Chapter 2: Hostel Chatter, Chai, and Cold Coffee Confusion

Ever since I left for college, Nani got obsessed with the internet.

She joined every WhatsApp group—family, neighbours, even her old school friends from 1967. If anyone needed a meme or a rasam recipe, she was first to forward it. She even got into heated debates with my bua about how to make rasam, quoting YouTube chefs.

To keep her reassured, I started sharing my daily life online.

It became a routine—photos of hostel food, college ground selfies, silly videos of my friends dancing like Govinda. She’d reply with endless comments, sometimes even asking me to hold the phone closer, as if she could see better through the screen.

Today, I devoured a spicy mutton biryani and sent Nani a photo.

I could almost hear her sniffing through the phone, her imaginary approval so vivid, I nearly tasted the spices again.

“This biryani smells amazing!”

I typed, still chewing. Nani must have a sixth sense—she always replies when my hands are messy.

She shot back instantly: “Rohan Sharma.”

My full name. At home, that meant she was annoyed or pretending to scold me in front of guests. I paused, half-smiling, half-worried.

I teased her back: “I only skipped messaging you for two days and already you’re acting cold, calling me by my full name.”

The ‘cold’ was typed with a grin, but in my mind I pictured her lips pursed, pretending to ignore me but secretly waiting for my call.

“Call me accha bachcha.”

“No, call me accha baccha.”

This silly tug-of-war had become our tradition, each waiting for the other to give in first.

She went silent for three minutes. “Are you sure you want this?”

I pictured her peering at her phone, glasses slipping to the end of her nose, eyebrows raised. Maybe even calling out, “Dekho zara, yeh kya keh raha hai!”

“With our relationship, and you still need to ask?”

Another pause. “Alright… accha baccha…”

Her reply finally landed. I grinned at my phone, shaking my head. Old people and their drama.

I replied with a puppy sticker—the same one Nani always uses because she thinks it looks like me.

She always calls it adorable.

“That’s more like it.”

Even my phone seemed to smile back. I could imagine her laughing, showing the sticker to my grandfather with a proud, “Dekha? Mera Rohan sirf meri sunta hai.”

My roommate called out from below my bunk, “Rohan, come down and check out my new sweatshirt!”

His voice was loud enough to wake half the floor. The ceiling fan above creaked, mixing the smell of Maggi with the jasmine perfume of the warden drifting in from the corridor.

I peeked out from my bed curtain and saw Amit, chest puffed, posing in front of the mirror with a black sweatshirt. He kept turning to read the brand name backwards.

“It’s all the canteen’s fault—the food’s too good. This used to fit me perfectly in size L.”

He patted his stomach, making a face. I laughed, remembering last semester when he was obsessed with gym selfies—now it was all about food vlogs.

“Rohan, why don’t you try it on? If it fits, I won’t return it.”

I rolled off the bed. “Aaya, Amit!”

I landed with a thud, almost tripping over a pile of books. The others snickered. Someone tossed a balled-up sock at me, as per tradition.

“If it fits me, will you give it to me?”

Amit shot me a look. “Sapne mein bhi nahi, bhai. Paisa do!”

His tone was mock-serious, but I saw the grin. The real negotiations would begin later—probably over chai and Parle-G.

I slipped on the sweatshirt. It fit perfectly.

The cotton was soft, the sleeves just right—not too long like Amit’s. For a second, I felt like an Insta influencer.

The colour, the fit—it was made for me.

I raised my eyebrows at Amit.

He just held up two fingers. “Do hazaar rupaye.”

He waggled his fingers like a Sarojini Nagar shopkeeper. I groaned, but inside, I was already recalculating my monthly budget.

I checked my PayTM balance—still had eight thousand left, but it was only halfway through the month.

Sigh. Food, outings, phone recharge, chaiwala ka bill—sab milake kharcha ho jata hai.

I took a mirror selfie in the sweatshirt and shorts and sent it to Nani.

My hair was a mess, the background a disaster zone, but I still grinned. I knew she’d see only me, anyway.

After all, Nani gets a pension of over a lakh, and she can’t spend it all herself. I help her lighten the load, you could say.

She often complains she can’t finish her fruits or count all her bangles. I told her, “Nani, don’t worry, main sab sambhal lunga!”

I sent a voice note: “Nani, lag raha hai main hero hoon iss sweatshirt mein, kya bolti ho?”

I tried to sound extra sweet, like a ‘good grandson’. If I was home, I’d have done puppy eyes.

Nani replied instantly: “Bahut accha lag raha hai, bilkul tumhare jaisa.”

My heart did a little bhangra. It was as if she could see me preening in the mirror.

I sent another voice message, acting pitiful: “Par pocket money kam pad gaya hai… Do hazaar ka advance mil sakta hai?”

I made my voice extra whiny, like a five-year-old wanting an extra laddoo at puja. I even added a sniff at the end, hoping to melt her heart.