I must put this down in print before it leaves me and I move on to newer pastures:

The maintenance had been doubled. Not increased, but doubled in six months. While the 'single flat owners' paid Rs. 350, the double flat owners’ bill had gone up from Rs. 500 to Rs. 700 in six months. But my husband is not in town and I have never attended any General Body Meeting or any kind of meeting held by the association in my six years’ stay in these apartments, and I saw no reason to question any decision taken by the association. So I went and paid the Rs. 700 before the tenth of the month.

But that was before Mrs. Mala called me up. Now I must make it clear – I didn’t know who Mrs. Mala was or where she lived, but Asha who lived upstairs told me that Mrs. Mala was her friend and she would be calling me up. "Hello," said Mrs. Mala, "The maintenance has been raised." And she proceeded to give me the details about why it was such a shocking injustice – and I must say I saw her point of view.

It seemed that a few people – four to be precise – had bought the single flat adjacent to their single flat, and since now they had to pay double maintenance, argued that the only difference between them and the 'original double flat owners' was a wall (which they were willing to break). And so now, because of these four house owners, the 'original double flat owners', numbering 20, were forced to pay Rs. 700 as well. Two of these owners lived outside and had tenants in their apartments. But the injustice was that we only had one document, one vote, were allowed only one pot of water, and the space too didn’t really measure up to two single apartments.

"Thank you so much for calling me and telling me all this," I said politely.

"Yes, but what are you going to do about it?"

"Me?"

"Yes."

"Why me?"

"Because you organize all these sports and children's events."

"That's different. But what is it you want me to do?"

"Organize a meeting."

"Just that? That's easy. You'll have to help me of course."

"Yes, I'll give you some phone numbers." And she proceeded to give me numbers of some five double-flat owners.

"You'll take care of the rest?"

"Yes, yes, I will."

I called up the numbers and asked them to come to the library on Sunday at 7.30 pm. And then I called Mala and informed her. "But what about the rest of them?" she asked.

"Eh? You said you'll take care of it?"

"Yes, but my husband is out of town and he's asked me not to do anything while he's away."

"Why didn’t you tell me that yesterday?"

"I thought you knew about it."

And that's when it dawned on me that I was being made a scapegoat. So I went to Jesus.

"So, I'm being made a scapegoat, but this is my first foray into politics and I think this is going to be fun. So there's no help for it. We'll just have to go scapegoating together."

The next day, I gave my phone number to the watchman and also the names of the twelve double flat owners and told him to tell them as they passed the gate, to call me up.

All twelve of them called up and I asked them to come to the library. What if no one was there, they wanted to know. "I'll be there at 7.15," I assured them.

On Sunday, it started raining heavily at 6.30 pm, and kept it up past 7. So I picked up an umbrella and made my way to the Association office room. All the office bearers were there, looking into some account.

"I want the key to the library."

'What for?" asked the Secretary Mr. Roshan, a young and dynamic man. He and I had organized several children's events in the apartments. We knew each other very well and I knew he could get quite carried away with anything he was involved in. He was a good organizer, athletic, held a high position is a well-known company, had a nice family and was smart. And yet…I could not like him. He, I knew, would use any means to gain his end. And he, unfortunately, had a single flat.

"The original double flat owners are holding a meeting to protest against the raised maintenance."

'WHAT? And you're telling me that?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"You can hold it here, in the office," said an office bearer, sarcastically.

"I can?" I asked, deeply touched.

"No, no, you can't," he said, hurriedly and handed me the keys.

Mr. Roshan walked behind me to the library, and then stayed out, probably to see how many people came. As it turned out, all the 17 flat owners came. Money is a very high motivating factor.

After some meandering and quoting of laws and by laws, a decision was taken to pay only Rs. 500 along with a letter. A letter was then drafted out and Mr. Jay promised to type it out and get copies.

And then before I knew what was happening, all of them had handed me five hundred-rupee notes.

"Keep it," said Mr. Jay. "We’ll all go together and pay it on Thursday."

But I always distrust money, especially other people's money. "Is this thing we're doing really okay?" I asked, feeling very uneasy for the first time.

"Yes of course!" they chorused and proceed to quote some more laws and by laws.

Two days later, I found my name on the notice board as one of the members of the Steering Committee, and a message was sent to me to attend the meeting held that evening by the association.

Blissfully unaware of having committed any crime, I made my way to the library that evening, only to be greeted by marked and stony silence. A group of about a dozen men sat there and stared angrily at me.

I suppose I should have felt scared and intimidated, but I knew all of them very well. These were the people who had seen me single-handedly conduct the children's programs year after year after year. These were the people who got me the stage, the chairs, the mike, the records, the costumes – everything I asked for, and made it possible for me to conduct these programs.

Besides I was feeling like Julius Caesar and I kind of liked that.

"Shall we begin?" said Mr. Roshan, and I nodded, presuming he meant the Steering Committee meeting.

That's when Mr. Paul, the President turned in my direction. "Yesterday Mr. Mukherjee's tenant came to pay the maintenance. And when we asked her to pay it, she said Mr. Mukherjee had asked her to pay it to you. Are you running a parallel association?"

"Uh? No. I'm sure Mr. Mukherjee knows what he is doing.

"Yes, but you cannot collect the maintenance."

"No, I can't, and you can question me if you don't get the maintenance by the tenth of the month."

'Fair enough?" said Mr. Paul, turning to Mr. Roshan.

'THAT'S NOT THE POINT!" shouted Mr. Roshan at me. "The point is you have been collecting everybody's maintenance and organizing and conducting meetings against the association. What the heck do you think you are doing?"

"I told you about the meeting," I reminded him, "And I haven't come here to talk about the maintenance. And I am just the organizer for the double-flat owners. The decisions were not taken by me and they will come to you with their decision at the right time."

"How is it that all these people came despite the rain and no one comes when I call them?"

"Money is a strong motivator."

"Why you?"

"Why me in the Steering Committee? I don't see any other woman here."

"Look, we're not trying to corner you…"

"I don't feel cornered. You feel cornered when you’re with enemies. I think I am with my friends. What Mr. Paul?"

Mr. Paul looked at the floor.

"What Mr. Babu?"

Mr. Babu looked at the ceiling.

"I think you've caught the wrong person," said Mr. Paul, turning to Mr. Roshan, "She can't think crooked."

"Of course I can!" I said indignantly, "I can think as crooked as anyone here!"

He smiled. "You do all these stupid things and I still can't help liking you."

Why?" I asked, eagerly.

"I don't know…"

"Think! Why?"

"Yes, why?"

"You could have come to us if you had a financial problem. We would have reduced the rate just for you," said Mr. Babu.

"I'll tell that in the next GB," I jibed.

"You do that and I'll…I'll…." he spluttered.

'HOW DARE THEY DO THIS!" shouted Mr. Roshan, banging the desk. Little did he know how much loud noises scared me, but thankfully none of that showed on my face.

Thus brought to order, they then enacted the next phase. They talked within themselves and shouted and condemned the double flat owners and said a lot of nasty things and banged the desks.

Well, none of this concerned me, right? I was there for the Steering Committee meeting. I turned to Mr. Chandra who sat next to me. "What's for dinner?"

"Dosa," he said.

"Chicken biryani," I said and proceeded to give him the recipe.

"THAT'S IT!" screamed Mr. Roshan and proceeded to walk out, "I'm resigning as the Secretary."

They then made a show of calming him and bringing him back to the chair.

I was still not concerned with all this. I was there for the Steering Committee meeting. And then it happened. Mr. Suresh got up. He lived on the top floor. I knew him because like me, he too had the habit of walking in the terrace after dinner. I also knew he was a professor and a Tamil writer of some repute.

He came to stand in front of me. "Have you attended any General Body meeting?"

"No."

"Have you attended any meeting at all?"

"No."

"Do you have any idea what you're doing?"

I stared at him, the unease that had been there in my mind since the time I was given the money showing on my face.

With that he left the room.

That night I called my husband. No reply. And then I did what I think only a wife will do – or again, probably not. I sent him 10–12 missed calls in a row. And then I sat looking at the clock. He finally called me back early in the morning.

"Where were you?"

"I was watching the match. What do you want?"

"I'm in some kind of a mess." And I proceeded to update him.

"You can't hold anybody's money for them and the maintenance has to be paid. The Association must function and the watchmen and other helpers have to be paid. Give back everybody's money tomorrow and pay the maintenance under protest."

"And try and keep out of mischief if that's possible for you," he added dryly.

So the next day I gave back everybody their money, and went and paid the maintenance.

But the others were charged up by this time and they refused to pay. And so I ended up attending my first General Body meeting.

Mr. Roshan was there, dressed smartly and looking very important. His costly cell phone rang every five minutes and he said, "Please call me later."

"That was so and so," he explained each time, carelessly dropping high-sounding names. "I am such a busy person. I've no time. And this is just an honorary position. I've been the Secretary for the State for two years in a row. My wife, poor thing, how she suffers! I've no time for my family and my children. And despite so much of hard work, this is what I get in return."

Stony silence.

"Coming to today's meeting," he continued, "The leader of the double-flat owners’ protest,” pointing triumphantly to me, "has paid her maintenance and she thinks it is wrong not to pay the maintenance.”

I shot my hand in the air.

"Excuse me, I think Rs. 700 is very high and I've paid it under protest."

He looked deflated for a moment, then turned to a timid looking lady sitting at the corner and addressed her. She cowered against the wall, trying to become invisible, I guess.

"We know who is responsible for this protest," he said ominously, "Mrs. Mala, don't think you can get away."

"Please leave my wife out of this," said Mr. Mala.

A titter went around.

What followed was a lesson in the art of prevarication, of managerial skills, of winning strategies, of political expertise. The cell phone rang incessantly. A man with high blood pressure had been strategically placed. He spluttered and screamed and banged the desk and shouted every time someone got up to speak. Mr. Roshan continued to address the timid lady in the corner. When someone asked him about the maintenance, he spoke about the renovation work and when someone spoke about the renovation work, he spoke about the maintenance.

Anything, oh, anything but face the problem – a practice most politicians have perfected into an art.

Well, actually when it comes to managerial skills, no one can beat a mother and a wife. I shot my hand into the air again.

“Yes?"

"I'm terribly bored and I’m feeling very sleepy. I want to go home."

Following the stunned silence that had greeted my announcement, Mr. Roshan said angrily, "If that's the way you feel, think about how I feel!"

I shook my head. "You can't go home."

And I got up and walked out. Some people followed me out, also quite disgusted with the way the meeting was progressing.

I walked home, knowing well and knowing that he knew it too – that he could plan a thousand more strategies and his cell phone could ring a thousand more times, and he could be the Secretary for the State so many times over, but he had just lost both the battle and the war.