Raghav Mishra had two great fears in life: Cockroaches, and people who were not afraid of cockroaches. This is why it was especially unfortunate that he lived in Flat No. 403 of Shanti Residency, a building so old that even the cockroaches paid maintenance. One Saturday morning, as Raghav prepared his famously inconsistent chai, he saw it—a cockroach of such extraordinary size that it could’ve filed income tax. Raghav froze. The cockroach didn’t. It stared at him with the calm assurance of someone who pays rent. Raghav did the reasonable thing: he screamed, dropped the kettle, and called his neighbor, Mrs. Gupta, an unflappable retired school principal known for disciplining both children and municipal staff with equal ease. “Mrs. Gupta! Emergency! Crisis! Disaster!” Raghav howled. Without asking further, Mrs. Gupta marched in wielding her weapon of choice: a thick slipper that had seen more battles than the Mahabharata. “Where?” she demanded. “There,” Raghav whispered, pointing at the creature now sitting on the wall like a disappointed landlord. Mrs. Gupta took aim. But just as her slipper ascended with righteous fury, the cockroach did something unexpected. It waved. Not randomly. Not insect-ishly. A deliberate, polite, unmistakably human wave. Both Raghav and Mrs. Gupta froze. The cockroach adjusted its antennae and tapped on Raghav’s kitchen tile three times—like someone knocking at a door. Then, with surprising dignity, it scuttled under the sink. A long silence followed. “Beta,” Mrs. Gupta finally said, “yeh toh… shishtachari cockroach hai.” Raghav blinked. “A polite cockroach?” ...