Chapter 1: The Cry That Won't Stop

Late at night, the baby in flat 404 kept crying and crying, without stopping. Somewhere, a pressure cooker hissed, a gecko clicked, but it was the baby’s wail that cut through everything—shrill, endless, bouncing off the terrazzo floors.

Outside, the Mumbai air hung heavy—humid, sticky, the occasional auto rickshaw horn echoing faintly from the main road. In the hush of the building’s corridors, the wailing was sharp as a pressure cooker whistle, making every neighbour toss and turn, muttering curses under their breath. The sound seemed to seep through the old, peeling paint of the walls, refusing to let anyone sleep.

The building’s WhatsApp group was flooded with messages.

One after another, the notifications pinged: "Bhai, what’s going on?", "Somebody please check!" People sent angry emojis, sleepy GIFs, and even that tired old meme of a crying baby. Someone sent the sleeping Chintu GIF—every group has that one aunty who loves her stickers. The blue ticks multiplied. Someone even sent, “Arrey yaar, paisa de kar bhi sukoon nahi milta!”

After a while, the owner of 404 sent a message:

[Will handle him now, yaar. Promise, no more disturbance.]

A heavy silence fell in the group. The words, half in jest, half in frustration, struck a chill; in India, these late-night messages often carry the strange weight of truth and joke intertwined. Some folks stared at the screen, unsure if they should laugh or worry. Even the regular group spammers suddenly stopped typing.

After 404 sent this message, the entire group chat fell silent.

Not a single emoji. Not a single reply. Just the soft whirr of fans and the far-off dog barking somewhere beyond the chawl. Even the TV from old Mr. Iyer’s flat seemed to lower its volume, as if the remote had been snatched away by a ghost.

Strangely enough, the baby’s crying really did stop immediately.

It was as if someone had flicked a switch. The sudden absence of sound felt heavier than the noise itself. In India, everyone is used to background sounds—TV serials, fights in the lane, children’s laughter or their tears. Silence is what unsettles people the most.

A few minutes later, messages started appearing in the group:

302 said: [Arrey, it’s the middle of the night—don’t joke about things like that, it’s creepy.]

504 added: [Yeah, just try to calm the kid, don’t take it out on him.]

601 sounded concerned: [@404 Bhaiya, are you alright? Need any help?]

402 seemed a bit panicked: [It really did suddenly go quiet, I can’t hear anything now… Did something actually happen? How could the baby just stop crying like that?]

A pause followed, like everyone was suddenly holding their breath, ears straining for any sign of a whimper or a shuffle. In India, neighbours notice everything—even the change in the rhythm of a child’s cry.

After 402 said this, the group went silent again.

Even the street dogs outside seemed to go quiet, as if sensing the strange tension inside the building. It was the sort of silence where everyone wonders if they should do something or just stay in bed and hope it’s all a misunderstanding.

I was wide awake by now, because I live in 401—damn, that’s the same floor as 404.

I sat up on my bed, heart thumping, half cursing my luck. My ceiling fan clicked in rhythm with my nerves. I grabbed my phone, thumb hovering above the message window, debating whether I should say something or just lurk quietly, pretending I was asleep.

From what I remember, 404 is home to a rather odd family of three.

They moved in quietly, barely greeted anyone. I remember Ma telling me, “Beta, some families like their privacy. Don’t stare!” But still, it was hard not to notice—so few families in the building, and theirs always seemed wrapped in a different sort of silence.

The man is tall, thin, and looks decent enough, but clearly keeps to himself.

He always wears the same faded kurta-pajama set, never makes eye contact for long, sometimes adjusting the strap of his chappal as if looking for an excuse to leave. His shoes are neatly lined up outside, but you never hear a sound from inside, except the baby’s cries. If I run into him at the lift, he nods politely, mumbles something, and quickly disappears.

Even when we run into each other, he’s always polite, talks a little about his wife and their baby who’s not even a year old yet.

He sometimes says, "My wife is resting, she has her hands full with our son, you know how it is." His smile never reaches his eyes. Once, when Amma sent some extra idlis, he took the tiffin with thanks, but returned it the next day, spotless, with a sticky note that just read, "Thank you."

But you can tell it’s all just small talk, nothing genuine.

His conversations had that awkward stiffness, like he was ticking off a box called ‘neighbourly interaction.’ No stories about childhood or parents, no little jokes about traffic or local power cuts—just surface-level lines. Sometimes he’d fidget, glance at his watch, always eager to return to his flat.

As for his wife, I’ve never seen her—maybe because I’m always out at work, and she’s always home with the kid.

Even on Sundays, when most families open their doors for a bit of gossip or fresh air, theirs remains firmly closed. No smell of masala wafting out, no clatter of kitchen utensils, just that odd hush. People in the building started whispering—maybe she was unwell, or maybe they kept her away on purpose. Some said she was from another city, didn’t mix with locals. Who knows?

All in all, a strange family, and a strange man.

Even the liftman, Ramesh, once muttered to me, “404 waale ajeeb log hain, saab.” There were never guests, no festival lights, not even the usual Diwali diyas on their doorstep. Other flats sometimes had the sound of bhajans or old Hindi songs playing faintly, but from 404, just silence and the occasional wail.

So, thinking about it, he really might do something drastic…

Late at night, when the mind starts wandering, even the silliest doubts take shape. My Amma always said, “When there’s smoke, there’s fire.” Maybe something really was wrong behind that closed door.

But thankfully, it was a false alarm.

My breath came out in a whoosh. Maybe we all just needed sleep. Maybe the tension was just the tiredness talking, not real suspicion.

Because 504 quickly sent another message:

[@404 Don’t scare us and then just go to sleep! If you don’t explain, I’m calling the police station.]

That “police station” threat had a special Indian ring to it—more a warning than a promise, but enough to jolt someone into replying. Nobody wants the local cops nosing around, least of all in the middle of the night.

Only then did 404 reply:

[Just kidding, the kid’s mum got up to feed him and calmed him down. He’s not crying anymore.]

A half-hearted joke, but at least an explanation. Someone sent a ‘laughing face’ emoji, but it felt forced, as if everyone was just relieved to have a reason to move on.

Only then did I breathe a sigh of relief.

I lay back, letting my muscles unclench. Maybe it really was nothing. I scrolled through Instagram, trying to distract myself, but the unease lingered, like the aftertaste of bitter coffee.

But weirdly, no one else replied in the group—maybe everyone was just spooked.

Usually, at least a couple of aunties would send ‘good night’ stickers or gifs of sleeping cartoon bears, but this time, nothing. The silence in the group chat felt almost as loud as the baby’s crying had been.