Chapter 1: Kitchen Stools and Chamcha Duties

Arrey, imagine the scene: I’m in this Mehra mansion, five-star bungalow in Mumbai, and not even allowed near the dining table. Instead, I get my khana on a tiny stool in the kitchen, tucked behind the fridge where the maid keeps her slippers. Sometimes, even the cat eats with more dignity than me. The help snickers, but I just swallow my pride along with yesterday’s dal chawal, thinking, "Bas, yahi hai zindagi, kya karein."

The ceiling fan above is barely moving, its blades caked with old dust, but the heat of the stove still makes my back sticky. As I eat, I hear the family’s laughter echoing from the dining room—silverware clinking, someone cracking a joke. For a second, I remember my own family dinners, Amma scolding Abba for eating too fast, my little sister sneaking extra papad onto my plate. The sting of exclusion is sharp, but I force myself to chew and not choke.

The system gives me a task: act like a chamcha and win the female lead’s heart.

‘Chamcha’—such a perfect word, na? Be her sycophant, her yes-man, her shadow—always agreeing, always eager, never noticed. The system’s voice is as cold as the AC in a Delhi Metro, but the task is simple: butter her up, win her heart. If only the system knew, Indian wives can spot a chamcha from a mile away.

But in the novel, the original host never stood a chance against the male lead. In the end, he’s sent to a mental hospital and lives out a miserable life.

Uff, just thinking about that ending makes my skin crawl. In our society, mental health is still taboo, na? Parents whisper, neighbours gossip—"Beta, us ladke ke saath mat baith, sun hai woh pagal ho gaya tha." I can’t become the colony’s latest cautionary tale.

So, I decide to take the sky-high breakup fee and make a run for it.

Bhai, what an offer—so much money just for signing on the dotted line? Any normal guy from Dadar to Dhanbad would jump at the chance. I mean, paisa bolta hai! My mind is already racing: maybe Goa for a bit, or buy Amma that washing machine she keeps ogling during Big Bazaar sale?

When the male lead returns to India, ready to finish me off, I immediately admit defeat.

Bhai, India’s own angrez returned from London or America, full-on hero entry. I see him—designer suit, that NRI attitude, talking in half-Hindi-half-English like Karan Johar’s movies. I don’t even bother to resist. I surrender faster than a traffic cop taking chai-paani money.

Bhai, you’re finally back. My wife’s been missing you like anything, you know?

Honestly, if Priya aunty had been there, she would’ve said, "Baccha, zyada bol mat, chup-chaap ghar aa ja." But I went full dramatic—"Boss, welcome back! She’s your jaan, what am I here for?"

The female lead mocks me for being shameless and living off a woman. I pull out the pen and wait for her to sign.

She rolls her eyes so hard I’m sure they’ll get stuck. "You’re a leech, you know that? Living off Priya’s money—have you no shame?" I just keep the pen ready, smile pasted on my face, waiting for her signature like a salesman at LIC.

Yes, yes, absolutely. If you delay the divorce till tomorrow, that’s a different rate altogether.

I wag my finger and say, "Madam, see, if you sign now, no extra charge. But tomorrow? That’s double, okay! Don’t blame me later."

……

The system crashes for half a day and then sends a question mark.

Arrey, even this tech—full Indian government style. System down for hours, no warning, then comes back as if nothing happened. Just a question mark? Like my school principal staring when I forgot my homework.

[The task requires you to successfully win over the female lead. If you fail, you won’t be able to return to your original world.]

Woh re, the system is acting like my mother-in-law now. "Beta, fail hua toh ghar wapas mat aana." The threat is hanging over my head, but I look at my phone and see—

Looking at the string of zeros in my bank account, I get excited.

Oof, paisa! Those zeros look so beautiful, na? Like the laddus in Ganpati pandal, all lined up. Who needs love when you have money?

Go back? Who the hell wants to go back?

Kya yaar, this new world is much better. Back home, same old struggles—arrears, rent, nagging parents. Here, main king hoon! At least for now.

I’m young and fit, my waist and legs are strong, single and rich, I have everything I could want—why would I leave?

I do a quick stretch, touch my toes—back home even yoga classes were expensive. Here, I’m fit, free, and rolling in cash. Who wants to leave?

But this time, I wasn’t going to beg. Not for her, not for anyone.