Chapter 2: The War Begins

The guy across the landing exploded:

His messages started coming in rapid-fire, each one more aggressive than the last. If WhatsApp had a way to show steam coming out of someone’s phone, his would have been boiling over.

"What nonsense are you speaking? Looking for trouble, are you?"

"I’m telling you, my wife’s pregnancy comes first. If anyone dares disturb her, I’ll make sure they regret it!"

"You rascal, which flat are you from? Why don’t you have a name? Admin, is this guy even from our building? If not, kick him out!"

Wah, so full of himself.

If arrogance was an Olympic sport, this guy would take the gold, silver, and bronze—all at once. Reminded me of those uncles at weddings who demand the first serving of gulab jamuns.

Too bad I’ve dealt with plenty of loudmouths like this before.

I said, "Why do you care which flat I’m in? The baby in your wife’s belly has nothing to do with anyone else, so you have no right to dictate how others live."

The guy across the landing sent a voice note, cursing my ancestors so thoroughly, even my dadi would have covered her ears.

The way he went on, I half expected him to summon the entire family tree for a mahapanchayat on the group.

He tried to add me as a friend, but I ignored him.

Aunty Lata from downstairs, who added me to the group, sent me a private message:

"Beta Rohan, don’t get into jhagda with 1601. Last time, someone argued with them, their fridge broke down for a week—buri nazar, I’m telling you. The last tenants in 1602 moved out because they couldn’t take it anymore."

No wonder no one else dared to speak up—they were all afraid of trouble.

In every society, there’s always that one family whose stories become bedtime horror tales for the kids. Looks like 1601 was our very own legend.

But if you put it that way, now I’m actually interested.

I might not be good at much, but when it comes to dealing with jerks, I’m a seasoned pro.

1601 was still ranting in the group, spewing the same filthy curses over and over.

He kept typing, as if every expletive was a badge of honour. Even the building watchman, Ramu, would have blushed at some of those words.

I’d long since grown immune to that kind of trash talk. Anyway, this was just the beginning—I couldn’t be bothered to argue with him now. I switched off my phone and went to sleep.