Chapter 5: Showdown at the Door

I opened the door a crack. The bald man’s finger was practically poking my eye as he roared, "Was it you, you rascal?"

He was so close, I could smell the lingering stink on his clothes. His finger wobbled in my face, like a traffic cop’s at a busy crossing.

I put on my most innocent face: "What?"

Raised an eyebrow, widened my eyes—channelled all the innocence of a child caught near the last laddoo.

"Don’t play dumb! That stink at my door—who else could it be but you!"

"Did you see me doing anything at your door with your own eyes? Someone smeared crap on my door too. For all I know, it was you. Was it?"

"You..."

The bald man suddenly yanked open my door and tried to grab my collar, but I was faster and caught his wrist, steady as a Mumbai local at rush hour.

When it comes to strength, I’m not weaker than him.

All those years playing gully cricket and carrying heavy groceries for my mother paid off. His grip was tough, but I didn’t flinch.

At this point, his wife came out to help.

She stood behind him, hands on her hips, and started shrieking like a proper aunty:

Her gold bangles clinked, her hair tied in a bun, dupatta flying, she looked ready to launch into a full-on family drama. The whole scene was straight out of a Star Plus serial.

"Don’t pretend you’re innocent! We know exactly what you’re up to. Kameena, do this kind of thing and your son’ll be born without an anus!"

"Scoundrel, heartless wretch—you’ll die a miserable death!"

Tch, losing their cool already? Not so fun now, is it?

When you smeared filth on my door, I didn’t even act like this.

No matter how much they cursed, I stuck to one line: "Don’t know, no idea, wasn’t me."

Just flat-out refusing to admit anything.

The bald man had no evidence, couldn’t get free from my grip, so he yanked his hand back, grinding his teeth so hard I thought they’d break: "Fine, you just wait. I’m telling you, this isn’t over."

The stink spray lasted so long that for days, their place reeked like a nala burst.

You could hear little kids whispering on the stairs, "Mummy, did someone die on this floor?" The delivery boys held their noses, and the postman stopped delivering mail for a week.

People upstairs and downstairs started gossiping: was 1601 shitting at their own door every day? The couple was so furious they cursed out everyone in the group, forbidding anyone from talking about it.

Society’s grapevine works fast. Even the milkman came to ask me, "Saab, what’s happening on your floor? That smell comes down to the main gate!"

Aunty Lata heard about my feud with them and worried for me: "Beta Rohan, that couple isn’t just difficult—they’re shameless. If you get into trouble with them, going to society management or the police won’t help."

She even pressed a lemon and green chillies into my palm, whispering a quick protection mantra, just in case their curses had some extra power.

I tucked the charm behind my doorbell, just in case. In Mumbai, you never know what works.

Heh, whether it’s me or them who can’t take it and calls the police first, we’ll just have to see.