Chapter 2: The Duck Orchestra

I just moved in recently, and my neighbours are a middle-aged couple.

It’s the typical Delhi tale—migrants from UP, finally owning a resale flat in this sprawling jungle. I haven’t seen them properly yet, but from the way they shout, it’s like the whole colony’s invited to their family drama. Each morning, their door bangs open, the aroma of masala chai and frying onions flooding the corridor, blending with the ever-present scent of damp cement and samosas from the ground-floor shop.

I haven’t actually met them, but I already know their relationship is rock solid.

How do I know?

I hear it. Every single night.

It’s become the background score of my new life—rhythmic, wild, a bit too passionate. Some nights, I crank up my playlist, but their energy always breaks through. It’s twistedly routine: they start, I brace myself, and the night unfolds like a budget Ekta Kapoor serial—over-the-top sound effects included.

They go at it like it’s Holi in Bollywood.

I swear, sometimes I expect them to burst into song, flinging colours at each other, with the whole building as chorus. If there was a colony entertainment award, they’d win, no contest.

I live in a resettlement 2BHK flat, and the soundproofing is a joke.

The walls are thinner than a Patanjali tissue. From my bed, I hear the sabziwala’s bell, the pressure cooker’s whistle, and aunty’s endless phone calls to her US-wale beta. But nothing—nothing—compares to the midnight show next door.

After the fireworks, the guy lights up a cigarette—I can even hear the lighter’s click, sharp in the night.

That metallic snap, the first drag—sometimes, I almost smell the tobacco leaking through the cracks. Maybe he leans out on the balcony, looking smug, while his wife shuffles around, still muttering curses.

Honestly, I don’t want to have to tell their future child, “Beta, I literally heard you grow up.”

Imagine meeting their kid in the lift, and my brain going, “Ah, March 2024 product!” Shudder. Some things you shouldn’t know.

But the wildest part is the woman. Her voice is so raspy that when she moans, it sounds like a duck. And she’s got lungs for days.

It’s not some coy whisper—her voice cuts through the air, bold as anything. In our society, people obsess over log kya kahenge, but she’s clearly tossed that aside. Her laughter? Infectious. Sometimes, even I have to grin and think, “Bas, aunty, bas!”

Every night, I get a full-on 3D surround sound duck concert:

"Quack quack quack quack quack ha ha ha ha quack quack quack ha ha ha ha."

Sometimes, I wonder if she does it on purpose. Maybe she knows I can hear. The chorus builds, the rhythm shifts, the entire flat vibrates as if the ducks have declared mutiny.

I feel like I’m trapped in a Donald Duck convention.

It’s a special kind of madness—one that only makes sense in India. If I played these sounds at a kids’ party, I bet the bachchas would start dancing.

Once, I had a nightmare. I dreamt I was back in my third-year board mock exam. Less than a month to go, I grabbed the test—arre yaar, I couldn’t answer anything. Cold sweat trickled down my back.

It was just like those old exam nights, ceiling fan whirring, my mother pacing outside with a steel glass of Bournvita, whispering, “Beta, have you revised?”

My teacher glared at me, picked up the duster, and flung it at my head. But when it hit, it turned into a duck neck.

The teacher opened his mouth: "Quack quack quack quack quack."

My classmates all turned, quacking in unison: "Quack quack quack quack quack."

The classroom became a giant duck pond, everyone charging at me, quacking.

The blackboard rippled into water, chalk lines dancing like ripples. I clutched my question paper, duck feathers sprouting from my sleeves. “Mummy!” I tried to scream, but only a quack came out.

I woke up, heart pounding, back soaked in sweat.

I sat up, gasping, scanning my dark room. My blue bedsheet twisted around my legs, as if I’d been swimming. Far off, my mother’s voice echoed, “Paani garam hai!”

Next door, the quacking was still in full swing: "Quack quack quack quack ha ha ha ha quack quack quack."

For a moment, I thought I was still dreaming. But no—the reality was worse. The pressure cooker hissed, as if the kitchen appliances had joined the orchestra.

I stared at the ceiling, seriously considering an essay called "A Nightmare in Duckland."

Maybe my English teacher would finally give me extra marks. I could already see the opening: “It was a dark and stormy night, and the ducks arrived…”

The last time I heard such weird noises was when my benchmate watched 'Naagin' during tuition and imitated the villain’s laugh: "He he he he."

That laugh echoed through Mohan Nagar’s only decent tuition building, chalkboard never properly erased. My benchmate, Prakash, acted out the scenes, making the tuition aunty glare. I’d beg him to stop, but he’d just laugh louder.

Bas karo na—I can’t take this anymore.

My patience was gone. It was time for direct action—the kind even legendary colony secretary Mrs. Lobo would approve.

So I knocked on their door.