Story of my unusual friendship with Uttar Pradesh Police

and the Case of Mysterious DJ

There’s a place near me, maybe a marriage garden or some event space in Noida, that’s playing DJ till 6 in the morning, this whole week. Super loud bass. I don't know in this biting cold and bad economy who are these people partying so hard. What keeps them so committed to this level of hedonism in an age defined by detached nihilism?

Northern India is freezing these days and since few days sun is missing. The weather and feel is exactly like a film made by sad European filmmaker who is either sad or performatively sad (which is sad.)

I have generally observed that there is a strange lack of spark in people these days. It’s hard to pin down what exactly drained the juice out of everyone. It’s like a quiet resignation has settled in, a collective shrug. In this storm of endless data and updates, there is stimulation everywhere but barely any inspiration.

But anyway, who are these people partying till six in the morning?

For the first time, I called the police helpline. I had no idea how a citizen of the republic deal with the police. I had never talked to them (thankfully). And of all the forces, my debut in experiential observation was with none other than the Uttar Pradesh Police.

The process was surprisingly efficient: call goes to a call center, a lady picks up the call. she asks for some details and informs that within two minutes, a cop will call back.

Cop called back in 2 minutes.

Impressive! I explained, “Sir, DJ ki sound se meri khidkiya hil rhi hai.”

He replied: “Konsi sound? Humein toh koi sound nahi aa rahi.”

“Sir, gaadi band karke sahi se suno,” I suggested.

What followed was a 30 seconds of silence. Uncomfortable . Sudden silence on calls always sound like bullet shot. Uncomfortable.

It reminded me of a scene from my fav Godard film, Band of Outsiders. In that scene, the characters decide to observe a moment of silence. One of them suggests that “a minute of silence can take forever.” The moment turns into a double reflexive gesture. Godard cuts the sound entirely, pulling the audience into that shared silence. But the ‘minute’ of silence is actually about forty seconds—Godard’s way of reminding us that in cinema, nothing can be trusted, not even real time.

"Cinema is truth at 24 frames per second. Every cut is a lie." - Godard

We both were waiting for sound like 2 budding sound designer from FTII 1st year students.

Finally, the cop broke the silence, “Yes, yes, aa gayi sound. Ruko.”

He hung up. Man on action!

I stood at the window, watching the late-night fog roll in. The fog, which like any VIP of nation has power to cancel flights, made the streets disappear entirely. The world outside felt muted, like it had given up trying to be noticed. Complete silence! The only sound cutting through was the heavy bass from some mysterious DJ, managing to pull a crowd. As if he hypnotizing them into believing in the power of collective fun, even in the middle of this bleak, foggy night.

I heard the police sirens on road—tu tuu tuu tooun.

Loud, dramatic, almost as if the police themselves had turned into a DJ set.

After five minutes, the cop called back, optimistic. “Sound gayi na?”

I was barely awake at this point and mumbled, “Haan sir, hooter bajane se lag raha hai khatam ho gayi. Lagta hai aap se dar gaye.”

“Thik hai fir to 5 minute aur baja deta hun,” he said with the confidence of an artist basking in confidence of a standing ovation at a film festival, fully aware of his command over the moment.

Case closed, I thought. Cut to next night!

I again woke up last night because of same loud bass music. 3 AM in night. I dial the number again. Call center lady told me cop will call me in 2 minutes. They called me in 2 minutes.

When he called, it felt like he had been waiting for this moment, almost yearning for it. By now, a strange kind of relationship had developed between us.

“Arrey, aap wahi music wale ho?”

- “Haan, sir. music sound dubara aa rhi hai.”

“Konsi sound? Humein toh nahi aa rahi.”

-“Sir,” I said, “main neeche aa raha hoon. Main gate pe milta hoon.”

“Aajaao,” he replied.

I head down, stepping into the fog I had been watching from my window. It’s colder than I expected. Finally, outside the gate, I see my pen friend—or as Amitabh Bachchan would say, my "phone-a-friend.

“Sir, ab sound aa rahi hai?

“Konsi sound?” he repeated.

Proper gaslighting.

For a second, I thought, am I tripping? Or is this part of a deja vu in which I am trapped? I kept repeating the same action and hearing the same sound over and over again.

I realised maybe they didn’t want to hear this sound. The other policeman was also aiding him in this performance of perplexity. Who knows if there is some mahagathbandhan (pact) between them and the venue? I can’t confirm.

I said, "Sir, fir se suno."

He replied, "Hmmmmmm."

Both then quickly left to check the matter.

This time, I didn’t call again to confirm if the sound was gone. Thankfully, the ritual in the loop was broken.

I went to bed, trying to sleep while listening to sleep ASMR videos, where a professor was teaching physics but in such a soft tone that it landed in the category of ASMR.

The DJ didn’t stop and kept playing till six in the morning. I could still feel the vibrations from the bass. The final song they played was "Baby Ko Bass Pasand Hai." That was perhaps their artistic excuse—or a giant confession—for blasting loud bass until the first ray of sunlight hit the holy grounds of Noida. A land so mediocre that it lost the battle of greatness to something called Greater Noida.