The air in Akshaya Nivas apartment complex in Chennai was thick with the scent of frying murukku, melting ghee for mysore pak, and a palpable sense of impending regulations. Diwali was here, which meant two things: joy and the annual circulation of "THE NOTICE" by the Residents' Welfare Association Secretary, Mr. Subramaniam.
"THE NOTICE," laminated and pinned with ruthless efficiency on every notice board, was a masterpiece of passive-aggressive prose.
Circular No. 42-B/DIWALI/2025
Subject: Observance of Deepavali Protocols
Dear Esteemed Residents,
Wishing you a joyous and incident-free Deepavali. Please be reminded that pyrotechnic activities are strictly confined to the designated "Safe Bursting Zone" (i.e., the damp patch of grass near the generator room) between the hours of 7:00 PM and 8:00 PM ONLY.
Bursting of bijili, atom bombs, or any sound-emitting device in common areas such as corridors, staircases, or the basement is a violation of Bylaw 17, sub-clause (iv).
Let us celebrate with light, not noise pollution.
Regards,
R. Subramaniam (Secretary, Block-C, Flat 301)
Eight-year-old Karthik of Flat 304 read the notice (or rather, had it read to him) and found a loophole his father, a software engineer, would have been proud of. The notice mentioned bijili and atom bombs. It said nothing about the humble, yet gloriously loud, roll-cape gun.
Armed with his red plastic pistol and a fresh roll of paper caps, Karthik declared the third-floor corridor his personal Kurukshetra. His mission: to vanquish the demon Narakasura, who he imagined was hiding behind Mrs. Rao’s potted plant in Flat 302.
PHTAT!
The first shot echoed like a gunshot in a library.
Inside Flat 302, Mrs. Rao, who was carefully piping concentric circles of murukku dough into hot oil, jumped. One of her perfect circles turned into something resembling the map of Sri Lanka. "Aiyayo! Enna satham idhu?" she muttered, peering through her peephole.
PHTAT! PHTAT!
Karthik, now emboldened, was army-crawling past Flat 303, taking cover behind a shoe rack.
Inside Flat 303, Mr. Iyer, a bank manager on a very important video call with his Zonal Head, flinched visibly. "As I was saying, sir, our Q3 projections are robust and... PHTAT!... and we are leveraging... PHTAT! PHTAT!... our core competencies..." His Zonal Head on the screen frowned. "Iyer, are you in a warzone? Did the audit go that badly?"
But the true final boss was about to be summoned.
PHTAT-PHTAT-PHTAT-PHTAT!
The door to Flat 301 creaked open. Mr. Subramaniam emerged, not in anger, but in a state of profound, rule-shattering disappointment. He was in his crispest veshti, his forehead adorned with fresh vibhuti, and he held a copy of the association bylaws.
"Thambi," he began, his voice dangerously calm. "What is this?"
Karthik stood up, saluted smartly, and said, "Uncle, I am fighting evil forces in the corridor!"
Mr. Subramaniam was not amused. "The only evil force in this corridor, Karthik, is the blatant disregard for Circular No. 42-B. The decibel level here is unacceptable."
Just then, Karthik's father, Suresh, peeked his head out, drawn by the sudden silence. "Everything okay, Mr. Subramaniam?"
Mr. Subramaniam turned to him, his eyes narrowed. "Suresh, your son is bursting 'capes'. It is a gateway firecracker. Today it is capes in the corridor, tomorrow it will be 10,000-wala crackers in the lift!"
Mrs. Rao opened her door. "Subramaniam-ji, he is right! My murukku is now an abstract art piece because of this thada-padā!"
Mr. Iyer also stormed out. "My Zonal Head thinks I am working from a police firing range! This is affecting my KRA!"
Suresh, trying to be the voice of reason, said, "But sir, it's just a small toy gun. For the festival spirit..."
Mr. Subramaniam held up a hand. "Spirit is fine. But the bylaws are the ultimate spirit that governs us all." He pointed a stern finger at Karthik. "The designated Safe Bursting Zone awaits."
Defeated, Karthik looked at his gun, then at his father. Suresh sighed and took his hand. "Come on, champ. Let's go to the generator room."
As they walked towards the lift, a muffled PHTAT! was heard from the floor above.
Mr. Subramaniam's head snapped up. His eyes widened. A new violation. A new challenge. His work was never done. He squared his shoulders, adjusted his veshti, and marched purposefully towards the staircase. The Battle of Akshaya Nivas was far from over.
Note: This is a work of fiction intended for entertainment. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or apartment association bylaws is purely coincidental.