Terrace Garden, Rent Hike, aur Rao Mansion ka Fake Family Scene

Bengaluru ki subah waise hi thodi dramatic hoti hai—raat bhar ki baarish ke baad wet balconies, chai ki smell, aur road pe puddles jinmein auto ka reflection aise aata hai jaise city ne raat ko bhi overtime kiya ho. Rao Mansion Hostel bhi kuch kam drama nahi tha. Bahar se ek purana, thoda jhuka hua, thoda cracked old mansion lagta tha; andar se PG, hostel, shared kitchen, aur life ke beech ka ek ajeeb sa compromise.

Rohan Mehta ko yeh place pehle din se “temporary accommodation” lagta tha. Uske hisaab se Bangalore mein har cheez temporary hoti hai—internship, weather, dost, aur kabhi-kabhi toh khud ka confidence bhi. Woh 24 ka tha, software intern, polite itna ki kabhi-kabhi apni hi baat bolte hue awkward ho jaata. Laptop, earphones, aur deadlines uske permanent companions the. Dil ke kone mein woh chahta tha ki kahin aisa place ho jahan bas rent na dena pade, thoda belonging bhi mil jaaye. Par woh yeh baat kabhi admit nahi karta tha, even to himself.

Uske room ka share partner tha Colonel (Retd.) Prakash Kapoor—67 saal, seedha spine, crisp voice, aur aise dry humour ke saath bolte the jaise sarcasm unki retirement benefit ho. Subah 6 baje walk, 6:40 pe chai, 7:00 newspaper, 7:15 terrace inspection—unke din ka schedule army camp se kam disciplined nahi tha. Rohan ko pehle laga tha uncle thode strict type honge, par dheere dheere samajh aaya ki strict ke neeche ek aise insaan ka layer hai jo khud ko useful feel karne ke liye discipline ko pakde baitha hai.

Terrace pe ek chhota sa khaali corner tha, jahan kuch broken pots, do plastic bottles, aur ek purani chair padi thi. Colonel uncle ne ek din uss corner ko dekh kar bas itna kaha, “Iska potential waste ho raha hai, Mehta.”

Rohan ne earphones ka ek side nikaal ke poocha, “Potential… terrace ka?”

“Har cheez ka,” uncle ne bina expression change kiye bola. “Including humans.”

Rohan ko hansi aa gayi, aur wahi se story ka pehla seedha-sa, simple-sa thread jud gaya.

Uncle ne ek din terrace se kuch discarded bottles uthwa liye, aur Rohan ne apni internship break mein unmein mitti bhar di. Phir ek chhota sa mint ka plant, do coriander ke bunch, tulsi ke teen paudhe, aur ek tomato plant—jo dekhne mein zyada hopeful lagta tha, survive karne mein kam—unhone milkar laga diye. Ayesha ne, jo third floor pe freelance designer thi aur apne WFH setup ke saath building ki unofficial gossip manager bhi, balcony se dekh kar taali bajayi.

“Wow,” usne cheekh ke kaha, “old army uncle and corporate intern making terrace gardening cute? Rao Mansion officially soft launch ho gaya kya?”

Imran, jo niche wali floor pe ek corner room mein rehta tha aur competitive exam ke saath part-time delivery bhi karta tha, bas khidki se dekh ke halka sa smile kiya. Woh kam bolta tha, par uski aankhon mein hamesha calculation chalti rehti thi—kitna budget bacha, kitna data pack mein hai, aur agle month ka rent kaise niklega. Building ke log usko “quiet guy” bolte the, par sach yeh tha ki woh har cheez se zyada eviction se darrta tha.

Terrace garden dheere dheere routine ban gaya. Subah Colonel uncle paudhon ko paani dete, Rohan chai ke cup ke saath aata, aur dono weather pe commentary karte. Bengaluru ki baarish pe uncle ka favourite line tha, “Yeh city monsoon ko romance samajh ke invite karti hai, phir bechari traffic se roti hai.”

Rohan muskurake bolta, “At least Delhi ki tarah dust storm nahi hota, sir.”

“Delhi mein storm bahar hota hai,” uncle ne kaha, “yahan andar bhi ho jaata hai. Especially in human beings.”

Rohan ko aise lines thodi ajeeb lagti thi, but strangely comforting bhi. Terrace par standing in that half-sunlight, he started feeling that maybe temporary places can also have small rituals. Maybe home ka form ek fixed address nahi hota. Maybe home woh 15 minutes ka chai break hota hai jahan koi aapse bina judge kiye pooch le, “Khaana khaya?”

Phir ek din Mrs. Nandini Rao ne building ke ground floor par sabko ek meeting ke liye bula liya.

Woh building ki owner thi—sharp eyes, practical face, aur aisi voice jisme “request” bhi warning jaisi lagti thi. Usne seedha bol diya, “Next month se rent double hoga.”

Pehle toh sabko laga shayad woh joke kar rahi hai. Phir usne ek paper nikala, maintenance, property tax, renovation, market rate—sab ka lecture diya. Uske words smooth the, but room ke andar jo hawa thi woh ekdum tight ho gayi. Ayesha ne apni eyebrows utha liं. Imran ne apna calculator nikaal bhi liya aur phir band bhi kar diya, jaise numbers dekh ke hi uska heart rate badh gaya ho.

Rohan ko laga uska brain freeze ho gaya hai. Double rent? Uske stipend mein toh abhi bhi “intern” ka matlab “almost unpaid” hi tha. Woh politely bola, “Ma’am, can we maybe discuss a phased increase? Because sudden jump is kind of—”

“Market doesn’t wait for comfort,” Mrs. Rao cut in.

Colonel uncle ne bas itna kaha, “Nor do old buildings wait for denial.”

Meeting wahan se aur thandi ho gayi. Kuch logon ne move out ka plan banaya, kuch ne landlord ko greed ka poster boy declare kar diya, aur kuch bas WhatsApp par emoji se outrage perform karne lage. Ayesha ne building group mein messages ki flood bhej di—“Guys, calm down. Panic se rent kam nahi hota. But yes, this is insane.”

Rohan aur Colonel uncle ke beech pehli serious tension usi raat aayi. Rohan terrace par khada tha, paudhon ko dekh raha tha, jo ab thode thirsty aur neglected lag rahe the. Colonel uncle ne kaha, “Kal tenants meeting karni hai. Sabko bolenge apna case collectively present karein.”

Rohan ne thoda sa thaka hua tone mein bola, “Uncle, honestly, people will just complain. Maybe better to move out if possible.”

Colonel uncle ne uski taraf dekha. “Har problem ka solution bhaagna nahi hota, Mehta.”