Chapter 3: Delhi Banter and Dangal

The man opened up. He was in giant boxer shorts, cigarette dangling, chest sagging, eyes scanning me like I was a salesman peddling bad insurance.

The corridor tube light flickered overhead. He scratched his belly, sizing me up. “Kya chahiye?”

His tone was peak Dilli—half irritation, half warning. I could almost taste last night’s rum on his breath.

First, I complimented their stamina, then politely said I didn’t want to be a live audience to the creation of their second child, so maybe keep it down?

He stared at me like I was speaking Greek, then a smirk formed. Maybe he thought I was joking. I kept my tone civil—my mother’s voice ringing in my head: “Baat karo toh tameez se karo, beta.”

His eyes widened. “Now you want to control our bedroom too?”

He took a long drag, like the answers were hidden in the smoke. In Delhi, privacy’s a luxury, but he was ready to defend his, noise and all.

From there, we had a full and frank exchange of views on family values and physical health.

Our voices echoed down the corridor. I saw neighbours peeking from behind doors, hungry for morning masala.

He said I needed a doctor for my ears. I offered him some sanskaar lessons.

Each jab got sharper. “Bhai, maybe you should see a doctor for your hearing?” “Arrey, you don’t need a doctor—you need sanskaar!”

He started fantasising about my female relatives in ways that would make any aunty reach for her slipper.

He spat words that would’ve earned him a Lifebuoy mouthwash from my mother.

I questioned his parentage—suggested Uncle Verma, a random guy, maybe even the colony stray dog—hoping for confirmation.

It was pure Delhi banter. Anyone watching would think we were auditioning for Ram Leela villains.

Suddenly, he puffed up, rolling his sleeves, ready to fight.

He flexed, cigarette trembling. For a second, I thought he’d jump me. My heart hammered—part fear, part excitement.

I was thrilled—finally, my lucky day! My legs shook a bit, but I kept my chin up—Delhi boys don’t back down, na?

Was this how Shah Rukh felt before every filmi fight? I grinned, chin up, ready for anything.

It felt like an iPhone 15 was waving at me. I pushed my face forward—come on, hit me, I’m begging you!

This was my chance at viral fame: “Neighbour gets slapped, colony cheers!” Maybe my clip would make it to the colony WhatsApp group or the colony Facebook page.

Just then, his wife burst out, waving a kitchen towel at him like she was shooing a stubborn crow. She croaked, “Arrey suno, don’t stoop to this pagal’s level, quack.”

She adjusted her dupatta, glanced away, lips twitching in a half-smile, but didn’t say more. Even her husband seemed to shrink, grumbling under his breath.

They slammed the door, ending our little “friendly chat.”

For a moment, I stood staring at the faded paint. Somewhere, a tube light buzzed. Then, the sound of a steel tumbler hitting the floor—maybe she’d thrown it at him for good measure.