Insanely insane

The Mishra house had a smell.A very specific one.A mix of freshly fried pakoras, sandalwood incense, old books, and a suspicious hint of Fevicol that no one ever owned up to.But today, it smelled like war.Because Timtim Mishra had declared it.“I waited three years for that room, Maa!” she whined dramatically, arms flung across the dining table as if she had been betrayed by life itself. “Three long years! I even wrote ‘Timtim’s Room’ with glitter pen behind the cupboard last summer!”“You also wrote ‘Hot Girl Summer’ on the bathroom mirror with lipstick,” her mother pointed out, folding the roti with a smirk. “Nobody took that seriously either.”Timtim gasped, scandalized. “That was self-love! That was confidence affirmations! Also, that was expensive lipstick, why did you throw it away?”“Because it made the mirror look like a crime scene.”Her father chuckled behind his newspaper. “Beta, you barely passed your 12th boards — you think you’ve earned the upstairs room?”“I passed!

The Mishra household was still asleep.The clock read 5:58 AM.Birds hadn’t started chirping. Chai wasn’t brewing. Even the milkman hadn’t arrived.But one creature stirred in the shadows — her anklets muted with socks, her eyes wild with purpose, her breath steady.Timtim Mishra, certified drama queen, full-time prankster, and now part-time vigilante of lost balcony dreams, stood near the base of the stairs… holding a Bluetooth speaker and wearing the smirk of a girl with absolutely no regrets.Today was Phase 2 of Operation: Evict Mr. Broody.“Let’s see how long he lasts now,” she whispered to herself as she tiptoed upstairs, avoiding the one floorboard that always creaked. She reached the door — slightly ajar, probably from his late-night walk on the balcony.With the stealth of a burglar and the heart of a Bollywood heroine, she slipped the speaker inside the shoe rack just beside the door, aimed the sound upward, and turned it on.She opened her phone, went to her “MORNING CHAOS”

In the quiet afternoon lull, the Mishra household came alive with its usual flavor — clinking steel plates, a burst of radio static, the smell of roasted papad, and Timtim’s voice echoing from the kitchen like a warning siren.“Maa, how long will you all keep taunting me for my board marks? It’s ancient history now!”Her mother chuckled. “Ancient? Beta, it’s been three weeks.”Aariz Sheikh Pataudi, who was on the upstairs balcony just above the dining hall, paused mid-sip of his black coffee. His ears, honed by years of catching lies and secrets, instinctively picked up the conversation.Her father chimed in, “Even your Maths teacher came home with a laddoo box to celebrate your passing. I thought he was crying tears of relief.”A giggle erupted from her mother. “Do you remember how she wrote the formula for area of circle as ‘Apple Pie R Square’? Apple pie, she said!”A loud, offended gasp followed. “That was a memory trick!” Timtim’s voice protested. “Miss Preeti Ma’am said creativi

The morning had never been this quiet.The birds chirped like every other day, the sunlight kissed the bougainvillaea just the same, and the wind danced through the balcony grills — yet for Aariz Sheikh Pataudi, the world had shifted on its axis.For the first time since he had moved in as a tenant at the Mishras', there was no sound of clinking bangles, no loud Bhojpuri songs echoing at 6:00 a.m., no sneaky giggles followed by "Oops! Did I wake you again, Mr. Tenant?"Timtim Mishra had gone to college.She’d been buzzing like a cracked wire the entire night before — choosing her outfit, re-choosing, changing her dupatta again, and then painting her nails a glittery blue that matched her anklets. Aariz had mocked her for being “more focused on matching bangles than books,” but she had only stuck her tongue out in response.Now, she was gone.And it was peaceful.Painfully peaceful.He sat at his work desk, fingers tapping on his MacBook but eyes fixed on the staircase outside his room

The chilly winds of Shimla had barely left Timtim’s skin, and she was still riding the high of the college trip. With a tired but glowing smile, she dragged her suitcase up the stairs to her home, her cheeks flushed from both the cold and the laughter. Her phone was flooded with group photos — selfies at Mall Road, snowfights, stolen moments by bonfires. She had uploaded a few cheerful snaps too. What she didn’t know… was that someone had already seen them. Aariz Seikh Pataudi is known the exact moment she stepped out of the train. He had known what coat she wore (a pastel lavender one with little silver buttons), which friends she shared a room with (two girls, one of whom giggled too much), and the exact spot where a boy from her group handed her a cup of steaming hot coffee in the early morning chill. He had watched the photos. Silently. Tracked her journey. Quietly. His fingers gripped his phone harder every time her smile appeared with a boy lingering too close. But he d