The sun had barely crept above the skyline when Vaibhav Bajaj tied his shoelaces and stepped out into the crisp morning air. The world was still half-asleep — dew clung to the grass, the birds were only just beginning their chatter, and the faint aroma of filter coffee floated from distant balconies.

“Ready, Dadu?” he called softly.

From behind him, Mahendra Bajaj, his grandfather, straightened his tracksuit and adjusted his cap with pride.
“Always, beta. A Bajaj never skips discipline,” he said, stretching with a stern nod.

Vaibhav smiled — he’d heard that line every morning for the last ten years.

They began jogging along the familiar path of their housing society — a quiet, leafy track that circled around the central park. Mahendra greeted a few elders with his usual stiff politeness, and Vaibhav slipped into the easy rhythm of his run.

On the other side of the park, two figures appeared from the Roy bungalow — Durga Prasad Roy and his younger son, Anirban Roy.
Durga Prasad, still carrying the swagger of a man who believed jogging was a social competition, thumped his stick on the ground.
“Come on, Anirban! We Roys don’t walk like we’re shopping for vegetables. Jog like a man!”

Anirban rolled his eyes but kept pace.
“Baba, it’s called warming up, not waging war,” he murmured under his breath.

And then—
as fate loved its early-morning drama—
the Bajajs and Roys crossed paths near the park gate.

Mahendra stopped dead in his tracks the moment he spotted Durga Prasad.
“Ah, if it isn’t Mr. Noise Pollution himself,” he muttered, just loud enough for Durga to hear.

Durga’s eyes flashed.
“And here comes Mr. Air Pollution! Still jogging with that perfume cloud, Bajaj?”

Mahendra squared his shoulders.
“At least I can afford perfume!”

Durga fired back without missing a beat.
“At least I smell human! You people reek of ego!”

Their voices rose, echoing through the peaceful park like an early morning market brawl.
Birds flew off trees.
A couple doing yoga abandoned their mats and left quietly.

“Baba, please!” Anirban stepped forward, trying to block his father.
“Dadu, not again,” Vaibhav sighed, rubbing his temple.

But the old men were in full swing now — arms waving, accusing fingers pointed, insults bouncing like a tennis match.

“You people buy fake vegetables!”
“At least we pay for them, not beg for discounts!”
“Oh, you—!”
“Oh, you—!”

Vaibhav finally stepped between them, raising his voice just enough to command silence.
“Dadu, stop it. Please. People are staring.”

Anirban mirrored him from the other side.
“Baba, we’re literally the morning entertainment right now. Let’s save this for the drama club.”

For a moment, both elders glared at each other like kids caught misbehaving in school. Then, with matching humphs, they turned away — pretending to stretch, muttering under their breaths.

.

The morning sun had just begun to glow over the neighborhood as Vaibhav Bajaj adjusted his tie, sliding his phone into his pocket. His car was still at the service center — thanks to Kartik’s “short test drive” that ended in a dented bumper — so, like every other working man, he had surrendered to booking a cab.

He checked his watch. 8:42 AM.
“Perfect,” he murmured, stepping out of the Bajaj gate, straightening his crisp navy suit.

Just as he walked past the Roy residence, scrolling through his phone for the cab details, a sudden splash drenched his entire left side.

Cold. Wet.
His neatly ironed shirt clung to him. Water droplets trickled down his face.
For a second, he just froze.

Then, slowly, Vaibhav looked up.

There, standing proudly on the Roy balcony, was Durga Prasad Roy, holding a water hose like it was a royal weapon — smiling as though he’d just won a medal.

“Oh! Sorry beta,” Durga Prasad called down, not looking sorry at all. “Didn’t see you there! Thought it was the plants.”

Vaibhav blinked, teeth clenched. “Of course you didn’t,” he muttered under his breath.

At that very moment, Yamin Bajaj came out into the garden with her cup of morning tea — only to witness her beloved grandson standing soaked like a drenched puppy in front of that house.

Her eyes widened. “Haye Ram! Who did this to my Vaibhav?”

She squinted upward and spotted Durga Prasad — still holding the pipe.
That was it.

“Mahendra ji!” she shrieked, her voice echoing across the colony. “Come see what your useless neighbor has done now!”

Within seconds, the Bajaj gate flew open.
Mahendra Bajaj stormed out in his kurta-pyjama, clutching his newspaper like a sword.

“What is it this time, Yamin?”
She pointed dramatically. “That man just attacked our Vaibhav with pipe water!”

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!”

Before anyone could stop them, Mahendra marched forward, and Durga Prasad — not one to back down — came to meet him, hose still in hand.

Within seconds, water was flying everywhere — on bushes, walls, and unfortunately, Mahendra’s face.

That was the cue.
The entire Bajaj and Roy households came pouring out like a daily soap cast.

Bhumi Roy started yelling from her balcony,
“Aree suncho ! You’ll catch a cold! Give that pipe to someone sane!”

“Ha! You tell him, Bhumi,” Yamin Bajaj yelled back, “He’s too busy making my Vaibhav look like a drowned crow!”

“Oh, and your husband looks like a parrot already!” Bhumi shot back.

Now Dhriti came out, clutching her pallu. “Aap log fir se shuru ho gaye! Every day same drama! My poor son’s clothes are ruined!” she wailed.

From the other side, Mahua Roy folded her arms, muttering to Ipsita, “Always crying, that one. Such melodrama!”

“Ha, marwari ho na,” Ipsita whispered back, rolling her eyes. “Tears are their hobby.”

Soon, Biren, Anirban, Deepali, and half the younger cousins joined — everyone shouting, defending, or blaming.
Even Priyanshi had gone live on her phone, whispering, “Guys, family war part 127…”

And then—
amid the chaos, a car door shut softly.

Dr. Mihiksha Roy stepped out in her scrubs, hair tied in a messy bun, exhaustion painted under her eyes from the night shift.

She blinked once, twice — taking in the sight:
Her grandfather wrestling with a hose,
Vaibhav standing soaked and defeated,
Grandmothers shouting like market vendors,
Mothers pulling each other’s sarees straight,
and neighbors watching from balconies — enjoying the free entertainment.

She sighed deeply, muttering, “Not again…”

Then, calmly, she walked forward.

Without a word, she snatched the water pipe from Durga Prasad’s hand, twisted it off, and tossed it aside.

“Enough!” her voice cut through the noise like thunder.
“Do you people even realize the entire colony is watching this circus again?”

For a second, everyone went silent — startled. Even Vaibhav looked at her, half impressed.

Then, like clockwork—
Durga Prasad cleared his throat. “You’re talking to me, young lady?”
And from the Bajaj side, Mahendra snapped, “Yes! Tell him to behave!”

“You behave!” Durga barked.
“You first!”

And just like that, the shouting restarted.

Mihiksha closed her eyes, rubbing her forehead.
Vaibhav let out a slow breath, soaked, late, and now surrounded by chaos.

He met her gaze briefly — tired, amused, defeated.

And as she turned to drag her grandfather back inside, the neighbors clapped, delighted by their morning entertainment.

The Roy house had gone strangely quiet after the morning’s chaos.
Outside, a few curious neighbors still peeked from their balconies, whispering about “the great water war,” but inside, the noise had drained away — leaving only the low hum of the ceiling fan.

Durga Prasad Roy sat on the living room sofa, cross-legged like a sulking child. His newspaper lay forgotten on the table; his face wore that innocent expression he always used after doing something very much not innocent.

Across from him stood Dr. Mihiksha Roy, still in her scrubs, arms folded, eyes sharp enough to slice through his act.

She stared at him.
He pretended to read invisible headlines.

“Dadu,” she said flatly, “do you even realize what you did?”

Durga Prasad cleared his throat, avoiding her gaze.
“Did? What did I do? I was watering the plants, beta. How would I know that Bajaj boy would walk right under my balcony?”

Mihiksha’s brow twitched. “You ‘accidentally’ drenched him from head to toe?”

He shrugged. “Gravity, my dear. Water falls where it wishes.”

She let out a dry laugh. “Really? And I’m a surgeon who believes in magic.”
Then she stepped closer, voice lowering.
“Don’t lie, Dadu. You saw him coming.”

Durga Prasad looked away, caught. “Maybe… a little.”

“A little?”

“Fine!” he grumbled, crossing his arms. “I saw him. But what’s wrong with a little revenge? His Dada splashed water on me last year during Holi!”

“Dadu!” Mihiksha’s voice rose, half in disbelief, half in frustration. “That was Holi! This is a Monday morning!”

He tried to hide his smile but failed miserably. “Still counts.”

She threw her hands in the air. “You people will never change.”

Durga Prasad leaned back, utterly unbothered. “Change is overrated, doctor sahiba.”

Mihiksha glared at him for another moment, then sighed, rubbing her forehead.
“I have zero energy for this nonsense. I just came from a twelve-hour shift, and instead of peace, I get… you and your water wars.”

From the kitchen, Bhumi Roy’s voice floated in:
“Don’t scold your Dadu so much! He’ll lose his appetite!”

“He should,” Mihiksha muttered. Then louder, “Ma, send breakfast to my room, please. I’ll eat there.”

Without waiting for a reply, she picked up her stethoscope from the table and started walking toward the stairs.

Behind her, Durga Prasad called out, “It wasn’t that bad, you know! The boy needed cooling down!”

Mihiksha stopped mid-step, looked back, and said sharply, “Next time, Dadu, try cooling down your temper instead.”

And with that, she went upstairs, leaving Durga Prasad sitting there with a guilty smile and a cup of tea he suddenly didn’t feel like drinking.

The Bajaj mansion hummed with its usual morning routine — clinking cups, the faint aroma of toast, and a few raised voices drifting from the veranda.

Vaibhav Bajaj, now dressed in crisp formals, adjusted his watch while talking on his phone, his tone calm but hurried.
“Yes, I’ll be there in fifteen… no, push the client meeting to ten-thirty. Traffic’s bad today.”
He paused, sighing softly. “And please make sure the files are printed this time, not just emailed. Got it? Thanks.”

He ended the call just as he slipped his jacket on. The fine wool was still a little damp from its earlier misfortune, but he ignored it.

At that moment, the door creaked open, and Yamini Bajaj, his grandmother, peeked in with her gentle smile.
“Arre, look at you — still fussing with that tie?”

Vaibhav turned with a half-smile. “Dadi, I’ll fix it in the car. Don’t worry.”

But she walked over anyway, brushing imaginary creases off his shoulder. “You’ll never learn. Let me.”
Her wrinkled hands worked deftly, straightening the knot with the precision of long habit.

“Your Dada ji nearly fought a war over that water incident,” she muttered under her breath. “That Roy man is impossible!”

Vaibhav chuckled faintly. “I heard enough about it already, Dadi.”

She finished adjusting his tie and patted his cheek. “Good boy. Go conquer the world — and maybe teach your Dada ji some manners while you’re at it.”

“I’ll try,” he said, picking up his laptop bag.

As he walked into the living room, he spotted his father, Yogesh Bajaj, and grandfather, Mahendra Bajaj, sitting at the breakfast table, mid-discussion — or rather, mid-complaint.

“I’m telling you, that Durga Prasad did it on purpose!” Mahendra huffed, slamming his newspaper shut.
Yogesh sighed. “Baba, it’s water, not acid. Let it go.”
“Let it go? He made my grandson look like a drenched chicken in front of the whole neighborhood!”

Vaibhav paused, suppressing a tired smile. “Dad, I’m taking your car. Mine’s at the service center.”

Yogesh looked up, distracted. “Hmm? Yes, sure. Take the black one.”

As Vaibhav turned toward the door, his grandfather called out, “And if you see that Roy fellow on the way, tell him—”

“Goodbye, Dadu,” Vaibhav interrupted politely, already stepping out.

He shook his head lightly as he walked down the marble steps. Every morning, same story.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, he adjusted his tie one last time and started the engine.
Outside, the sun glinted off the car’s hood — and across the street, the Roy mansion stood, calm and quiet for now.

For now.

The Meeting Room

The glass-walled conference room buzzed with voices, the faint hum of air conditioning blending with the rustle of papers.
Vaibhav Bajaj sat at the head of the long mahogany table, his expression calm but focused as slides flickered on the projector.

“Numbers look stable, but we need stronger vendor ties,” he said, tapping the table lightly. “Let’s discuss revisions by next week—”

Before he could finish, someone accidentally brushed a water glass near his hand. It tipped, shattered, and a sliver of glass nicked his palm.

“Sir!” his PA, Aarav, hurried forward, panicked. “You’re bleeding!”

Vaibhav looked down at the thin red line across his skin, barely flinching. “It’s fine,” he said evenly, dabbing it with a tissue.

“Sir, that could get infected! You should see a doctor,” Aarav insisted, already pulling out his phone to check nearby clinics.

Vaibhav exhaled, glancing at the clock. “The meeting ends in ten minutes. I’ll go after that, not before.”

His tone left no room for argument.

Ten minutes later, the meeting wrapped up. Files closed, chairs scraped back, and Vaibhav rose, buttoning his coat again as if nothing had happened.
“Let’s go,” he said simply, and the two stepped out.

The hospital corridor smelled faintly of antiseptic and coffee. Vaibhav walked through with his usual quiet confidence, ignoring the curious glances his formal suit drew among the white coats and patients.

Aarav spoke to the receptionist, and soon they were led into a cabin.

The doctor looked up — a woman in her early thirties, elegant, with striking eyes that lingered on him a moment too long.
“Please, sit down, Mr. Bajaj,” she said smoothly. “How did this happen?”

“Small accident during a meeting,” Vaibhav replied, rolling up his sleeve. “Just a cut. Nothing major. Please make it quick, I have work to return to.”

The doctor’s brows arched slightly — not used to patients being this detached.
She cleaned the wound gently, her movements deliberate, professional, but her gaze kept darting to his face as if trying to read him.

Vaibhav remained still, eyes fixed on his watch.
When she applied the antiseptic, he only said, “I told you it’s a small cut.”

“Small cuts can lead to big infections, Mr. Bajaj,” she said with a polite smile, trying to lighten the mood.
He didn’t return it. “Duly noted, Doctor.”

She wrote the prescription, handing it over with a slightly disappointed sigh.
His PA immediately took it. “I’ll get these medicines, sir.”

Vaibhav stood, adjusting his cuff. “Thank you,” he said curtly, and left the cabin before she could reply.

As they walked toward the car, Aarav asked, “Sir, should I drop you home?”

Vaibhav shook his head. “No. Straight to the office. If I go home, Dadi, Ma, and Chachi will turn this into a national emergency.”

Aarav chuckled nervously. “You sure, sir?”

Vaibhav glanced at his bandaged hand, a small smile flickering across his lips.
“Trust me, Aarav. The office is safer than home right now.”

The car door shut, the engine purred to life, and he drove away — the sunlight catching the faint white gauze on his hand, a quiet symbol of how he handled pain: neatly, silently, and without fuss.

Sneak peek- Chapter 4

A wicked smile curled on her lips.
“Perfect,” she whispered.

With one swift motion, she tossed the entire bucket.
SPLASH!

Brown droplets rained down on the Bajaj laundry.

From below came a distant voice — Dhriti Bajaj, shocked:
“Who ruined my washing?!”