Rohit Kapoor lived a rare kind of double life. Outwardly, he was just another laid-back guy living in a modest Mumbai flat. But inside those walls, behind casual T-shirts and second-hand furniture, was a young multi-millionaire who had made his fortune young and quietly. His wealth was a secret even to most of his friends.
Those friends—Paaji, Yusuf, and Abhi—were more than just roommates. They were his chosen family.
Paaji, a towering figure with a bushy beard and permanent scowl, had once been a state-level cricketer. Protective by nature and prone to fiery outbursts, he treated Rohit like a younger brother he had to guard from the world. Yusuf, with wide eyes and a voice always one pitch too soft, was sweet, sincere, and slightly clueless. The kind of guy who forgot his own birthday but remembered everyone else’s. And then there was Abhi—barely five feet tall, endlessly energetic, and always cracking jokes in his signature stammer. He was the mood-maker, the glue.
Life in the flat was simple and joyous. Morning chai on the balcony. Evenings filled with card games, cricket in the hallway, and occasional karaoke sessions no one asked for. Rohit’s secret indulgence was Tanya—his co-worker, a kind-eyed girl he could never quite approach.
But then came the knock.
It happened after a weekend movie matinee. Abhi and Yusuf, fresh from a scrap over seat numbers, returned home with two strangers in tow. One was a gentle, silver-haired man with a voice like warm soup—he called himself Bhaiya Ji. The other, lean and cocky, introduced himself as Lee Bhai. Apparently, they had stepped in to defuse the situation and, in gratitude, Abhi and Yusuf invited them over for chai.
Paaji was instantly suspicious. Rohit less so, but certainly wary. Yet the two men quickly melted into the fabric of their lives.
They didn’t just fit in—they filled gaps no one realized were there.
Bhaiya Ji fixed things—broken switches, leaky taps, even an old stereo no one had used in months. Lee Bhai cooked. Not just meals, but memories. He made chicken curry the way Yusuf’s mother used to, kneaded dough while singing old Bollywood songs, and made Rohit’s special tea before he even asked.
They were helpful. Too helpful. And that was the problem no one saw coming.
Soon, Bhaiya Ji was giving Paaji cricket training tips. Lee Bhai was editing Abhi’s comedy videos. They listened. They advised. They healed.
And they watched.
One night, during a game of dumb charades, Rohit let something slip—a line about how he once bought a diamond “for investment” and had locked it away for safekeeping. The others laughed, not thinking twice. But Bhaiya Ji didn’t laugh. And Lee Bhai changed the subject.
That week, Bhaiya Ji casually asked about the rooms. Which one had the best view? Where did the water leak during monsoon? Who had what kind of locks?
Rohit didn’t notice. He was too caught up in Tanya, who—thanks to Bhaiya Ji’s pep talks and Lee Bhai’s “alpha energy coaching”—had finally agreed to a coffee. The group cheered for him. They even offered to cook a dinner in her honor at the flat.
It was perfect. Too perfect.
The night of the dinner, everything felt golden. Tanya and Rohit laughed on the balcony. Abhi performed an impromptu stand-up set. Yusuf brought out old board games. Bhaiya Ji and Lee Bhai cooked and cleaned like it was their own house.
At the peak of laughter, while everyone was distracted, the two slipped into Rohit’s room.
The safe wasn’t hard to find. Behind a false panel in the wardrobe. They’d observed. Calculated. Waited.
Lee Bhai had already disabled the hallway camera. Bhaiya Ji cracked the code within minutes.
But fate, cruel as always, intervened.
Paaji, who had stepped out to take a call, returned early. He noticed the flicker of light under Rohit’s door. He entered quietly—decades of cricket training making his steps silent.
There they were. Two silhouettes by the open safe. One holding the diamond.
He froze. They froze.
“Bas thoda repair ka kaam tha,” Bhaiya Ji said softly, stepping forward. His tone calm, respectful. “Shelf hil rahi thi. Dekh rahe the.”
Lee Bhai followed, slipping the diamond into his coat with the smoothness of a stage magician.
For a second, Paaji hesitated. He remembered the meals. The advice. The shared laughter.
That second was all it took.
They walked past him. Rejoined the party. Laughed. Ate dessert.
And by morning, they were gone.
No mess. No trace. Just a handwritten note taped to the fridge:
“You boys have hearts of gold. Keep them safe. Until next time.”
The safe was open. The diamond gone.
Silence filled the flat like fog. Rohit didn’t speak for an hour. Paaji punched a chair. Yusuf cried. Abhi kept asking, “But… kyun?”
No answers came.
And far away, on a moving train, Bhaiya Ji sipped chai while Lee Bhai flipped the diamond into the air.
They smiled. Two perfect strangers.
And four friends who would never open their door so easily again.
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