Essentials of FLAT-ITVA

"They are our enemies,” they said. They called it an ideological war — a war to right wrongs. The residents of the flat were not to have any kind of relationship with the residents of complex no:6. And when Rahul from the 4th floor went to meet his lifelong friend Dev from the 5th floor of complex 6, the former was branded as anti-flat-ional, and it was established that he was, in fact, a danger to the other residents of complex 5.

Then came Mr. Thamburan, president of the residents association of complex 5, wearing his usual white, supposedly khadi kurta, followed diligently by members of the neighbourhood watch who stooped shamefully low out of respect for him. After a 30-minute strongly worded speech — with terms like ‘anti-flat-ional’, ‘traditions of complex 5’, and a whole dictionary’s worth of words that spelled out hate without actually using the word — he went on to criticise Prof. Nehra, the first president of the residents association, for all the horrors we, the residents of complex 5, were now facing.“Flat-itva is in danger, my dearest friends. We are at war, and the next attack from complex 6 will be their end.”With that, Mr. Thamburan ended his speech, refused to speak to any of the residents, collected monthly maintenance dues from everyone, and then, as everybody walked away, quietly signed off the extra parking spot — supposedly conserved for an emergency vehicle — to Mr. Adonis so that he could park his sixth Mercedes of the year. Seeing me notice the deal go through, Mr. Nair took it upon himself to “help me understand” why Mr. Adonis owning his sixth Mercedes was supposedly a momentous achievement for the flat’s residents.

Mr. Khader, the president of complex 6, must have declared a similar war — I guessed. My suspicions were proven true when Dev and Rahul were seen sitting at different tables at the bar they’d gone to every Friday without fail for the last six years. Two men who had shared playlists, heartbreaks, and countless beers were now giving each other dirty, hateful looks. I watched both of them waste half perfectly good plates of chicken tikka from my seat at the bar counter, just as Mr. Thamburan and Mr. Khader disappeared into the VIP room for their weekly game of pool, where they usually finished a bottle of Macallan. I finished my last beer, looked at the pathetic state of my wallet, and half-walked, half-crawled home only to see Mr. Nair being beaten up like a piñata — for failing to pay his bill at the same bar owned by Mr. Adonis — by Mr. Adonis’s men.

The day after the war was devastating. The only bird I did not find annoying was found dead, thanks to nanoclear bombs — surprisingly bought from the same seller — that both sides had used on each other. What was once a peaceful green area now resembled the lawn near the pool, the one Mr. Thamburan’s precious, fancy dog kept digging up. Rahul and Dev looked at each other from their balconies, their hateful expressions now replaced by a certain sadness, and the duo puked in sync into their buckets from the effects of radiation poisoning.

I looked into the balconies of complex 6 that faced mine, like I had done a million times over the years. I saw the same people — the same grandma who enjoyed her morning tea at the same time I had mine, the newly-wed couple who spent their evenings getting to know each other over coffee, the same couple of kids who once played some weird made-up game of cricket — only now, the smiles on their faces had disappeared. Meanwhile, Mr. Nair still waged his war on socialism by handing out posters. Mr. Thamburan declared that we won the war, ironically seconds after Mr. Khader announced their victory through a megaphone.

I do not know who won the war. Nobody does, because it was none of us. I wondered who really owns the land shared by complexes 5 and 6, and who owns the trees, the small creek flowing in between, and the countless birds. I didn’t get enough time to think about any of it, because it was time for me to puke into my bucket. Maybe it was the clarity or relief from vomiting, but I was certain now that nobody won the war. I limped to the terrace only to see Mr. Adonis exchange his fourth Mercedes for a goddamn Rolls-Royce, which made me want to puke, yet again.