New strange neighbor Short love story
It all starts with a lazy Sunday morning.
Here I am, half-dead, brushing my teeth, looking like a half-fired samosa—you know, that right , sad piece in the oil corner that’s still raw from inside but crispy outside. My eyes half shut, my life fully regretted, when suddenly—THAAADAAKK! Something heavy crash-lands in the apartment next door.
“Arre, phir se shuru ho gaya!” I groan, mouth full of foam, sounding like a drowning frog.
You see, it is the new tenants who shifted last week. Unique species, I tell you guys. Dehshat ke naye avataar. Haven’t seen them yet, but bhai sahab, suna zaroor hai—footsteps that sound like they’re hosting a Kabbadi match, furniture dragging like the baraat wale DJ ki trolley when the gali turns too narrow, and someone humming ‘song’ so badly off-tune that even my bathroom’s lizard pauses and says, “Bhai, yeh toh insult hai music ki.”
I spit out the foam, do a full dramatic “HA-HA-HA-HA” villain laugh, fling my toothbrush in the air like a mic-drop, and mutter, “New neighbors. Pakka aliens. Or ghosts. Or ghost-aliens. Bas yahi kami thi mere boring life mein.”
And as always, universe ko toh chul machti hai na mere upar hassne ki, so it decides to make a full comedy special out of my life.
Next Day Afternoon
I am standing at the lift, looking like I’ve just lost a cricket match single-handedly. My face is doing a full-on “Aunty, please mat poochho mere marks” expression. Hair? Tied in a bun that screams
My Outfit of the day? Legendary. Sweatpants with suspicious food stains, chappals doing chhap-chhap, and a t-shirt that has a ketchup stain so dramatic, it looks like I have just committed a serial chutney murder at a vada pav stall.
Mood? Raat ke bachele pizza vibes, reheated in the microwave, soul included.
And then—ding.
The lift opens like a romantic movie’s climax, and there he is.
Tall. Spectacles. Hoodie. Holding a box of books that says:
He looks up. I look down. Our WiFi signals connect for 3 seconds. Somewhere in the background, violins start playing, sponsored by my overactive imagination. And then—HAAYE RABBA—my brain does a full-on Punjabi auntie faint reaction.
He smiles. Arre maar daala, yaar. I, umm, kinda die. Full filmy mar jaana. Slightly. Emotionally.
“Oh, hey,” he says, casual as if this isn’t a national-level love-at-first-sight entry. “Um, are you… flat 403?”
I blink. Twice. No, thrice. Maybe more, I don’t know, I lose count at this point. “Uh, no. . Timepass hobby, mood pe depend karta hai.”
He chuckles. Uff, that chuckle! Bhai, kya cute sound hai—straight outta rom-com trailer.
“Cool. I’m 404. The error one. Classic, right?” he says, with a smirk so smug, even my doodhwala’s buffalo blushes somewhere.
He grins wider. Kya smile hai, bhai. Ekdum Garmi release karne wala AC smile.
“So, I’m Vihaan. New strange neighbor. And you?”
I straighten my imaginary sherwani (mentally, obviously), and say, “Rhea. Old strange neighbor. Senior citizen of awkwardness department. But sweet and gentle, mind you. Certified.”
Scene 2: The Great Socks Incident
Three days later. Scene of crime: My balcony.
Here I am, sitting cross-legged like some retired yogi baba, sipping my adrak wali cutting chai, and watching an epic war unfold in front of me.
Two crows. One biscuit. And the drama level?.
Crow 1 snatches the biscuit and gives a look like “Bhai, maine pehle booking karwayi thi.”
Crow 2? Full aggressive mood. “Oye, tu line mein lag, ye pehle mera tha! Teri aukaat kya hai?”
I can’t help myself. I jump into full-on Mohalla ki referee aunty mode. Wagging my finger, I say, “Arre bhai, pehle maine dekha tha,” acting like I’m mediating a Panchayat meeting.
Turning to Crow 2, I add, “Oye second wale, pehle aake dekhta toh kya? Kya? Rule number 32 of biscuit wars, pehle dekho, pehle khao!”
Crow 1 gives a victorious caw. Crow 2 flaps its wings and does a “Chal be!” exit like a frustrated uncle leaving a sabzi mandi bargain fight.
I am fully immersed, giving live desi commentary, when suddenly, a soft, hesitant voice interrupts, “Um, hi… Rhea, right?”
I freeze. Drama pauses. World pauses. Only chai steam moves.
I turn my head slowly, dramatic style.
There stands Vihaan, new strange neighbor turned laundry detective, on his balcony… holding…
MY SOCKS.
Correction: Mere bright pink, fluffy, pineapple print wale socks. The ones that scream “Main fashion ki beti hoon.”
“I think your laundry decides to go skydiving. Your sock—uh, socks—land on my grill. Bold fashion statement. Pineapple fan?” he says, with a smirk that deserves a taali and a thappad, both.
I gasp, clutching my chest like a full-on K-serial heroine.
“HAAYE! Meri izzat! Meri pineapple wali shaan! Yeh toh international embarrassment hai, bhai!”
In my head, dramatic tabla starts playing. I want the floor to open up, swallow me, and give a loud Gujarati burp.
“Thanks,” I mutter, looking like I’m glitching. “They’re… limited edition embarrassment. Ekdum collector’s item.”
He grins like the laundry recovery squad leader and tosses them back.
I, being the graceful human that I am, miss.
The socks do a perfect 360-degree somersault and land—thak!—on my head.
We both stand there. Silent. Processing.
And then—phuttttt!
We burst out laughing. Full-on, no-filter, desi gali ki hassi. Like two idiots
Arre, kya kar lete, yaar?
Kismat ko toh chul hai drama karne ki.
Scene 3: The Rain & Chole Bhature Summit
One evening, the skies decide to do full-on nautanki.
It rains like some bored kid upstairs forgets to shut the mahaan bharatiya tap. Baarish itni thok ke gir rahi hai, lag raha hai kisi ne “Dimag ki dahi karo” button daba diya ho.
Result? Power cut. Wifi gayab. Phone battery on 2%—bas zinda lash mode.
Boredom level? Existential crisis + sanskari sansani.
Suddenly—thak-thak-thak—knock on my door.
I open it, and there he is—Vihaan, mera strange neighbor turned rain-time hero, holding a torch like he’s doing a Rajshri Productions ke Sooraj Barjatya ka entry scene, aur haath mein—two foil-wrapped plates, looking like desi treasure boxes.
“Emergency chole bhature delivery, madam. Nation wants to know, are you ready?” he announces, giving full-on energy.
I squint at him like a strict maths teacher. “You cook this?”
He gives a proud smirk, “Maa banati hai, par main microwave karta hoon.
Next thing you know, we are sitting by candlelight, like two middle-class, eating chole bhature with our hands, licking chole off our fingers like true desi professionals.
Between finger-licking sessions, he tells me about his ex-girlfriend who leaves him a 3-page breakup letter aur upar se ek Spotify playlist title: “Songs to Cry While Ignoring Texts.”
Mujhe bhi apni achievements yaad aa jaati hain.
“My proudest moment? My therapist once falls asleep during my rant. Tukka nahi, bhai. Full World Record material.”
We laugh. Eat more.
Then, between chai-sips and chole-bhature belches, Vihaan goes all soft-voiced. “You ever feel like… we’re all just walking messes, looking for someone who won’t mind the chaos?”
I look at him.
I mean, really look.
“Haan,” I whisper. “Aur kabhi-kabhi, woh messwala banda next door hi mil jaata hai… tumhare socks ke saath.”
If you want, I can now merge Scene 1, 2, and 3 into one smooth, present-tense, no-breaks desi romantic-comedy short story so it reads like a single reel-worthy piece. That would
Scene 4: The Stupid Confession (ft. Sticky Notes)
Okay. This part? Pure izzat-lutt moment.
One night, after approximately 67 mental debates and 123 imaginary slaps to myself, I finally do it.
I leave a yellow chhota sticky note on his door.
It reads:
“Oye, strange neighbor. Stop being cute, warna I’ll have to start liking you. Too late. —From, Socks wali aunty.”
Bas. 3 seconds baad hi, regret hits harder than Gobi Manchurian on weak digestion day.
I even try sneaking out at midnight like some budget Spy, wearing my bunny chappals that squeak louder than my self-respect.
Plan? Peel off that stupid sticky note and erase my aukaat.
But when I reach his door—note? Gayab. Udd gaya. Fate scams me.
Next morning.
Ding-dong.
I open the door, preparing my “Good Morning, Ignore Last Night” face.
But Vihaan stands there, holding my sticky note like it’s an Oscar trophy, and in his other hand—a new note.
His says:
“Likewise. Also, your pineapple socks are now my lucky charm. —Error 404”I laugh. He laughs.
My heart doesn’t just do a cartwheel—it does a double dhinka-chika somersault,