For the first few days, Suyash played his role to perfection. He was the polite, unassuming newcomer. The ideal neighbor.
He introduced himself to Jethalal in the compound. The electronics shop owner was too busy fretting over a delayed shipment from Bhide's stationery to offer more than a distracted, "Welcome, welcome, bhai."
He met Taarak Mehta, who offered a warm, literary greeting and an open invitation for evening chai.
He even crossed paths with Babita in the lift. He managed a polite, deferential nod, desperately ignoring the way his pulse spiked. She offered him a brief, dazzling smile.
"So, you're the new bachelor in 701," she murmured, her voice carrying a sultry edge that never made it to the television broadcasts. "Welcome to Gokuldham."
The doors opened, and she stepped out, leaving him alone in a confined space that suddenly smelled heavily of expensive jasmine perfume.
He kept his head down. He observed. He waited.
But the real game-changer didn't happen in the society compound. It happened on his third evening, completely by accident, alone in his flat.
He had finally unpacked his TV—a sleek, wall-mounted LED left behind by the previous tenant. He was flicking through channels absently, his mind still trying to map the shifting dynamics of this reality. The news was hyperlocal. The music channels played early 2000s remixes.
And the commercials… they were decidedly different.
A deodorant ad flashed on screen, featuring a model in a towel. The camera lingered with a predatory focus that made his forty-two-year-old sensibilities reach for the remote.
He stretched his arm toward the side table. He didn't look.
His hand missed the remote.
Instead, it hit the television screen.
But there was no solid thud of glass. There was no crackle of static.
Instead, the screen rippled. It felt like plunging his hand into a pool of cool, liquid neon.
Suyash froze. He snapped his head toward the TV.
His wrist was buried deep inside the glowing LED panel. On the screen, the commercial had shifted to a soda advertisement. A gorgeous model was lifting a frosty, condensation-covered can of cola to her lips, entirely unaware of the massive, three-dimensional hand hovering in the background of her two-dimensional world.
Instinct overrode logic. Suyash curled his fingers inward.
He felt something solid. Something cold. Ridged aluminum.
He gripped it. And pulled.
With a wet schloop that sounded like breaking the surface of a pond, his hand emerged from the television.
He was holding a bright red soda can.
Water droplets ran down the metal, chilling his palm. On the screen, the commercial ended abruptly, fading into the opening credits of a melodramatic soap opera.
Suyash stared at the can. He turned it over. It was heavy. It was real.
With a trembling thumb, he hooked the tab and pulled.
Crack-hiss. A mist of carbonation sprayed into the warm Mumbai air. He brought it to his lips and took a slow sip.
Ice-cold. Sugary. Unmistakably real.
He set the can on the glass coffee table with exaggerated care, terrified it might glitch out of existence. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird, but his marketing director's brain was already accelerating from zero to a hundred.
Through the screen. I just reached through the screen. He stared at the soap opera playing before him. The actors wept and gestured wildly, trapped in their digital prison.
Not so trapped anymore, he realized.
He had to test the parameters. He waited, his eyes glued to the screen, hunting for the next commercial break.
Two minutes later, an ad for a luxury titanium chronograph watch flashed on screen. A man in a tailored suit stepped out of a sports car, the diamond-studded bezel of his watch catching the studio lights. It was the kind of timepiece that cost more than Suyash's entire previous life's annual salary.
Suyash stood up. He approached the screen, moving deliberately this time. He pressed his palm flat against the glass.
It yielded.
He pushed his arm through, feeling that same sensation of diving into still water. His fingers navigated the digital space, blindly grasping until they brushed against cold metal and leather. He closed his fist.
He pulled it out.
The heavy, titanium watch sat in his palm. The second hand ticked smoothly. The diamonds caught the overhead light of his living room.
Real. For the next hour, Flat 701 became a laboratory.
A cooking show featured a chef presenting a lavish Gujarati thali. Suyash waited until the camera zoomed in on the steaming dhokla and glistening undhiyu. He plunged both hands in, ignoring the heat, and pulled out a heavy stainless-steel plate. He stood in his living room, chewing perfectly spiced dhokla, while on screen, the chef took a bite of the exact same dish.
A fashion channel ran a segment on designer menswear. He reached in and dragged out a deep maroon silk kurta, the fabric sliding over his skin like water. It was a perfect fit.
It worked on anything.
He moved to his laptop. A Bollywood movie was paused on a scene where the hero wore a high-end designer blazer. Suyash touched the LCD screen. It rippled. He extracted the blazer, still warm from the actor's body heat.
When he pressed play, the movie resumed—but the hero was inexplicably standing there in his undershirt. The actor on screen glanced down at himself, a look of profound, unscripted confusion crossing his face, before the camera quickly cut away to the heroine.
Suyash fell back into his computer chair, the designer blazer draped across his lap. He let the sheer weight of the implications settle over him.
He hadn't just been reincarnated into the echhi version of Gokuldham. He had been handed a cheat code that defied the laws of physics.
He possessed absolute Extraction. He could pull anything from any screen, limited only by the physical size of the monitor.
He looked around his apartment. The basic, utilitarian furniture. The empty kitchen cabinets. The bare, depressing walls.
Then he looked at his laptop, where a YouTube travel vlog was showcasing a private villa in the Maldives. He could practically smell the salt water.
No, he told himself, snapping the laptop shut. Not yet. Don't be an idiot. Be smart. If anyone found out about this, he would be dissected in a lab or hunted by the underworld. But in Gokuldham? In a society fundamentally driven by status, unfulfilled desires, and petty rivalries?
This power was the ultimate leverage.
He walked to the window and looked down into the compound. Jethalal was locking up his scooter, shooting another furtive, longing glance up at the Iyer balcony before shuffling toward his wing.
Suyash smiled, running his thumb over the cool diamonds of his stolen titanium watch.
The cheat had awakened. Now, he needed a business model.
He turned back to the TV. A late-night Bollywood romance was playing. The heroine was draped in heavy gold jewelry, her eyes sparkling as the hero offered her a velvet box.
Suyash sat down on the sofa, remote in one hand, an ice-cold cola in the other, and began to flip channels with a predator's focus.
He wasn't watching for entertainment anymore. He was building his inventory.