The curious case of flat number 101

Why my doorbell rings more than my phone!

The doorbell rang. Still chewing the spicy matthi, I put down my cup of tea, got up, and opened the door.

A young man in a navy-blue suit stood there, another behind him carrying a tall, colourful cake box and a small bag which clearly contained paper plates and spoons.

“Cake delivery hai,” the nattily dressed one announced.

 “Humne to cake khareeda ya mangaya nahin. (We did not buy or order a cake),” I said, covering my now chilli-burnt mouth.

He helpfully added the name of the bakery, hoping it would jog my memory, “Aapke yahan se cake order hua tha. (A cake had been ordered from your place).”

Forever ready to help, I said, “Humne cake to nahin mangaya, par aap dena chahte hain to de dijiye! (We did not order a cake but if you wish to give it, please give it.)” For a split-second, the criminal in me tried to sprout, I even considered keeping the cake.

His smile uncertain, he paused for a second, then asked, “D… yahan rehte hain na? (D… lives here, no?)

“No one by that name lives here.”

He stared at the name plate. “1001?

Ah, it dawned on me. I said, “No, ours is 101! Yours is 10^th floor.”

Relieved, he then complimented the glass cabinet full of train and locomotive models on the wall outside, (that Mani is far prouder of, than me) and went away in spite of my repeated heroic offer to take the cake.

Inside, Mani asked, as usual, “Who was it? And why do you have to chat with every stranger?”

“Because it’s my nature.” I said wondering what the cake looked like. I felt like sending a note to 1001, “A cake delivery meant for you reached my door today. If it was a birthday or anniversary, warm wishes from a neighbour!”

But would they read it as a fun moment or as a desire for extended friendliness? Too much thinking, and the spark died.

This flat number confusion was not a one-time occurrence. Our multi-storeyed complex has several blocks and apparently 101, 1001, and 1101 are identical twins to 90% of humanity. Thank God, there is no complex numbering like 10/01 or even 1/10.

Honestly, a good writer could turn this into an urban comedy. That day fortunately I could put whatever I was doing aside and open the door. Sometimes it feels like there is a secret society of wrong-door enthusiasts, who just want to catch me at my weakest moment.  

They ring the bell in a mad hurry as if their tail is on fire:

• ·        in the hot summer afternoon, just as I close my eyes to catch a short nap.
• ·        Or I am midway washing my hair.
• ·        Or froth is rising in the milk boiling on the burner.
• ·        Or best of all, when mid-argument with my husband, I open the door to let a stranger have an earful of our blatantly truthful views about a topic, a person or each other.

The stranger will blink and ask 1101 (or 1001)? Pray, how does 1101 look like the floor closest to Mother earth? After all, a flat number is not abstract art.

One night, at 11.27 p.m., the bell rang. I dragged myself out of bed, opened the door to find a young man standing across the mesh door. With the brightness which felt like it was his mission to force sunrise on North Pole in January, he declared, “Aap ka khana. (Your food)”.

“Kya hai,” I asked dumbly, as if woken up from 1852.

He peered at the label, “Paneer butter masala, mirchi paratha, tiramisu…” “Yuk!” went my mind, I do not like any of these, and it hit me I had already had dinner and had ordered nothing.

Tired I said, “Bhaiyya, yeh mere liye nahin hai, upar flats mein check karo (Brother, this is not for me, go check the flats above).” I told him the possible numbers too. But he was insistent as if it was his own password.

Awake and irritated, I snapped, “Jisne itni raat ko mangaya hai, uska ja kar sir khao! (Go, trouble him who ordered food this late), and shut the door.

I did feel a pang of sympathy for him, when I heard him mumbling “Oh, ek zero reh gaya,” (Oh, missed a zero). But his stubborn confidence had rattled me into wakefulness and I knew it would be a while before I would be able to sleep again.

By now, I have a fair idea of what food or other items residents of the upper flats order online. When I see the empty boxes on the roof behind our flat, I know where they came from. Yes, despite the garbage man ringing our bells every morning, some people still enjoy throwing the rejected contents of their households for me to nod my head at sadly.  

Then there is the gate security, pinging me twice a week that the maid has come. This reed-thin girl with a high-pitched voice, stands outside the flat in front, looks at our plate bang opposite saying 101 and whoa, that is what is etched into her mind.

Sometimes, I think residents of all flats with the digits 10 or 01 in their numbers should form an organisation.

It is not only the numbers, any courier who sees the letters Mani on a package, rings my bell, even if the address says C/D/E or any other block or flat number. 

Some blessed couriers and drivers offer a different puzzle. You tell them something like Riverside, they reach Riverfront complex, ring you up and inform they have arrived.

So, dear reader, if you plan to deliver something to the flats with the digit 1 or 0 in the floors above, do one favour.

Ring their doorbell, not mine.

Unless of course, you are bringing Kahlua, cheese, or almond chocolates! In that case, 101 it is!

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  - Anupama S Mani