Green Parrot Studio

Cutting Chai

You came to Mumbai with a guitar, a suitcase, and no plan.

On day one you walk into a girl's chai and ruin it. She's Priya — runs her family's tailoring shop, measures every word before she says it, and has exactly no patience for people who don't look where they're going.

Then Zara kicks open a door with a camera around her neck and decides you're interesting. She talks in fragments, shoots in golden hour, and turns every serious moment into a joke before it can land on her.

Thirteen chapters later, you'll have to choose. Or not choose — that's an ending too.

• A Mumbai that feels lived-in. Rooftops at golden hour, a tailoring shop that smells like thread and old wood, chai stalls and local trains.
• Two women who aren't the same person. Priya measures every word. Zara talks in fragments and turns everything into a joke. Five endings, including the one where you don't choose.
• Every line voiced. 555 lines, 94 minutes of performance — not a sample, the whole game.

Super Like

Varun's texting game is “hey”, “what's up”, “cool”. So one night, you write his texts for him.

Three weeks later Naina is in love with the words, dating him, and sitting on your sofa. Her flatmate Adi knows exactly what you did.

Ten chapters of Bengaluru: flat parties, a road trip, Diwali on the terrace, and the question of who says it first.

• Texting is the game. Timed replies, two chats at once, and a best friend who says “cool” when he means help.
• Every lie is written down. What you told whom comes back later. Three strikes and it all comes out.
• Four endings. Naina, Adi, neither, or the one where everyone finds out.

So It Is Written

Doordarshan on Sunday mornings. A trunk call from the STD booth. Results day, and the report card you'd rather not bring home.

You grow up through all of it: school, tuition, the first cable connection, the first mobile phone. Every choice nudges the life you end up with.

Some of it is yours to decide. Some of it, as every aunty will tell you, was written long ago.

• The 90s, exactly as they were. Kite season on the terrace, Sunday TV, dial-up, the one neighbour with a phone.
• A whole life, not one summer. Childhood to adulthood, one decision at a time.
• Kismat vs mehnat. How much was written for you, and how much you wrote yourself.

Hazir Ho!

You're Naaz Rizvi, 27, junior at Tripathi & Rizvi, Advocates, Kaiserbagh. Your senior chews paan and talks in proverbs. Your munshi Bunty knows every chaiwala and typist in the court complex.

Three cases: a kebab shop owner locked in his own cold room, poison at a baraat, and a 1998 file that puts your own senior in the dock.

No shouting matches. This court runs on paper and dates.

• Tareekh pe tareekh. Every wrong move adjourns the matter: fourteen more days for a client in custody.
• Evidence from today's India. Delivery-app logs, WhatsApp photo timestamps, a DVR nobody reset after the Diwali power cut.
• Fair, and hard. Every contradiction can be worked out from what you already hold.

Raja Mantri Chor Sipahi

Chhotu is an orphan raised by the tea stall beside platform 4. He counts everything, never forgets a face, and cannot stand being looked down on.

Bombay's dance bars and hawala. Purvanchal. An MLA ticket from jail. Six elections, twenty-six years of the country happening on its real dates, and a ledger of everyone he ever wronged.

Indian House of Cards meets Sacred Games, played like a masala film.

• Everyone has a kamzori. Greed, pride, fear, family. Find it, then play it, carefully.
• Hisaab is kept. Everyone you wrong is written down, and comes back at the worst moment.
• Elections are arithmetic. Twelve vote blocs, your surname, the national wave, and levers that cost you friends.

Family Group

Khurana Parivaar. Forty-three members. Bua's 6:02 good morning, Tauji's forwards, the cousin who only ever reacts with a thumbs up.

It's 2019, you're nineteen, and you've just been added. Correcting Tauji isn't wrong. It's the offence.

Seven years of forwards, weddings and property fights. Comedy first, with two real turns.

• Every forward is a test. Reply in the group, take it to DM, send a joke, or just 👍 and let it slide.
• Nobody's standing is a number. You find out where you stand from who replies, how fast, and who tags you.
• 2019 to 2026. Real dates, politics as weather. Money, health, marriage and property as the plot.

Dakiya

Chandanpur has a bazaar, a temple square, a lower lane, the ghats, and Kallu's dhaba, where the chai is always on.

Every morning the Daak Ghar hands you letters. You find the people, hear what's inside, and get home before midnight.

In a locked trunk at home, one letter has been waiting thirty years to be delivered.

• A whole town on a schedule. People keep their hours, the temple bell rings at six, fireflies come out at night.
• Every letter is someone's story. And downriver, a Dead Letter Office full of mail that never arrived.
• Two towns. Chandanpur, then Kashinagar, where the post office is about to be shut down.

JUGAAD

Pick a founder: the IIT bro in HSR Layout, the D2C queen in Lower Parel, or Sukhi, the dhandha guy from Ludhiana.

Every fight is a negotiation. Angel uncles, landlords, GST officers, the Shark Tank panel. Nobody gets punched; everybody gets pitched.

Chase valuation and your final boss is your own board. Chase revenue and it's Papa Ji.

• Jugaad, once a turn. Throw away two cards and make something out of nothing.
• Shaadi Pressure. Family cards are cheap and strong. Play too many and you're at a rishta meeting.
• Valuation vs revenue. Two ways to win, two different endings.

Swalpa Adjust Maadi

One real junction per level. One day, 7 AM to 9 PM, in about four minutes. A budget in crore.

Signals, a traffic constable, flyovers, bus bays, and potholes that come back every time it rains.

And a city that tells you exactly what you got wrong, on its feed, as it happens.

• Five real junctions. Silk Board, Marathahalli Bridge, Hebbal, Tin Factory, Iblur.
• Everything Bengaluru throws at you. Cows, VIP movement, wedding processions, water tankers, rain at 4 PM.
• Everyone cribs. A stuck bus is 48 people complaining. At 100, the city shuts down.