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Goodbye Neighbourhood

Posted on January 27, 2007
Filed Under The Stories |

Peace had reigned over the fourth floor of Adarsh building for close to nine weeks. The other families in the building as well as the single male tenants on floors three and twelve had become used to the fact that the elevator doors might open to a completely quiet fourth floor; no hurling of abuse, no accusations, no noise. This was the first time such a possibility had arisen in the four years that those two particular families had been living on that floor. The longest stint of peace before this had been the five weeks during summer vacations 2004 when the two warring families had been away during separate yet overlapping times.

In a neighbourhood notorious for its ability to spread gossip, not one single person would actually be able to tell you what those two households were constantly fighting over. There was speculation, a lot of it, but nobody would ever be able to tell exactly what caused the frequent raised voices and name-calling. On most occasions, through the ear-torturing wall of sound that emanated from their open windows and front door, it was almost always only possible to distinguish swear words.

When quiet descended upon the fourth floor, the neighbours’ first inclination was to believe that one or the other family was on vacation. The belief would have held except for the fact that both families had school or college-aged children and August is hardly the month for jetting off to a vacation destination. There was also some debate about whether either family had relocated but a quick conversation with the building secretary cleared that right up. Both families were still occupying their flats. He said it with a mixture of relief and regret. Some people speculated that he was hoping one or the other would leave the building and the society could make a profit from the resale of the flat to a new buyer.

The truth was slightly different.

Mr. Sharma and Mrs. Iyer were the resident adults in each flat. Mr. Sharma had single-handedly raised his three children after his wife died over eight years ago. Mrs. Iyer was the embittered spouse who had to deal with finding a new job and personal dignity after her husband walked out on her five years ago. She had moved in with a college-aged daughter and school-going son, four years ago, having bought the flat with the money from her divorce settlement. Already nursing a black hole where her heart used to be, the constant parade of semi-attractive women who seemed to be leaving the flat opposite hers at all hours of the day and (sometimes) night enabled her to build a reservoir of resentment against the man of that house. Without warning, as much to her as anyone else, the dam burst one day; and the yelling began.

Mr. Sharma didn’t exactly know what had brought this on but he quickly learnt to give as good as he got. He had always been perceived as something of catch, even by the married women living in the building. He didn’t understand it but he didn’t understand backing down either.

Their children learnt to suffer through it, as did the neighbours.

Neither adult had proven particularly receptive to the few feeble attempts at mediation. The only certainty the neighbours had accepted, apart from the constant invectives being hurled across the hall, was that it would be impossible to get a decent price for any flat in the building as long as those two were at each other’s throats.

Just as no neighbour had been able to understand why the two families on the fourth floor were constantly at war, they were also unable to fathom the reason for the sudden, seemingly binding truce.

Early one morning, as Mrs. Iyer climbed out of bed and tried to re-drape her saree in the half-light of dawn, Mr. Sharma watched her with a smile and said, “We mustn’t allow the neighbours to get suspicious. I think some of them are already talking.” She nodded and tip-toed out of his bedroom, out the front door and into her own flat as soundlessly as possible. A quick peek into her sons’ bedroom confirmed that they were still both fast asleep.

The Mehtas on the sixth floor were in the process of showing their flat to a young Dubai-based couple who were looking at purchasing property in India with the plan of eventually settling down in the mother country. Just as Mr. Mehta was showing them how they had spared no expense in doing up the two bathrooms, the yelling resumed. Mrs. Mehta looked at her husband and spontaneously burst into tears. Mr. Mehta quietly ushered the surprised couple out of the flat, flopped down on the sofa and turned up the television. It was a Gujarati cooking show, but he didn’t care.

Nobody ever figured out why there had been nine weeks of peace on the fourth floor of Adarsh building. As time passed they began to wonder whether it had actually ever happened.

As time passed, the raised voices became just another thing to ignore in an already noisy city.

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