Chapter 1: The WhatsApp Bomb

The WhatsApp ping cut through the sleepy hum of ceiling fans and distant news anchors.

The uncle across the landing suddenly dropped a bomb in the society WhatsApp group:

The message arrived right after the afternoon chai break, when half the society was either dozing off or watching the news on TV. It was one of those long, formal texts, peppered with capital letters and exclamation marks that only middle-aged uncles and government officers dare to use without irony:

"ATTENTION, EVERYONE: My wife is pregnant. To ensure she can rest and have a peaceful pregnancy, I’ve drafted a ‘Society Residents’ Code of Conduct.’"

Almost as soon as this landed, another message followed—a bulleted list so bizarre that even our retired Army Colonel must have choked on his Marie biscuit:

He immediately followed up with ten ridiculous rules:

"No renovations, no dogs, no cooking at home, no using the lift at night, no looking at your phone when you see my wife..."

The rules kept coming, like a principal scolding the whole class:

[First: My wife could fall asleep at any moment, so day or night, all residents are forbidden from making any noise.]

[Second: While my wife is pregnant, no one is allowed to do any renovations.]

[Third: My wife gets scared of dogs—so all dogs must vanish from the building in three days. Even Sharmaji’s old Pomeranian.]

[Fourth: Considering radiation, if you run into my wife in the lift, you’re not allowed to look at your phone.]

……

[Ninth: My wife can’t stand the smell of cooking oil, so residents on the 16th floor are forbidden from cooking at home.]

[Tenth: The lift door is too loud when it opens, so after 9 p.m., residents on the 16th floor are forbidden from using the lift.]

As I scrolled through the messages, the corner of my mouth twitched in disbelief. My hand jerked, nearly spilling chai on the WhatsApp group admin’s number.

Is his wife pregnant with a divine avatar or what? Where does he get the guts to make such absurd demands of everyone else?

The sheer entitlement! Arrey, even the building's old secretary, Sharmaji, never dared to talk like this. And from the way the last two rules read, it was obvious the attack was aimed right at my flat. In a building where there are only two flats per floor, such rules weren’t even pretending to be subtle.

This fellow kept barking out orders: "From now on, all residents must consciously follow this code. Admin, please tag everyone."

Strangely, nobody in the group blasted him.

No GIFs, no wisecracks from Ravi, not even a forwarded bhajan from Aunty Fatima. For a full minute, the group was as silent as the lift during a power cut. Everyone must have been quietly checking if their own names would be tagged next.

They could hold back, but I couldn’t.

I fired back immediately: "Bhai, are we all co-parents now or what? Next you’ll ask us to rock the baby to sleep too?"