Chapter 4: Bhajans, Jugaad, and War

Not long after, the quacking started again—louder than ever, like an orchestra tuning up. This time, it was a challenge. I could hear the mattress protesting, the bed thumping, and the legendary quack-quack laughter. She was really putting on a show, as if to say: “Try stopping us now, beta.”

If it was Donald Duck before, now it was Turbo Duck.

Someone must’ve handed her a mic. My phone pinged with WhatsApp messages from the colony group: “Kya ho raha hai, yaar?” “Duck festival, again?”

I knew they were doing it on purpose, so I recorded it and called the police station.

Fingers shaking, I hit record and captured a full minute of madness. The officer on duty sounded bored until he heard the quacking—then he was all business. “Haan, we’ll send someone. This is too much!”

The cops arrived fast. We listened to the duck chorus together. The officer tried not to laugh; his constable snorted, pretending to check his phone.

So, I brought the police to their door for round two.

A crowd gathered. The old uncle from 302 muttered, “Arrey, police bhi bula liya!”

The guy opened the door and yelled, “Are you done or what?”

He wasn’t fazed by the uniforms—if anything, he seemed to enjoy the extra crowd.

I stayed silent. The officer flashed his badge: “Hello, you’re disturbing your neighbours. Please keep it down—other people need to sleep.”

His badge caught the flickering tube light. The wife peered out, eyes narrowed. The air thickened with leftover masala and tension.

Only then did the guy realise the police were real. His eyes bugged out: “You actually called the cops over this?”

Neighbours watched, popcorn in hand. Even the security guard crept up, lathi ready.

I’d had enough. “Watch your mouth. Can’t you show some manners? Didn’t you hear the officer? You’re disturbing the neighbours, got it?”

My voice was sharp—I wasn’t backing down in front of half the colony.

He was stubborn: “This is my house. I can do whatever I want. Our bedroom life has nothing to do with you.”

He didn’t say “bedroom life,” but you get the drift—his language was anything but sanskari.

I said, “I don’t care how blissful you are, but can you keep it down? Enough with the quacking—is your wife a duck or what?”

A ripple of laughter ran through the doorways. Even the constable snorted into his handkerchief.

“Say that again if you dare!”

He stepped forward, eyes wild. I wondered if he’d lunge, but I held my ground.

I pinched my throat and did my best: “Quack quack quack quack, darling you’re amazing, quack quack quack quack.”

I threw in a little dance for extra effect. Even his wife cracked a reluctant grin.

He turned beet red and lunged, but the officer blocked him.

The constable spoke softly, “Bhaiya, shaant ho jao. Don’t make things worse.”

The officer pulled him aside, reasoning for ages.

There was whispering, some threats, and finally, a tired sigh from the guy. His shoulders sagged.

But he was stubborn as a bull at a mela, muttering about “rights” and “personal space.”

I got it—the police could only mediate. With people like this, a sudden change wasn’t happening.

The officer’s resigned look said it all: this wouldn’t be the last time he’d visit our building.

So, I signed the paperwork and sent the cops off.

There’s always paperwork. I scribbled my name, the officer nodded, and the neighbours dispersed, already gossiping.

Sure enough, he was back to his old tricks soon after. As soon as the police jeep left, the familiar show resumed, even louder—like they were celebrating.

I sneered. If you want to play gunda, I’ll show you proper Delhi jugaad.

I dug out a cardboard box, stuffed a subwoofer inside, and pressed three sides with sponge. The unspongey side went right up against the wall. Volume: max.

My engineering finally paid off. I balanced the box on my study table, grinned, and queued up the perfect playlist.

I blasted the Hanuman Chalisa.

[Shri Guru Charan Saroj Raj, Nij manu mukur sudhari...]

The sacred words filled the room, power flowing through me. Even the tube light seemed to glow brighter. In India, nothing silences a fight like Hanuman ji’s presence. As the bhajan blasted through the walls, I pictured Hanuman ji himself flexing his mace, ready to chase away all evil—quacks included.

As the chanting filled the air, I felt instantly refreshed—mind and body cleansed.

I closed my eyes, palms pressed together. My grandmother always said, “Where Hanuman Chalisa plays, all evil flees.” For a moment, my flat felt less like a battleground and more like a temple on Hanuman Jayanti, incense swirling, flowers at Hanuman ji’s feet.

I wanted to see if they’d dare continue in front of Hanuman ji, Lakshmi Mata, and the Navagrahas.

Even shamelessness has limits, na? Let’s see if they’d break decorum before the gods.

Sure enough, Hanuman ji moved them to stop.

I heard a thump, a clatter, then silence. My plan was working! For the first time in weeks, I could hear myself think.

"Arrey suno, I think Hanuman ji’s appeared, quack."

Her voice was softer now, nervous laughter underneath. Even the ducks had gone quiet.

"Appeared my foot, it’s the neighbour messing around!" He pounded on the wall. "Turn off the music! Who the hell plays bhajans at midnight? Are you mad?!"

The wall shook with each thump. I grinned, picturing his red face and wild hair. The sacred and the shameless, side by side.

Me: “Jai Bajrang Bali, since you don’t understand bhakti, this humble devotee also knows a bit of martial arts.”

In my best hero voice, I called, “Yeh Hanuman ji ka ashirwad hai, samjhe?”

He was furious, banging on my door again.

I heard his heavy footsteps, the chain rattling as he tried to barge in.

I grabbed a knife and handed it over: “Tonight, either you kill me, or go home and hold it in—enough with this nonsense.”

I held the knife out, handle first, expression serious. In my head, the background score was building—like a climax scene in Gangs of Wasseypur.

He was caught off guard, just stared at me, dumbfounded. For a second, silence stretched. The corridor tube light flickered, a neighbour coughed, tension thick in the air before he backed down.

Guess he usually scares people, but today he met his match—the king of Delhi ka launda.

I stood tall, channeling every gully boy who ever fought for his right to sleep.

He didn’t dare take the knife. The flush faded from his face.

He backed away, muttering, looking anywhere but at me. A small victory, but I savoured it.

He stammered, “You, you’re making so much noise at night—how’s anyone supposed to sleep?”

I almost laughed. The audacity! I wanted to record his face and send it to every WhatsApp group I knew.

I was so stunned I couldn’t even react: “Are you stealing my lines now?”

Even the universe paused for a second to appreciate the irony.

He sneered, “You just moved here and you’re already going against me? Are you looking to die?”

His voice was thin, desperate—the bravado gone.

I stretched my neck: “Come on, make it quick.”

I tapped my neck, like in the movies. “Ek kaam karo, seedha kar do.”

He jabbed his finger at me, but it was all show—“Main toh chala, but main waapas aaunga!”

That’s what losers always say. I ignored him, closed the door.

Finally, peace and quiet. I slept like a baby—the silence as sweet as kulfi on a May afternoon. For the first time in weeks, I dreamed of nothing but empty skies.