Culture is about community, not committee bank balances.
Battle of Shanti Apartments: When Community Dreams Clash with Empty Wallets

The Notice That Changed Everything: On a humid Tuesday morning when Meera Sharma found the dreaded pink slip under her door. Her hands trembled as she read the bold letters: “MANDATORY CULTURAL FUND CONTRIBUTION – ₹5,000 PER FLAT – NON-NEGOTIABLE.”

In a cramped 2BHK of Flat 304, Shanti Apartments, Meera’s world came crashing down. Her husband Rajesh had been laid off three months ago, and they were already struggling to pay the monthly maintenance of ₹2,800. Now this.

“Another ₹5,000? For what? Diwali decorations and New Year parties I can’t even afford to attend?” she muttered, crushing the notice in her fist.

Dominator Damodar – Committee Chairman Damodar: Three floors above, in the sprawling, 2BHK+2BHK Jodi Flat, Committee Chairman Damodar adjusted his silk tie and smiled at his reflection. To him, Shanti Apartments wasn’t just a housing society, it was his kingdom, and he was determined to make it the most celebrated complex in the city.

“Mrs. Kapoor,” he called to his secretary, “have all 96 flats received the cultural fund notice?”

“Yes sir, but we’re already getting complaints. The Sharma’s, the Singhs, the retired Ajgaonkar uncle, they’re all saying they can’t afford it.”

Damodar’s eyes hardened. “Can’t afford? They live in a prime location worth crore! If they can’t contribute to community culture, maybe they should find somewhere cheaper to live.”

Resistance Awakens: By evening, Flat 108 had become the unofficial headquarters of what would later be called “The Great Revolt of Shanti Apartments.”

Seventy-three-year-old retired teacher Mr. Ahire, surviving on a pension of ₹18,000, had called an emergency meeting.
“Friends,” his voice shook with controlled anger, “in my forty years of teaching, I never thought I’d see the day when celebration becomes extortion.”

Young software engineer Priya Nair raised her hand. “Uncle, I did the math. In the last two years, they’ve collected ₹47 lakhs for cultural activities. Where’s the audit? Where’s the transparency?”

The room buzzed with murmurs of agreement. Single mother Sunita Joseph, juggling two jobs to raise her teenage daughter, spoke through tears: “I work 14-hour shifts just to pay school fees and maintenance. Now they want ₹5,000 for parties I’ll be too tired to attend.”

Committee Strikes Back: Next society meeting was a battlefield. The community hall, usually decorated with marigold garlands for such occasions, felt cold and sterile. Damodar sat at the head table like a judge, flanked by his loyal committee members.

“Those opposing the cultural fund are anti-social elements,” he declared, his voice echoing through the microphone. “They want to live in a building without soul, without community spirit.”

Committee member Mrs. Sinha, dripping in gold jewellery, added fuel to the fire: “In my previous society in South Delhi, we spent ₹15,000 per flat on Diwali alone! You people don’t know how to maintain standards.”

Divide was clear, the haves versus the have-nots, the celebrators versus the survivors.

Committee V/s Members: What happened next would be talked about in housing society circles for years to come. Meera Sharma, the quiet housewife from Flat 304, stood up slowly. Her voice was barely a whisper at first, but it grew stronger with each word.

“Mr. Chairman, with due respect, when my daughter had dengue last month, I couldn’t afford a private room at the hospital. When Mr. Ajgoankar uncle needed help fixing his broken window, none of us had the money to chip in. But somehow, we’re expected to fund your grand celebrations?”

She pulled out a crumpled bundle of papers. “I’ve been tracking our cultural expenses. ₹2 lakhs for a New Year DJ that played till 2 AM while babies cried in their cribs. ₹1.5 lakhs for Diwali decorations that looked beautiful for three days, then went into the trash. ₹80,000 for a Holi celebration where only 30 families participated, but all 96 families paid.”

The room fell silent. Even the sparrows outside seemed to pause their chirping.

Reckoning: “Culture,” Meera continued, her voice now steady as steel, “isn’t about how much money you spend on decorations. Culture is about helping each other. Culture is about Mr. Gupta from Flat 205 teaching free mathematics to our children. Culture is about Mrs. Verma sharing her home-cooked meals with families during tough times. Culture is about community, not committee bank balances.“

A slow clap started from the back of the room. Then another. Soon, the hall thundered with applause.

Damodar’s face turned red. “This is mutiny! Those who don’t want to contribute to society welfare can leave!”

But the tide had turned. Old Mr. Ajgoankar stood up, his voice carrying the weight of decades: “Son, in my time, we built communities with heart, not bank drafts. A society that can’t take care of its struggling members while spending lakhs on decorations has lost its way.”

Naya Daur: Three months later, Shanti Apartments had a new committee. The cultural fund was abolished and replaced with a voluntary contribution system. Essential repairs were prioritized over-elaborate celebrations. A hardship fund was created to help families during medical emergencies or job losses.

Meera, now the new secretary, stood in her small kitchen, preparing simple sweets for the society’s first modest Diwali celebration—funded entirely by voluntary contributions totalling ₹12,000.

Through her window, she could see children playing in the compound, their laughter more beautiful than any expensive decoration. Mr. Aggarwal was teaching a group of kids under the neem tree, Mrs. Verma was distributing homemade snacks, and for the first time in years, Shanti Apartments truly lived up to its name.

JAI HO
The story of Shanti Apartments became legendary in the city. Not because it was the most beautiful or the most expensive society, but because it proved a simple truth: real community isn’t built with mandatory contributions and imposed celebrations.

It’s built with voluntary kindness, mutual support, and the understanding that in times of struggle, a society’s true culture is measured not by the grandeur of its festivals, but by how it takes care of its most vulnerable members.

As Meera often told visitors, “We learned that the most beautiful decorations are the smiles on faces that aren’t worried about the next unexpected bill.“

The pink slips stopped coming. The community started growing.
And peace, finally, returned to Shanti Apartments.

“In every housing society across India, this battle is being fought. The question remains: Will community mean coercion, or will it mean compassion?“

Fatima Bharde
Co-Society