He woke to the sound of birds.
Not the artificial chirping of a smartphone alarm, nor the distant drone of traffic that had been his morning soundtrack in another life. These were actual birds—crows, mostly, their calls echoing across the Gokuldham compound, punctuated by the sharp clatter of a balcony door sliding open two floors below.
For a moment, Suyash lay still, letting the reality of his situation settle over him. He was twenty-two. He was here. He possessed a power that could reach into any screen and pull out anything he desired. And last night, he had almost kissed Babita Iyer before his own television had betrayed him, broadcasting a love song to half the society.
He sat up, running a hand through his hair, and glared at the dark screen in his living room. It sat there, innocuous and silent, as if it hadn't just broadcast his deepest desires. He would have to be more careful. He needed practice. But that was a problem for later.
Right now, he was starving.
He swung his legs off the bed and walked to the kitchen. The refrigerator was a depressing sight—a lone carton of milk, stale bread, and a dusty jar of pickle that had come with the flat. He could go downstairs to Jethalal's shop, buy eggs, make an effort. Or...
He looked back toward the living room. He had pulled food from a cooking show before—the paneer tikka he'd eaten standing right here, still sizzling, the celebrity chef's voice still narrating from the screen. He could do it again.
He grabbed the remote and turned it on.
The morning programming was a graveyard of loud news anchors and serene religious discourses. He flipped through the channels until he landed on a lifestyle network. A woman in a pristine, sunlit kitchen was demonstrating the perfect South Indian breakfast. Steam rose from an idli steamer in soft, inviting clouds. The camera lingered on the food, the golden lighting making the arrangement look almost too perfect to be real.
Suyash watched for a moment, then reached out and pressed his palm to the glass.
There was the familiar ripple. The cool, liquid sensation. His hand passed through. He reached for the plate, feeling the ceramic warmth against his fingers, and pulled. Then the sambar. Then the chutney.
The food materialized on his kitchen counter, steam curling into the cool morning air. The rich aroma of fresh coconut and tempered mustard seeds instantly filled the flat. He sat down at his small dining table and took a bite. The idlis were incredibly soft, practically melting on his tongue. The sambar was a perfect balance of rich lentils, sharp tamarind, and sweet tomatoes.
He had pulled breakfast from a screen. It was real, it was perfect, and no one would ever know.
Catching his reflection in the kitchen window, he paused. He looked like a man who had slept perfectly, who had a full life ahead, who had nothing to worry about. No one looking at him would guess that he had died in another life, that he defied the laws of physics, or that he had almost crossed a dangerous line with a married woman the night before.
He needed to shower. He needed to dress. He needed to go downstairs and face the neighbors who had undoubtedly been gossiping about him since he moved in.
Heading to the bathroom, he eyed the dated tiles and the cheap, generic soap that came with the bachelor pad. Functional, but unremarkable, he thought.
He didn't have to settle for unremarkable anymore.
Walking back to the TV, he found a commercial playing—a man in a crisp white towel standing in a luxurious, five-star hotel shower. The voiceover whispered about imported ingredients and the art of bathing.
Suyash reached into the screen.
The bottles came out one by one. Amber shampoo in frosted glass. Thick, cream-colored conditioner. Body wash in a sleek black pump that smelled intensely of sandalwood and warm spices. A heavy, weighted razor.
Minutes later, he stood under the hot water, the sandalwood lather feeling like silk against his skin. When he finally stepped out, wrapped in a plush white towel he had also pulled from the broadcast, he felt reborn.
He dressed simply—dark jeans, a fitted white shirt left open at the collar, the gold chain from the film still resting against his chest. The boy who had died was gone. The man who stood here now had power, patience, and time.
He opened the door and stepped out into the world.
The compound was already alive. Jethalal's shop was open, the owner arranging newspapers with practiced efficiency. A few women were gathered near the entrance, their voices a low, melodic hum against the morning hustle.
Suyash walked toward the shop, intending to buy milk as a cover for the breakfast he had already eaten, when a low, warm laugh caught his attention. It was the kind of laugh that invited you to share the joke, even if you hadn't heard it.
He turned.
She was standing by the entrance, a shopping bag in one hand, her head tilted back. Her saree was a deep, forest green that looked almost black in the morning light. Her blouse was cut low, the fabric straining slightly, her pallu draped just loosely enough to catch the rhythm of her breath.
Komal Hathi. The woman he had seen from his balcony his very first morning.
She turned, her laughter fading into a slow, appraising smile as her eyes locked onto him. She looked at him the way a woman evaluates a new, intriguing arrival, mentally placing him in the hierarchy of the society's men.
"You must be the new bachelor," she said, her voice rougher and more commanding than he expected.
"The one from 701."
"Suyash," he said, stepping forward. "And yes. New."
Her smile widened. "We've heard about you. Jethalal's been talking."
Behind him, Jethalal sputtered. "Komal ji, I only said—I only meant that he's a nice boy, very polite—"
"Very handsome," Komal finished smoothly, not breaking eye contact with Suyash. "You didn't mention that part, Jethalal."
Jethalal made a sound like a kettle boiling over. Komal laughed again, a sound Suyash felt in his chest.
"I'm Komal," she said, shifting her shopping bag. The movement pulled the fabric of her blouse tight, and she made no effort to adjust it. "Dr. Hathi's wife. The big one, you know. You can't miss him."
"I've seen him," Suyash replied. "He seems like a good man."
"He is." Her voice softened just a fraction. "A very good man. Very... present." She let the word hang, heavy with subtext. "But he's busy, of course. Always at the clinic. It's good to have new people in the society. Young people. People who have time."
"I have time," he said evenly. "I work from home."
"Remote," she tasted the word. "So you're in your flat all day. Alone."
"Mostly."
Something unnameable flickered behind her eyes.
"That's nice. For you." She glanced at the woman beside her—someone so quiet Suyash had barely registered her presence. "This is Madhavi. Bhide's wife."
Suyash's attention shifted. Madhavi was smaller, dressed in a simple cotton saree that covered far more than it revealed. Yet, there was a quiet intensity in the way her eyes moved over him. She possessed a slow-burn kind of beauty that rewarded a closer look.
"Hello," Madhavi said, her voice soft. "I've seen you. In the mornings. You go out early."
"I like the quiet."
She nodded. "The society is peaceful before everyone wakes up. I'm usually up early too, making tiffin for Bhide. Sometimes I sit on the balcony." Her voice dropped slightly. "You have a good view from the seventh floor."
It wasn't a question. She had been watching him.
"The view is good," he agreed, meeting her gaze. "From up there, you can see everything."
A silent understanding passed between them before she offered a small, almost shy smile and looked away. "We should let you get your milk. Jethalal's waiting."
Suyash turned back to the shop. Jethalal handed him a packet of milk, his eyes darting nervously between Suyash and the women. "Settling in well, I see. Everyone's talking about the mysterious new bachelor."
"Not mysterious," Suyash said, handing over the cash. "Just new."
As he turned back, a third woman approached from the parking lot. Dressed in a rich, light-catching blue saree, her hair fell loosely over her shoulders. Up close, the camera—even in his screen-visions—had not done justice to the warmth of her skin or the sharp intelligence in her eyes.
Anjali Mehta.
She stopped, her eyes flicking from Komal to Madhavi, before settling firmly on him. "Oh. You're the new neighbor."
"I'm Suyash."
"I'm Anjali. Taarak's wife. He's been meaning to welcome you properly, but work has kept him tied up."
"I hear he's the peacemaker of the society."
"He is." Anjali smiled, a genuine expression layered with the comfortable pride of a long marriage. "He keeps this place from falling apart. He'll come by soon."
She appraised him then. Not with Komal's bold hunger, nor Madhavi's secretive curiosity, but with the steady gaze of a woman who hadn't looked at another man in years, yet still recognized something worth seeing.
"You should come to our place for dinner," Anjali offered suddenly. "When Taarak is free. I'll cook."
"That sounds wonderful."
"Good." She smiled again and walked toward her building, the blue silk swaying with her steps.
Komal watched her go, a sharp edge of amusement in her voice. "She's a good cook, Anjali. Very traditional. Very... wifely. She'll feed you well. You should come by our place too, when Hathi is home."
With a slow, satisfied smirk, Komal departed, leaving only Madhavi.
Madhavi studied him for a long moment. "You're very calm. Most new people try too hard to fit in."
"I'm not most people."
"No," she agreed quietly. "You're not." She offered a real, open smile—a glimpse of the woman she might have been before she learned to hide behind routine. "Bhide will want to talk to you about society rules. He likes things to be in order."
"I understand."
"Do you?" She tilted her head. "You seem like someone who understands things. More than you should, maybe." She turned to leave, pausing at the entrance. "The view from the seventh floor. You said you can see everything."
"Almost everything."
"Be careful what you see, Suyash. In this society, seeing is not the same as knowing. And knowing is not the same as understanding."
With that, she disappeared into her building.
Suyash stood alone in the compound, a carton of milk in his hand, the echoes of three different women ringing in his ears. Three women. Three wives. Three doors that had opened, just a crack, letting him peek inside.
He returned to his flat, the sandalwood scent of his stolen shower still clinging to his skin. He had rules. Enjoy it. Be discreet. Do no harm. He stepped out onto his balcony, looking down at the quiet morning compound. He could learn to want without being consumed. He had all the time in the world to figure out exactly how to play this game.
Anjali's POV
She had been cooking since four in the afternoon.
Not because the meal required it, but because the rhythm of chopping and the precise layering of spices were the only things that quieted her racing mind.
Taarak had called at three. A client meeting. I'll be late. Don't wait up. The disappointment was a familiar, smooth stone in her chest. She had said it was fine. And then she had gone straight to the market, bought fresh muslin-wrapped paneer, spent an hour deep-cleaning the flat, and set the table for three instead of two.
She told herself it was purely neighborly. The new bachelor was alone. But as she arranged the flowers, she wasn't thinking of Taarak. She was thinking of the way Suyash had looked at her in the compound. The way he said Anjali, like the syllables actually meant something. The stillness about him—a man not desperately looking for anything, which made him incredibly dangerous.
At seven, the doorbell rang. She smoothed her best deep purple saree—an anniversary gift from Taarak—and opened the door.
He stood in the hallway, hair damp, wearing a cream kurta that left the gold chain at his throat visible. He smelled like expensive sandalwood.
"I brought wine," Suyash said, holding up a bottle. "And I didn't know what else to bring, so I brought flowers." He produced a bouquet of deep red roses, arranged with rare care.
"You shouldn't have," she breathed. But she took them anyway. As she did, his fingers brushed hers. The touch was brief, electric, an unspoken current passing between them.
"Come in," she said, stepping aside. As he walked past, she felt the distinct, heavy warmth of him.
The meal was her magnum opus. Paneer lababdar, dal makhani, jeera rice. Suyash stood by the table, taking in the spread, and something in his expression made her chest dangerously tight.
"You didn't have to do all this. For one person," he said softly.
"You're not one person," she replied, the words slipping out more intimately than she intended. "You're a neighbor. A friend. Maybe."
They ate. She watched his eyes flutter shut as he tasted the paneer, watched the strong line of his throat as he swallowed.
"It's good," he said. "Really good."
"My mother's recipe," she smiled, a genuine warmth spreading through her. "I used to watch her cook for my father..." She trailed off, suddenly hyper-aware she was oversharing.
"Do you cook for yourself?" she asked quickly.
"Sometimes," he said, holding her gaze. "But cooking for one is hollow. There's no one to tell you if it's good. No one to watch you eat."
A heavy understanding settled over the table. She knew exactly what it meant to cook for someone who didn't truly see it.
After dinner, he insisted on helping her clear the plates. They moved around the small kitchen in an intricate dance, his shoulder brushing hers, the space suddenly feeling entirely too small.
"Taarak will be sorry he missed this," she said, desperate to fill the silence.
"Will he?"
She paused, a plate in her hand. "What do you mean?"
Suyash leaned against the counter, looking not at her, but at the red roses he had brought. "Some people don't know what they have until it's gone. Or until someone else shows them. You deserve to be seen, Anjali. The cooking, the flowers... someone should notice."
She stood frozen, gripping the edge of the counter. He was close enough to touch. If she just reached out—
"I should go," he said abruptly, pushing off the counter. "Taarak will be home soon."
She walked him to the door, her legs feeling like lead.
"Thank you, Anjali," he said softly.
"Come again," she managed to whisper.
When the door clicked shut, she stood in the empty hallway for a long time. She looked at the roses on the table. She decided to keep them, just for tonight. Just to remind herself that for an hour, someone had actually seen her.
Madhavi's POV
She woke in the dark, her body humming with a restless, unnameable energy.
Beside her, Bhide slept the heavy sleep of the righteous. He had come home from his meeting, eaten, and passed out without touching her, without really looking at her. He had asked a passing question about the new bachelor, and that was it.
Madhavi stared at the ceiling, replaying the morning. The way Suyash had looked at her—not at her modest cotton saree, but directly at her. The way he had said you can see everything from the seventh floor.
She slipped out of bed, her bare feet silent against the floorboards, and moved to the window. The compound was swallowed by shadows. She looked up.
On the seventh floor, his light was still burning.
She thought about the years spent building routines with Bhide, the silences that had calcified into walls. Then she thought about the weight of Suyash's gaze, and felt something old and brittle crack wide open inside her chest.
She stood at the window for a long time, watching his light, listening to the deafening silence of her marriage.
Babita's POV
She lay awake, listening to Iyer's deep, even breathing. Her fingers absentmindedly traced the cold metal of the chain resting against her collarbone.
Earlier that evening, she had stood hidden in the shadows of her balcony, watching Suyash walk into Anjali's flat with wine and red roses. She had seen Anjali's bright smile, the fleeting touch on his arm.
It wasn't jealousy that twisted in her stomach—she had no right to be jealous. It was a strange, deep ache she couldn't label.
She had eaten a quiet dinner with Iyer, nodding along to his stories about a conference in Bangalore, while her mind remained fixated on Suyash sitting at Anjali's table.
But now, in the dark, she remembered the song that had blasted from his flat the night before.
Tumhi ho, tumhi ho... A song pulled from the ether. A song that spoke the words he couldn't.
It was for me, she thought, a small thrill racing down her spine. He said it was for me.
She would wear the chain tomorrow. And the day after. She would wear it until he saw it and knew that she was waiting.
Turning away from her husband, she clutched the jewelry against her skin and smiled into the dark.
Suyash's POV
Suyash closed the door to his flat and leaned heavily against the wood, exhaling a breath he felt he'd been holding all evening.
Dinner with Anjali had been a tightrope walk. The air in her kitchen had been thick with perfume, spices, and words deliberately left unsaid. He had wanted to turn her around, to find her mouth in the dim light of that kitchen. But Taarak would be home. And Anjali wasn't a woman you took in stolen, rushed moments.
He walked out onto his balcony. The compound was completely still. The lights were out in Anjali's flat. In Komal's. In Madhavi's.
But in Flat 602, Babita's window, a single light still burned—a sliver of gold cutting through the night.
He thought about the chain around her neck. He thought about the song his erratic power had forced into the open. He needed to see her soon. He needed to figure out exactly what she wanted that song to mean.
Not tonight, he told himself. Soon.
He stayed on the balcony until Babita's light finally flicked off.
Stepping back inside, he didn't turn on his television. He was starting to realize he didn't need to. The screens were everywhere now—his TV, his phone, the glowing windows of the compound below. Every lit square was a broadcast, a story waiting to be pulled into reality.
He was learning to control his power. But tonight, he had learned something far more important about Gokuldham society.
Wanting wasn't a weakness here. It was the only thing that was real.
Suyash lay down on his bed, the heavy gold chain resting against his throat. Tomorrow, there would be more invitations. More lingering glances. More doors cracking open.
And when they did, he would be ready. He closed his eyes, and as he drifted to sleep, three different women called his name in his dreams.
He answered them all.