Part 3: Underwear Returns
Ten forty-five. The wind had settled into something steadier now, less chaotic, more decided. The sky had darkened a shade at the edges. By afternoon, there would be proper rain. But for now, it was just wind, warm and purposeful, moving through both sectors like it had somewhere to be.
Rohan found the underwear's approximate destination by process of elimination, two cups of chai, one Google Maps session, and Meera asking entirely too many helpful questions.
"Toh hawa kis direction mein ja rahi thi?" Meera said, sitting cross-legged on Aarav's kitchen counter,r eating the last of the omelette, completely unbothered by the wind rattling the window grille behind her.
"Northeast," Aarav said, with zero authority.
"Tu northeast kaise jaanta hai?"
"Nahi jaanta. Par hawa wahi se aa rahi thi, toh gaya wahi hoga."
Rohan sat at the table with his chai, looking like a man developing a plan. He had changed into fresh clothes;s, he had, it turned out, left not everything on the terrace. One full set had survived in his cupboard. "Kitni buildings hain us direction mein?"
"Teen char," Aarav said. "Ek toh woh Shivalik wala building hai, water tank ke peeche. Paanch minute walk hai."
Rohan put his chai down. "Main jaata hoon."
Meera stopped chewing. "Kahan?"
"Wahan. Dhoondhunga."
A pause. Meera and Aarav looked at each other with the specific expression of two people watching a third person make a decision that is both completely unnecessary and absolutely worth watching.
"Rohan," Aarav said carefully. "Yeh zaruri hai?"
"Bhai, woh meri favourite thi."
"Dusri le lena. Lajpat Rai se teen ka bikaati hain."
"Yeh baat nahi hai." Rohan picked up his chai again with great dignity. "Principle ki baat hai."
"Principle," Aarav repeated, in the tone of a man filing this away.
"Meera," Rohan said, already standing, "tu mat aa."
Meera was already putting on her chappal.
They reached Shivalik Residency at eleven. The compound was doing that pre-rain thing, leaves skittering, gate swinging, a torn kite string tangled in the boundary wall. Rohan paused at the entrance and looked up at the building with the expression of a general assessing terrain.
"Upar se aaya hoga. Matlab kisi upar wali floor pe hoga."
"Incredible deduction," Meera said.
The watchman, Ramesh, sat in his booth with a transistor radio playing nineties film songs at low volume. He looked at the three of them with the patient expression of a man whose morning had already exceeded expectations.
"Kya kaam hai?"
Rohan stepped forward. There is a specific way a person stands when they are about to say something they know sounds absurd, but have fully committed to. Shoulders back. Chin level. Voice steady.
"Bhai, mera ek kapda uda ke aaya hoga yahan. Subah. Hawa se. White… underwear."
Ramesh looked at him for one long moment. Then he reached under the counter and produced a small sealed plastic bag.
FOUND ITEM, BALCONY 502, SUNDAY MORNING.
He held it up.
Rohan stared. Meera made a small sound. Aarav looked away briefly at the sky.
"Yeh wahi hai?" Ramesh asked in the tone of someone completing routine paperwork.
"Ha… haan."
"502 pe rakha tha. Naye log hain. Unhone group mein daala." Ramesh set the bag on the counter. "Seedha aa gaye. Achha hai."
"Group mein daala?" Meera said immediately.
"Society ke WhatsApp group mein. Saari building ko pata hai."
A pause.
"Poori building ko pata hai ki meri underwear yahan hai," Rohan said slowly.
"Colonel Verma ne voice note bhi bheja."
Nobody said anything. Then Meera turned to Rohan with shining eyes. "Main 502 se milna chahti hoon."
"Meera—"
"Rohan. Unhone plastic bag mein band karke, label karke, watchman ko diya. Yeh log hain. Real ones."
Rohan looked at the bag. He thought about it. He picked it up.
Ramesh was already dialling.
Priya was on her second cup of chai when Ramesh called.
"Bhabhi ji, woh jo item diya tha subah, uska owner aa gaya."
Priya held the phone away from her ear. Looked at Karan. Karan had stopped mid-screwdriver on the bookshelf.
"Owner aa gaya?" she said.
"Haan ji. Teeno aaye hain."
"Teeno?"
Karan set the screwdriver down very gently. "Poori team leke aaya hai."
Priya was already smoothing her dupatta. "Karan chai bana."
"Priya hum inhe jaante bhi—"
"Koi aaya hai humari society mein apna kapda lene. Hawa ki wajah se. Chai toh milni chahiye. Bana."
The lift took its time. Rohan, Meera, and Aarav stood in it watching the floor numbers, the small bag in Rohan's hands.
"Tu kya bolega?" Aarav asked.
"Sorry bolega. Thank you bolega. Bag lunga. Aaunga."
"Itna hi?"
"Itna hi."
The lift opened at five. At the end of the corridor, the door to 502 was already open.
Priya stood in the doorway. She looked at the bag. She looked at Rohan.
"Aa gaye," she said.
"Haan ji. Yeh mera tha. Sorry. Terrace pe sookha chhoda tha—"
"Pata hai. Balcony pe seedha aa ke baith gaya. Subah ka pehla scene." She stepped back. "Andar aao. Chai rakhi hai."
Meera was already inside.
The flat was the organised chaos of new settling, a half-assembled bookshelf, boxes along the wall, and curtains at a slightly imperfect height. Karan came out of the kitchen with five cups on a tray, looked at everyone, looked at the bag, and maintained a straight face.
Mostly.
They sat. Wind came through the open balcony door in warm, steady gusts. The money plant moved. The cactus did not.
First thirty seconds: chai sipping. Comfortable enough silence.
Then Rohan said, "Chimta se uthaya tha?"
"Kitchen chimta," Karan confirmed. "Mera idea tha."
A beat.
"Achha idea tha," Rohan said, nodding seriously.
"Thank you," Karan said, also seriously.
Aarav looked into his chai.
Then Meera said, "Usne poore group mein daala. Sixty families."
"Kya likhti?" Priya said with feeling. "Kisi ka personal saman tha. Address toh hota nahi iske upar."
"Nahi nahi, sahi kiya," Rohan said immediately, in the tone of a man who had absolutely not wanted this. "Bilkul sahi decision."
Brief silence.
"Colonel Verma ne voice note bheja," Karan offered.
Rohan looked up. "Haan, watchman ne bataya."
"Usne 2019 ka bedsheet incident bhi mention kiya," Priya said.
"Records hain unke paas?"
"Eleven saal se hain society mein," Karan said, with quiet respect.
Rohan looked at the bag in his lap. The bag looked back. The room sat with this for a moment.
Then, from the corridor outside, firm footsteps. Everyone looked at the open door. A man in a pressed half-sleeve shirt appeared, sixty-ish, upright posture, reading glasses pushed up on his forehead. He looked into the flat, looked at the gathered group, looked specifically at the bag in Rohan's hands.
"Item mil gaya?" he said.
Karan stood up slightly. "Ji uncle, aa gaye owner."
The man nodded once. "Good." He looked at Rohan with the calm appraisal of someone who has handled larger situations. "Beta, terrace pe kapde sookhaate waqt hawa ka direction dekhna chahiye. Kitne baje chhoda tha?"
Rohan opened his mouth. Closed it. "Ji… raat ko. Koi… gyarah baje ke aas paas."
"Gyarah baje north-northeast wind thi. Eighteen kilometres per hour. Clearly yahi aana tha." He tapped the door frame once, satisfied. "Main Colonel Verma hoon. Third floor."
"Ji," Rohan said.
"Next time,e checthero forecast." He looked at Priya. "Bhabhi ji, chai achhi thi." And he left.
His footsteps went steadily back down the corridor.
Everyone in the room stared at the empty doorway for three full seconds.
"Woh chai pee ke gaya?" Meera said.
"Usne chai li thi?" Priya said, also confused.
Karan counted the cups on the tray. "Ek cup kam hai."
They left at half past eleven.
In the lift going down, nobody spoke for a moment. Then Aarav said, "Ab tu isko pehnega?"
Rohan looked at the bag with genuine consideration. "Nahi. Retire. Colonel Verma style, record mein daalo, 2026, Sector 35, Sunday, north-northeast wind, eighteen kmph."
The lift opened. They walked out through the compound. At the gate, Rohan stopped and turned back to look up at the fifth floor. The balcony was visible, a money plant, a cactus, and an open door with the curtain moving in the wind.
Ramesh watched them leave from his booth, radio still going, and made a small note in his register under Sunday's date. He did this for unusual items. It was his own record system, separate from Colonel Verma's, which he considered slightly less reliable.
He wrote: "White underwear. Found 502 balconies. The owner came. Returned. 11:32 AM."
Then, after a moment, he added: "Three people came for one pair of underwear."
He looked at it. Felt it was complete. Closed the register.
The wind moved through the compound, warm and building toward rain, lifting a few dry leaves off the ground and setting them back down somewhere slightly different.
In Sector 35, Meera was already typing.
"Guys. Full closure. Rohan ne underwear wapas le li."
Rohan: "Delete kar."
Aarav: "Never."
Meera: "Colonel Verma bhi tha wahan. Voice note wala."
Aarav: "KYA?"
Rohan stared at his phone. Put it in his pocket. Looked at the sky, which was definitely going to rain soon, and started walking.
Some things you simply cannot explain to a WhatsApp group.
You can only walk home, bag under arm, wind at your back, and let the morning be what it was.
Ek underwear. Teen sector. Ek Colonel. Paanch log. Ek register entry.
Aur Chandigarh ka yeh Sunday, jis din Colonel Verma ki chai gayab hui, woh bhi ab record mein hai.