Chapter 4: Escalation and Retaliation

Luckily, my door has a fingerprint lock, so I quickly opened it and darted inside.

One swift motion, and I was in the safety of my flat. In the background, I could hear the distant sound of a pressure cooker’s hiss, as if even the kitchen appliances were in on the drama.

By the time the bald man shuffled over in his slippers, I’d already slammed my door shut.

Outside, I could hear him howling and cursing like a goat at Bakrid.

His voice bounced off the corridor walls, joined by the shrill ring of his wife’s scolding. The whole floor must have thought a mini-riot had broken out.

Then his wife came out, panicked, asking what happened.

Her voice cut through the air, worried and shrill, like a mother hen sensing trouble in her coop. Soon, the volume doubled, their words overlapping in a crescendo of complaints.

Then the cursing went from one person to two.

If there was an award for society drama, these two would have bagged it years ago.

I was in a great mood, pretending not to hear a thing.

I even turned up the TV a bit, let the sound of cricket commentary drown out their noise. In my heart, I was humming the title track from an old Govinda movie.

That jar of stinky pickled mango was finally ruined.

Still riding the buzz from the alcohol, I slept like a log. No idea how long they cursed outside.

The next day, when I went out, an even worse stench than before hit me in the face. I nearly fainted from the smell.

I quickly found the source.

Good grief.

Someone had smeared human waste all over my door.

No wonder no one in the building dares mess with the folks across the landing—those two really have no shame.

I hired someone from UrbanClap to clean my door, but I didn’t go argue with them.

The cleaning guy came with gloves, mask, and a can-do attitude. He didn’t even flinch. "Bhaiya, you won’t believe the things I’ve seen," he said, scrubbing away like a true professional. Meanwhile, I just stood there, arms folded, refusing to give the other side the satisfaction of a fight.

Arguing only works with reasonable people. To fight a scoundrel, you have to be even more shameless.

I bought a bottle of high-concentration stink spray—non-toxic, but absolutely foul.

Thanks to Amazon Prime, the spray arrived the very next morning. The Amazon delivery boy handed it over, holding the box at arm’s length like it might explode.

When the couple went out together, I slipped over and gave their door frame and doormat a thorough soaking. I didn’t spare the dozen or so pairs of chappals scattered around either—they all got a good dose.

It was the most action those old Bata chappals had seen in years. I made sure every pair, from Hawaii slippers to fancy Kolhapuris, got their fair share.

When they came home that night, they stopped halfway through unlocking the door.

They went down on their haunches, sniffing like street dogs at a garbage pile, faces twisted in disgust. The wife couldn’t help but gag and nearly puked.

I was clutching my stomach, laughing behind the peephole.

Their faces were a sight—like someone told them the samosas at the party had been filled with gobi instead of aloo. My stomach hurt from trying to muffle my laughter.

The next second, my door was pounded with a "BANG BANG" that rattled the ceiling.