Three tickets to Chaos, Please!

Spotlight on. Ready? And... action. Hi, I’m Sahana, your narrator, your guide, and occasionally the chaos coordinator of this tale. Most of the time, you’ll hear my inner voice steering the ship. But fair warning: my friends love barging in, hijacking the mic, and turning this into their own stand‑up act. Buckle up, you’re in for a ride.

I’m 25, an IT professional from Chennai, born and raised in a working‑class family. Translation: my life fits neatly into Jack‑size beds and instant noodle packets. King and Queen sizes? Those are reserved for people with family businesses and inherited fortunes. My salary? Blink and it’s gone, like the Wi‑Fi in a crowded café. And no, I’m not about to reveal my Annual CTC. Imagine a ‘decent number’ if you must, but trust me, it’s not the plot twist here.

Relationship status? Single since forever. Please don’t expect romance tropes—I’m not here to fall into anyone’s arms anytime... soon. I’m an ambivert with itchy feet, always half‑packed for a trip I may or may not take. My office stories? Legendary. Hilarious, fiery sagas my friends pretend to roll their eyes at, but secretly wait for like the next season of their favorite show. They won’t admit it, but I know they love them. I just know!

A quick sketch of me, Sahana:

Skin Tone: Indian, so a beautiful shade of brown. Not peach, not pink, not fair but definitely lovely.

Height: 5′ 8″ (Pretty tall, I know)

Hair type: Wavy right after a wash, straight the next day, and if I ignore it long enough, it turns curly too!

Hair length: Mid-length. Just enough for my slow-motion heroine entry.

Hair color: Black. Actually, scratch that, Jet black.

Facial features: Fish‑like eyes that, thankfully, do their job well. Skin mapped with hills and valleys — acne marks, no signs of glass skin after every skin care I could try on.

Body type: Let’s just say I’m “hourglass in progress.”

Personal Style: Either wide‑leg jeans with tees, or straight into pajamas. No in‑between.

Now, get ready because you’re about to read is about my cranky, ridiculous, yet wonderfully chaotic roommates—

“Please, spare me! You’re hardly the model of serenity,” Charvi interrupted.

Alright, I’ll confess, we’re all a mess. Still, let me narrate. “Go ahead,” Charvi said. “I’ll be waiting to call you out if you twist the truth.”

That’s Charvi in a nutshell. She’s a year older than me, originally from Mysore, Karnataka, who came to Chennai for college and decided to stay on, at least for now. Still, nothing quite explains why our clashes are so frequent. Maybe it’s cultural quirks, maybe language differences, or maybe just our endless debates over everything from the most famous breakfast and it’s side dish (if you know, you know). She works in corporate too, as an HR professional, which only adds another layer to our daily battles.

Charvi:

Skin Tone: A proud shade of brown, just like me!

Height: 5′ 1″ - a detail she prefers to keep off the record.

Hair type: Straight and silky

Hair length: Cut short into what was meant to be a chic bob but somehow turned into the “famous Dora haircut.”

Hair color: Black. She talks about dyeing it burgundy or red, but let’s be honest - she probably never will.

Facial features: Cute tiny eyes that technically function, with minor myopic quirks (left eye minus 2, right minus 1.5), paired with enviably flawless skin.

Body type: Surprisingly thin, despite the fact that she eats like food is a competitive sport.

Personal Style: Dresses for casual, shirts and trousers for formal day.

“Excuse me, are you forgetting someone?” interrupts Meghana.

Of course not, Megs! You were next in line, Charvi just barged in between.

That’s my annoyingly sweet roommate, Meghana. She’s 25 too, from Kochi, Kerala, and like Charvi, first came to Chennai for college and never went back. Now she’s working here too. She loves to sing, is an unapologetic extrovert, and has pretty much become our building’s unofficial social butterfly. And did I mention she’s an assistant professor at an engineering college? Naturally, she’s the students’ favorite. If there were elections for best professor, she’d win in a landslide.

Meghana:

Skin Tone: Another proud shade of brown, just like the rest of us.

Height: 5′4″ unlike certain people we know, she’s perfectly content with it.

Hair type: Wavy to Curly

Hair length: the kind of length you only see in glossy hair oil commercials.

Hair color: Black, with the occasional grey strand popping up once in a while.

Facial features: Eyes so striking that compliments practically arrive on autopilot. Add an oxidized nose pin and ear piercings, and she looks like she stepped straight out of a gen z-jewelry ad.

Body type: Let’s just say she’s little “healthy” like me.

Personal Style: Short Kurtis and jeans outside, cotton sarees inside the classroom.

Now that we’ve exhausted the elaborate fashion‑magazine rundown of how we look, let’s cut to the chase—the exact moment our so‑called budget trip stopped being a getaway and turned into something far more profound: a life‑altering escapade.

But before you judge, a disclaimer. Yes, we’re Gen Z. And yes, we carry enough millennial traits sometimes to confuse the algorithm. That’s why, on the internet, we proudly call ourselves the “Zillenials”.

Picture this: Once upon a time, not very long ago, in January 2025. The year had unfurled with promise, yet the only blemish on its canvas was our perpetually doomed travel plans, forever sabotaged by none other than my besties, Megs and Charvs.

We’d been roommates for nearly three years by then — sharing walls, secrets, and countless late‑night conversations. And yet, despite all that closeness, every attempt at planning a trip had collapsed spectacularly. That’s why this moment felt different. It wasn’t just another plan; it was the beginning of something that would change us in ways we hadn’t imagined.

At times, I wonder why I even bother. Because let’s be honest, they never plan. It’s always me, drawing up itineraries, researching places, and dreaming up adventures, only for the grand plan to collapse at the last minute.

Megs, you see, is that archetypal friend in every group who cancels with excuses so bizarre they could be compiled into a bestselling anthology. Each time she conjures a fresh rationale, I’m convinced she’s borrowing from her students’ imaginations.

And Charvi? She’s no different. Her reasons range from “My boyfriend will miss me too much” to “I can’t leave this work thing unattended.” Honestly, if excuses were an Olympic sport, these two would bring home gold medals.

Don’t glare at me like that, you two—you know I’m right.

“Alright, alright. Just get on with the story already. People have jobs other than listening to your bak‑bak” Megs retorts.

Charvi chimes in, “And some of us have boyfriends who think a seven‑day trip is exile.”

Ah, subtlety at its finest. Very well then, let’s cut to the chase.

January 1st, 2025, 1 AM:

Scene: Back home after the New Year’s party.

“What a party! Woohhhhoo... The music was phenomenal. I had a blast. I can’t wait to see what this year has in store for me,” chirps Megs, positively radiant.

“I mean, it was... tolerable, I suppose. Not exactly my aesthetic,” Charvi scoffs, rolling her eyes.

“Come on, Charvs! Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy yourself. I distinctly recall you dancing with that mysterious fellow. What was his name again? Jai? My memory fails me. Megs, help me out here.” I mock, grinning.

“Hmm... even I don’t recall. Was it Uday?” Megs’ muses, scratching her head.

“Absolutely not. And for the last time, I have a boyfriend, Vaibhav. He was right there with me, so why ship me with random strangers?” Charvi snapped.

“Well, because we saw that stranger trying to talk to you” Megs points out.

“Oh, shut up with the cooking‑up stories when there’s none. Vaibhav and I have been in a committed relationship for nine years. That random guy only tried to dance with me for a minute—Vaibhav walked in, and the poor fellow bolted out of sheer embarrassment after knowing I wasn’t single. So please, don’t twist the facts!” Charvi declares with theatrical indignation.

Cue Megs, mouthing silently: “Here she goes again, my boyfriend this, my boyfriend that...”

I stifled a laugh, and Charvi’s patience thinned into frustration.

“Shut-up Megs. You know what, actually, I want answers, Charvs. What’s the secret? How does one sustain a relationship for so long without a single red flag? In this day and age, a serious boyfriend feels less like reality and more like a mythical creature. You’ve had one man, your first and apparently your last. Either you’re extraordinarily lucky, or you cashed in some karmic wish from a previous lifetime. And the fact that it’s long‑distance makes it even more unreal for me. From school in Mysore to college, then work in Chennai, and now with him in Bangalore, you’ve kept it alive across cities. Honestly, that’s nothing short of a miracle.” I ask, curiosity shining in my eyes.

“Honestly, it’s trust and understanding that carried us through. I know it sounds cliché, please don’t laugh, but it’s real. We were practically kids when it all began, friends for three years before it turned into something more. Back in school, we were still figuring life out, making mistakes on both sides. But we learned. Every couple has their own rhythm; what works for one might fall apart for another. There’s no universal template. The one golden rule that saved us in tough times? Communication. If something bothers you, talk it out. That’s what I did, and it worked. And best of all, we were friends first.” Charvi ends with a smile, almost triumphant.

A short brief: She and Vaibhav met back in school (Mysore), and only toward the end of senior secondary a.k.a. high school did their friendship grow into a relationship. When college came around, Charvi moved to Chennai, while Vaibhav moved to Bangalore. Since then, they’ve been navigating a long‑distance relationship, between Chennai and Bangalore.

“Whoa, did you major in philosophy, or is that just the alcohol talking?” I laugh.

Charvi arches an eyebrow and says, “I know it was a bit heavy, but you asked for honesty while I’m drunk. That’s what you get.”

“Haha... my bad. But honestly, relationships feel like too much for me right now. I’m already spiraling over whether I should even take a bath. I think I’m thriving single, best life, zero headaches required,”

“Yes, exactly! Saha’s philosophy is right, we’re perfectly fine being single girls!” Megs laughs, tossing her hair.

“Oh wait, when did you become single?” Charvs asks, narrowing her eyes.

“Oops, forgot to mention, we broke up. One hour into the New Year and I’m already alone. Some celebration this turned out to be.” Megs’ deadpans, rolling her eyes.

“What? Why? How? When?” Charvs and I yell in unison.

“Well, you both knew I was looking for something real. Then out of nowhere, Vishal drops that he’s only up for something casual. Whatever that even means. Casual? After a month of talking? So I ask why he didn’t mention it earlier, and he goes, ‘I thought you weren’t into me after our second meet. I even hinted a few times, you didn’t catch on. I had some free time and no one else, so I just kept up the occasional flirting. Anyway, I finally got a match on my dating app... it’s been dry lately... so I figured I’d let you know. Don’t take it personally. If you’re up for some fun, let me know, okay?’ Can you believe that?” Meghana says, utterly done.

“Woahhh. And you’ll still have to face him, right? Isn’t he that backbencher’s older brother?” Charvs asks, incredulous.

“Yep. We might bump into each other during PTMs, once in a while, but it’s not too often. However, the worst part is that he’s my college’s golden alumni; every staff member practically worships him, which I truly don’t know why. I just pray no one has figured it out. He hasn’t told his brother, thank God for that.”

“Brooo, are you’re living on the edge... dating a student’s guardian? You’re basically starring in a scandalous college campus trope. Engineering Professors aren’t supposed to have this much fun!” I teased.

“Bad timing though, she doesn’t want that kind of benefits from him” Charvs laughs wickedly.

“Ah, now I see why you wanted Charvs to zip it about her relationship, you got dumped. Brutal girl.”

“Excuse me? Correction, He didn’t dump me, I dumped him. I wanted something serious, he didn’t. He asked if we could keep it casual, and I said no. So logically, that’s not him dumping me.” Megs’ snaps.

“Sure, sure, if that’s the version you want to tell. But let’s be real, he was already scouting for replacements while dating you. He probably banked on you saying no, which is why he had a backup lined up. What’s the new Gen Z term for it... something to do with furniture?” Charvs smirks.

“I know it, Benching?” I laugh.

“Exactly. He benched you. Welcome to corporate life, Megs, you’re officially part of the employee pool now.” Charvs quips.

“You both seriously need to grow up. Enough about me—can we please go to bed? It’s late, and I’ve got work tomorrow. Exam season, remember?” Megs mutters.

And after about an hour of puking and scrubbing the mess, we finally collapse into bed, drained but relieved.

Morning, 11 AM:

“Oh, my head, my head, my head, my head!” screamed Megs, clutching her temples like she’d just been drafted into a demolition derby.

“Of course it’s your head,” I said with a giggle. “Even I would scream if this was my head.”

“Ha, ha, very funny. I meant my head is literally being bulldozed. I think it’s the hangover,” Megs groaned.

“Oh yeah, I told you yesterday not to drink. But do you ever listen? Why is it so important to drink when you’re having fun? I don’t get it. Then you shout ‘my head’ a hundred times in the morning.” My frustration was practically steaming like a pressure cooker.

Charvs chose that moment to enter, like a lawyer walking into court. “Well, I also think drinking can be fun... but in moderation, and rarely of course.”

“Here comes your attorney,” I muttered. “Go on, ask her for hangover medicine. I’m not helping this time. I already cleaned up the mess you made yesterday, when you were busy singing or should I say puking—all over the restroom sink.” Irritated, I walked out of the room.

Charvs, unfazed, handed Megs a glass. “Here you go. Drink this. It’ll be over soon.”

“Thanks, Charvs! You are my best-est friend in the world,” Megs said, checking with one eye to see if I was listening.

“Yeah, yeah, say it. Next time you come running with ‘Saha, please help me,’ I’ll show you your best-est friend’s face and not mine!” I stormed off, collapsed onto the sofa, and switched on the TV with the kind of drama reserved for sports championship finals.

The television hummed to life, its screen flickering with New Year specials that had clearly been recycled from a decade ago. I sank into the sofa, determined to lose myself in a movie, while Megs and Charvs shuffled in beside me. For a brief moment, the room felt like a cozy cinema—until the picture began to dissolve into static.

“Ugh, this TV is ancient,” Megs groaned, smacking the side of it.

“Ancient? This thing stopped being produced before we even finished school,” I muttered. “It came with the house, so we’re basically babysitting a fossil.”

The three of us sat there, irritated, watching the grainy screen sputter like our great-grandpa was coughing up his last breath. Just as we were about to give up, Charvi’s phone rang. The entertainment shifted instantly—because when Charvi picked up a call, it was never just a call. It was a full‑blown Indian daily soap episode.

Her voice mellowed, yet her gaze cut like tempered glass. Vaibhav.

Charvi had been carrying family drama since she was fifteen, when her mother passed away after a year‑long battle with cancer. Her father had died much earlier, when she was only three, leaving behind nothing but blurred photographs and stories she couldn’t quite trust. People whispered cruelly that her mother was to blame for his death, because she had been at work and had no idea he suffered a heart attack until an hour later. Those whispers became walls, and Charvs cut ties with her father’s side of the family after her mother was gone.

Her Maava (maternal uncle) had taken her in. He was strict, controlling, and believed discipline was the only form of love. She endured it through her school years, adjusting herself into silence, waiting for the day she could step out. When school finally ended, she enrolled in a university in Chennai — her first real taste of freedom. And when she landed a job here after graduation, that job became her escape, and this apartment her sanctuary.

But Maava’s shadow still lingered. He knew about Vaibhav, the man Charvs loved, and he disapproved, inter-caste, different backgrounds, too many differences. To him, love was negotiable, tradition was not. To Charvs, love was non‑negotiable.

“Maava will never agree,” she had told us once, her voice steady but her eyes betraying the storm inside.

Now, on the other end of the line, Vaibhav’s voice carried something new. “Charvs... good news, my mom is okay to talk with your Maava.”

For a moment, the static on the TV seemed to pause, as if even our fossil wanted to hear this. Megs and I exchanged glances, sensing the weight of the moment.

Charvs froze, her hand gripping the phone tighter. This was not just a call. This was the beginning of a negotiation, a crack in the wall her uncle had built around her life.

She exhaled slowly, her lips curling into the faintest smile. “Alright, then let’s talk. I’ll ask him and conference call you in sometime.” she whispered, half to Vaibhav, half to herself.

And just like that, the grainy TV was forgotten. The real drama was unfolding right in front of us.

Charvs dialed her Maava’s number, each ring stretching into eternity. By the time he picked up, on the very last ring, it felt like the longest forty seconds of our lives.

“Hello, Charvi,” his voice finally came through, heavy with authority and anger. “When are you coming home?”