That morning, the notice appeared on the society bulletin board, printed on crisp white paper and suffocating under an ungodly amount of clear tape.
Special General Body Meeting — 7:00 PM
Topic: Moral Conduct in Gokuldham.
Attendance: Mandatory.
Suyash read it three times, fighting the smirk threatening to break across his face. The handwriting was unmistakably Bhide's—obsessively neat, with the word "mandatory" underlined so deeply that the paper was nearly torn. The society secretary had been building up to this for weeks, ever since the rumored "late-night visitor" in Block C appeared.
It didn't matter that the visitor turned out to be Popatlal's cousin. The damage to Bhide's blood pressure had already been done.
Now, at seven o'clock sharp, the entire society was crammed into the sweltering community hall. Plastic chairs stood in perfectly spaced, militant rows—definitely Bhide's doing. At the front sat a makeshift podium holding a water bottle and a dog-eared copy of the society bylaws. Above it all, a solitary ceiling fan spun lazily, entirely useless against the collective body heat of more than thirty residents packed into a room built for twenty.
Suyash took a seat in the third row, between the quietly calculating Taarak and Dr. Haathi's rhythmic, heavy breathing. Across the aisle, Jethalal was already losing his battle with gravity, his chin dipping toward his chest in sleepy increments. Beside him, Babita sat elegantly, her silk sari draped in a way that caused elderly Mr. Khote to adjust his spectacles twice in five minutes.
At the front, Bhide mounted the podium. He carried the gravitas of a man addressing the United Nations. He adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, and tapped the microphone.
SCREECH!
Half the room winced.
"Testing, testing. Is this on? Good." Bhide pulled a thick stack of handwritten notes from his kurta.
"Residents of Gokuldham Society, Good evening."
A half-hearted, synchronized mumble rolled through the crowd.
"We are gathered here today," Bhide continued in the somber tone of a news anchor announcing a national crisis, "to address a matter of the utmost seriousness: A matter that threatens the very fabric of our peaceful community."
Two rows back, Popatlal loudly stage-whispered, "He's talking about the missing garbage bin again."
Bhide's left eye twitched. "No, Popatlal. This is not about the garbage bin. Although that is a concern for the next agenda item! Today, I am speaking of something far more insidious." It's something that's creeping into our society like a..."
He paused, grasping for the right metaphor.
"Like a cockroach in the kitchen," Jethalal mumbled, half-asleep, into his own chest.
"Yes! Like a cockroach!" Bhide seized the lifeline.
"A cockroach of moral decay! A pestilence of permissiveness! An infestation of loose character!"
The hall plunged into dead silence.
Beside Suyash, Taarak shifted uncomfortably. Dr. Haathi stopped breathing heavily, shifting to a suppressed wheeze that was somehow more distracting. In the front row, Madhavi suddenly found her cuticles fascinating.
Bhide was warming up. "I have been observing. Yes, observing! What I have seen in recent weeks has deeply troubled me. The way some of our young people dress—and I'm not naming names, but you know who you are—is deeply troubling. The way they talk. The way they look at each other."
His stern gaze swept the plastic chairs, lingering for a moment on Suyash before moving on.
"In my day, we had values! We had sanskar. A young man and woman wouldn't even share a park bench without a chaperone. And now? I see people visiting each other's apartments at all hours. I hear suggestive music playing late into the night. I see clothing that would make a washerwoman blush!"
Two rows ahead, Komal, wearing a noticeably lower-cut blouse than the one she'd worn the previous morning, turned around. She locked eyes with Suyash.
She winked.
Suyash felt a sudden spike of heat hit the back of his neck, but he kept his expression blank.
"Yesterday, I saw something that made my blood boil," Bhide thundered on. "I was returning from my 5:00 a.m. walk, and what did I see?" A young man returning to his apartment, looking disheveled. Disheveled, I tell you! Shirt untucked. His hair was a mess. And he had the audacity to wish me a 'good morning,' as if nothing were wrong!"
Popatlal's hand shot up. "Who was it?"
"I'm not naming names!"
"Was it me?"
"No, Popatlal, it wasn't you. You were home watching that late-night show about—never mind." Bhide shook his head, regrouping. "The point is, this cannot continue. We are a family. A joint family. We must police ourselves! We must report suspicious behavior. We must—"
"Bhide," Taarak interjected smoothly and diplomatically. "Don't you think you're being a little dramatic?"
"Dramatic?" Bhide's voice cracked, rising half an octave. "Taarak, I have lived in this society for seventeen years! I have seen children grow up, marry, and have children of their own. And never have I seen such brazen disregard for basic decency!"
He slammed his palm onto the podium. The water bottle wobbled, tipped, and rolled off the stage, stopping directly at Madhavi's feet. She picked it up with a heavy sigh, as if she had heard this monologue a dozen times before.
"Just yesterday," Bhide said as he paced the narrow stage, "I was walking past the C-wing staircase. I heard voices. Whispers. I peeked around the corner and saw two people. Two people standing very close. Standing very close. Very, very close. In the stairwell! In broad daylight!"
A collective murmur rippled through the hall.
"Who were they?" Jethalal asked, suddenly wide awake.
"I am not naming names!"
"Was it me?" Popatlal tried again.
"No, Popatlal!"
"Then why does everyone always assume it's me?"
Because you're always lurking in stairwells!" Bhide snapped. He took a deep breath and pushed his sliding glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "The point is not who. The point is what. What kind of example are we setting?"
"Bhide," Dr. Haathi rumbled, his voice vibrating through Suyash's chair. "Your daughter is six. She doesn't even know what 'loose character' means."
"She will learn! I want her to learn the right values. Not these modern ideas about 'personal freedom' and 'my life.'" Bhide aggressively deployed air quotes. "There's no such thing as 'my life' in a housing society. Your choices affect all of us. If you bring shame to yourself, you bring shame to Gokuldham!"
Suyash maintained a mask of thoughtful, solemn agreement. He nodded at all the right moments. But behind his dark eyes, his mind slipped seamlessly back to three days ago.
Flashback:
The memory was razor-sharp. He had been walking up the C-wing staircase when he heard the rhythmic click of sandals behind him: Komal. She was carrying a woven laundry basket and heading for the terrace. Knowing that Dr. Haathi was stuck at his clinic until evening, Suyash had offered to help her.
They climbed together. The narrow stairwell forced them into close proximity. With every step, her arm brushed his. The friction was subtle but constant.
When they reached the landing, she set the basket down and exhaled heavily.
"This heat," she murmured, fanning her neck with her hand. The motion caused her neckline to shift, revealing a bit more skin. "I don't know how you young people manage: Running around all day, working late, entertaining guests at all hours..."
He let out a polite, noncommittal laugh.
Then, she moved.
Her hand dropped from her neck and patted his backside.
It wasn't an accidental brush in a crowded hallway. It was a full, deliberate, open-palmed touch that lingered just long enough to bridge the gap between accident and invitation.
Her hand rested there for a slow count of three, her fingers curling slightly against the fabric of his pants.
She looked up at him through her lashes. Mischief danced in her eyes.
'Oops,' she whispered, her tone entirely devoid of apology. "So clumsy of me."
He excused himself and took the remaining stairs two at a time, his ears burning.
Sitting in the sweltering community hall, Suyash bit the inside of his cheek to stifle his smile. The irony of the situation was exquisite.
There was Bhide, screaming blue murder about the virtue of Gokuldham, oblivious to the truth right in front of him. He was unaware that his wife, Madhavi, had been sending Suyash increasingly bold text messages, such as "Just checking if you need anything, beta ❤️," with emojis that felt decidedly unmaternal. He was oblivious to the way the women of this "virtuous" society prowled the corridors.
And Komal. Komal, whose hand had been on his less than seventy-two hours ago, was sitting two rows away, deliberately letting her dupatta slip off her shoulder as she pretended to adjust her hair.
"...and I propose," Bhide yelled over the rising tide of grumbles, "that we form a modesty committee! A rotating panel of senior residents will patrol the corridors after 10:00 p.m. Any unauthorized male-female interaction will be reported to the committee and, if necessary, the police!"
"The police?" Jethalal bolted upright. "Bhide, have you lost your mind? What's next, arresting people for holding hands?"
"Holding hands is the gateway! Today it's hands; tomorrow it's...it's other things!"
"What other things?" Popatlal asked, leaning forward with genuine academic interest.
"Anyone entertaining a member of the opposite sex in their apartment after 9:00 p.m. without a valid reason must submit a written explanation to the secretary within twenty-four hours!"
Absolute chaos erupted.
"A written explanation?" Taarak stood up, his diplomatic façade cracking. "Bhide, Anjali, and I are married. Do we need to write an essay just to have dinner?"
"That's different!"
"Friends are suspicious, too!" Bhide doubled down.
"There's no such thing as a platonic friendship between a man and a woman. It's biology!"
"That's nonsense," Anjali shot back from the back row. "This is a housing society, Bhide, not a maximum-security prison."
The meeting fractured into a dozen shouting matches. Jethalal loudly cited his fundamental rights. Popatlal announced that he would gladly welcome female visitors at any hour and write as many essays as Bhide wanted. Dr. Haathi clutched his chest, saying the stress was bad for his blood pressure.
Throughout the chaos, Suyash remained calm. He nodded when Bhide looked at him. He shook his head when Jethalal sought backup. He was the picture-perfect, upstanding young bachelor.
Then, Komal shifted in her seat.
She turned just enough to catch him in her peripheral vision. Her lips curved upward. Her right hand dropped to the plastic armrest, her manicured nails tapping out a slow, deliberate rhythm.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
A count of three. It was the exact duration that her hand had lingered on him in the stairwell.
Suyash looked away and fixed his gaze on a sweating, shouting Bhide.
Forty-five minutes later, the meeting ended with no resolutions or committees, and with Bhide threatening to resign for the third time that month. The residents filtered out into the humid night air, grumbling in small groups.
Suyash hung back, casually swiping through his phone.
As the hall emptied, Komal walked past him. There was enough space between them, but she closed the gap. Her knuckles brushed against his—light as a feather, electric, and gone in an instant. She leaned in, and the scent of jasmine and sandalwood enveloped him.
"Nice speech," she murmured, her breath hot against his ear. "Very educational."
Before he could respond, she melted seamlessly back into the exiting crowd, the trailing edge of her sari swaying like a hypnotic pendulum.
Suyash lowered his phone. He let out a long, slow exhale.
Deep beneath his skin, he could feel it—his power humming with a low, vibrant frequency. He thought about his empty apartment, the music channel softly playing on the television. He thought about Bhide's desperate crusade for purity and the unspoken, ravenous desires of the women living right next door.
Finally, the corners of his mouth broke into a true, unshielded smile.
This world was absurd. It was chaotic, hypocritical, and utterly maddening.
And he was going to enjoy every second of it.