights off.

Kartik was about to give up when he spotted one glowing sign across the street:
“Roy Mishtanna Bhandar” — still open.

He looked around cautiously.

“Bas koi Roy member na ho…” he muttered, peeking inside.

Only the old employee, Sukumar da, was there, cleaning the counters.

“Areh beta, late-night shopping?” Sukumar da chuckled.

“Just some sweets for a guest. Got anything good?”

Ten minutes later, Kartik walked out holding two boxes — filled with Bengali sweets: mishti doi, rasgulla, cham cham, and sandesh. They looked fresh. They smelled divine.

Bajaj Residence – Living Room

Back home, the sweets were served on a silver tray by Yamini herself.

Sharma Aunty took a bite of the sandesh and raised an eyebrow.
“Wah… surprisingly good. Where is this from?”

Yamini smiled proudly.
“Kartik brought it. Good boy. Found a shop even this late.”

As they all chatted — Mahendra, Yogesh, Biren, and Vaibhav — the house was warm with laughter, casual boasting, and small talk.

Suddenly — Ding-Dong.

The doorbell.

Vaibhav got up.
“I’ll see—”

“No, beta,” said Dhriti, already walking toward the gate. “You sit. I’ll check.”

She opened the gate.

And froze.

Standing there was Mihiksha Roy — neat as always, in a cotton kurta and sandals, holding something in her hand.

“Good evening,” she said calmly. “I—”

“Wait!” Dhriti’s voice rose.

The door behind her creaked open again. Yamini peeked out.

“Who is it, Dhriti?”

“Her.” Dhriti stepped aside.

Soon the entire family came out into the courtyard.

Mahendra’s face stiffened.
Yogesh frowned.
Biren crossed his arms.
Sharma Aunty looked confused but intrigued.
Vaibhav, still inside, froze at the name.

Yamini’s voice sliced through the air.
“Why are you here? At this hour?”

“Did something happen?” Mahendra asked coldly. “Did your grandfather send you to start another fight?”

“Or maybe she brought more fish?” Deepali sneered.

“You people have no manners,” Yamini added. “Walking into someone’s house like this. So shameless.”

Dhriti joined in, pointing a finger.
“You eat fish. You bring bad luck. You argue. And your Dadu screams like a madman!”

“This is not a dhobi ghat, this is the Bajaj house,” Yamini added sharply.

Mihiksha stood still — expression unreadable — as the words poured down like acid rain.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t raise her voice.

Then, quietly, she said:

“I didn’t come to enter your home.”

She held up a familiar object.

“Kartik left his wallet at the sweet shop. The employee gave it to me — said I live next door, so I should return it.”

A silence fell.

Even Deepali blinked.

Mihiksha walked past the gate, just a step.

She placed the wallet gently on the side table near the entrance — not even crossing the threshold.

Then, turning back, she said — not coldly, not angrily — just… honestly:

“I came with decency. I’ll leave with it too.”

Without waiting for a response, she walked away.

No shouting. No drama. No revenge.

Just grace — and quiet strength.

Behind her, the Bajaj family stood in stunned silence.
Even Sharma Aunty looked slightly embarrassed.

Inside, Vaibhav remained frozen — staring at the door that slowly closed behind her.

Moments Later

The gate clicked shut behind Mihiksha as her silhouette disappeared into the dim streetlight.

For a brief moment, silence settled.

Then, Dhriti turned to the others, crossing her arms tightly.

“She really just came to return Kartik’s wallet. That’s what she said.”

Yamini let out a dramatic sigh and stepped forward.

“Ha! That’s what she said.”
She turned to Sharma Aunty with exaggerated concern.
“But you don’t know these Bengali girls, behenji. Sweet face on the outside… and inside? Kaala jadu!”

Sharma Aunty’s eyes widened, half-horrified, half-curious.

“Kaala jadu?”

Yamini nodded gravely.
“Yes. These people burn incense, chant mantras under full moons, and pretend to be all cultured with their Rabindra songs—all distraction! Their real power is in how they fool you with good manners.”

Deepali jumped in, eyes gleaming.
“Exactly, Maaji. You saw how she stood there like some noble heroine? I’ve seen that kind before. One minute it’s 'I just came to return something', next minute your son’s brain is completely gone.”

“And what was she wearing?” Yamini sniffed.
“Kurta, jhola bag, like some social activist! They do this to make you drop your guard. One misstep, and boom! She's inside the house, inside the family, inside the mind.”

Kartik, who had just returned from washing his hands, muttered under his breath:
“She literally just left the wallet and walked off.”

But no one heard him. Or they ignored him.

Dhriti, a bit more reasonable, looked unsure.
“But don’t you think we overreacted a little?”

Yamini’s eyes snapped to her.
“A little is how they enter, beta. A lot is what protects our family’s izzat.”

Deepali nodded solemnly.
“We have to be careful. You never know which step opens the door to chaos.”

The room fell into a tense, paranoid hush. Even Vaibhav, still seated at the edge of the sofa, looked lost in thought — his eyes fixed on the wallet now resting quietly on the side table.

Evening

The warm yellow lights of the Roy house glowed softly as Mihiksha stepped back inside, her sandals dusty, her expression unreadable.

She quietly placed her stethoscope and sling bag on the hallway table.

From the kitchen, Ipsita was humming a soft Rabindra Sangeet, and the smell of ghee and fried lentils floated through the house. Everything was peaceful. Everything felt... safe.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

Before anyone could get it, Bhumi Roy peeked out from the upstairs landing.

“It must be Doyal my daughter ! They were supposed to come from Pune today.”

Mihiksha opened the door.

Standing outside, suitcase in hand and smiling wide, was her Bua, Doyal Roy, dressed in a classy Bengali cotton sari, silver bangles chiming on her wrist. Beside her stood her teenage daughter Priyanshi, wearing headphones around her neck, holding an iced coffee in one hand and a duffel bag in the other.

“Sona!” Doyal exclaimed, hugging Mihiksha tightly.
“Look at you, doctor madam! So thin! Are you even eating properly?”

Mihiksha gave a small smile.
“Hi, Pipin. You look the same.”

In bengali she called her Pipin.

Priyanshi grinned.
“And I look amazing, obviously.”

They all laughed lightly. Bhumi came out to help with the luggage, fussing over whether they had eaten, how long the train was delayed, and what to serve for dinner.

As everyone chattered around her, Mihiksha quietly slipped into the living room, sitting near the window. She looked out — straight at the Bajaj house across the street.

Her jaw tensed, but she said nothing.

Doyal, noticing her niece’s silence, came and sat beside her.

“Ki holo, shona? You look like someone just stole your thunder.”

Mihiksha shook her head.
“Nothing. Just... tired.”

“Hmm,” Doyal said gently, patting her hand.
“Well, let the world be as loud as it wants. You stay peaceful.”

Priyanshi popped her head in.
“Mihi di, who lives in that grumpy-looking house across the street? They looked like they were about to hold a court trial in the driveway.”

Mihiksha gave a soft, ironic laugh.
“That, Priya... is a long story.”

Doyal smiled knowingly.
“Then tonight, you’ll tell us everything over mishti doi and luchi..”

“Pipin leave them..!! Tell me what you brought for me.”

Dhruva who just came out after a long hour study section from his room exclaimed. 

Sneak peek- Chapter 3

From across the street, Durga Prasad puffed up like a bull.
“I was watering my plants, not your family ego!”

“Your plants are on the balcony!” Mahendra shot back.
“Water flows where it wants, Bajaj!”

“Oh really? Then let me show you how my hands flow!”