I Stopped Being 'Adjustable' & Had a 'Productive Tantrum'. It Was Glorious.

For thirty-four years, my primary personality trait was ‘adjustable’. I was the human equivalent of a rubber band, stretched to my limit by the absurdities of urban Indian life, but always snapping back into a harmless, placid shape. My apartment in “Serenity Heights”, a name so ironic it should be sued for false advertising, was the epicentre of my personal earthquake. The tremors came daily from the Resident Welfare Association (RWA), a cabal of retired individuals with too much time & a pathological need for control.

The ringleader was our society president, a man I’ll call Sharma Ji. Sharma Ji’s mission in life was to ensure that Serenity Heights was as serene as a morgue. His lieutenants were a gaggle of aunties whose collective gaze could curdle milk from a hundred metres away. Their primary target? Me. Or more specifically, my dog, a goofy Golden Retriever whose only crime was existing.

“The dog barked yesterday at 4:17 PM,” one aunty would report to Sharma Ji, her voice a conspiratorial whisper.

“I feel scared when he looks at me,” another would complain.

My life became a litany of notices on the noticeboard, polite but firm threats in the WhatsApp group & passive-aggressive comments in the elevator. I was a walking, talking stress relief tip for professionals in reverse. I was the stress. My search history was a cry for help: “how to control anger immediately”, “managing anger & irritation”, “is it legal to move to the Andaman Islands & live as a hermit”.

The breaking point arrived via a formal, typed complaint, signed by Sharma Ji & his moral police. It accused me of “creating a hostile environment” & “harbouring a vicious animal.” A meeting was convened. I was to be tried in the court of public opinion, with the society garden as the courtroom. That night, I called my best friend, a man who sells organic honey & possesses a zen-like calm that I both admire & resent.

“They’re holding a trial for my dog, Vikram,” I seethed into the phone. “A trial! I’m going to go there and… & I don’t know what. I’m going to explode.”

Vikram was quiet for a moment. “Good,” he said.

“Good? I’ll lose my deposit! They’ll make me surrender my dog!”

“No, man, you won’t,” he said calmly. “You’ve been a pressure cooker for years. It’s time to whistle. But you don’t just let it burst. You channel it. You need to learn about the health benefits of a good, controlled rage.”

He explained the catharsis theory psychology in simple terms: bottled-up emotions are poison. A release is necessary. “But,” he added, “a screaming match with Sharma Ji will just make you look crazy. You need a productive tantrum.”

The next day, a courier arrived. It wasn’t an old brass dabba. It was a sleek, modern bottle with a minimalist label. “This is my secret weapon,” Vikram had said. Inside were a few tablets. “It’s a mix of herbs. The benefits of ashwagandha & sarpagandha are legendary for calming the nervous system. Ashwagandha grounds you, reduces the frantic anxiety. Sarpagandha is a bit stronger, helps with the physiological symptoms of rage, the racing heart, the shaky hands. & I’ve added Brahmi for mental clarity, so you can actually form a coherent sentence when you’re about to pop a vein.”

I was sceptical, but desperate. I started taking the tablets with water every morning. It tasted like nature & determination. Within a week, the constant, buzzing static in my head began to quiet. I felt the anger, but it was no longer a tidal wave. It was a powerful river I could see, hear, and, hopefully, build a dam for.

Vikram’s “productive tantrum” training was bizarre. “When you feel the rage about Sharma Ji, don’t just sit there,” he instructed. “Go to your terrace. Do twenty burpees as fast as you can. Imagine you’re jumping over his ridiculous rules.”

I felt like an idiot, grunting & sweating on my terrace, but it worked. The physical exertion burned off the adrenaline spike. Then came the scream-into-a-pillow technique. It was primal, ridiculous & utterly effective. I was learning how to release frustration in a healthy way. This ayurvedic medicine for stress & anger wasn't a sedative; it was a focusing lens. It wasn't one of those generic natural remedies for mood swings; it felt like a tactical tool.

The day of the meeting arrived. The society garden was packed. Sharma Ji sat on a plastic chair like a judge, flanked by his jury of aunties. I walked in, not with my usual slumped, apologetic posture, but with a straight back. I had taken my tablet an hour before. My mind was sharp. I could feel the familiar heat of anger in my chest, but thanks to the Ashwagandha & Sarpagandha, my hands were steady.

Sharma Ji started his tirade, reading from my complaint file. “We are a peaceful society. We cannot have constant disturbances…”

I let him finish. Then, I raised my hand. My voice wasn’t loud, but it was resonant, laced with a controlled fury that made everyone look up.

“Sharma Ji,” I began, my gaze fixed on him. “You speak of peace. But peace is not the absence of noise. It is the presence of justice. My dog, who you call a vicious animal, has a pet therapy certification. He visits an old-age home every Saturday. Would you like to see the photographs?”

I pulled out my phone, my fingers flying across the screen. I didn’t shout. I let the anger fuel my focus, my clarity.

“You complain about his barking. I have a week’s worth of audio recordings from a sound meter app. It shows his barking never exceeds 60 decibels & lasts for no more than 30 seconds at a time. For context, Sharma Ji, your Diwali party last year hit 110 decibels & went on till midnight. Should we file a complaint against you for creating a hostile environment?”

The aunties gasped. Sharma Ji’s face began to match the colour of a ripe tomato.

“You speak of rules,” I continued, my voice rising slightly, the river of my rage now flowing through a well-constructed canal. “But rule number 7 of our society bylaws, which you so love to quote, states that all complaints must be submitted in writing with verifiable proof. Your complaint is based on hearsay & personal prejudice. This isn’t about peace. This is about a power trip.”

I wasn’t just a resident anymore. I was a force of nature, channeling weeks of suppressed frustration into a laser beam of articulate, undeniable truth. It was a tantrum, yes, but it was productive. It was glorious.

When I finished, there was a stunned silence. Then, a man from the C-wing, someone I’d never spoken to, started clapping. Slowly, a few others joined in. Sharma Ji opened & closed his mouth like a fish, utterly defeated. He had no answer. He had been outmaneuvered, out-argued & out-raged.

I walked out of that garden not as a victim, but as a victor. I hadn’t surrendered my dog; I had surrendered my doormat status. That evening, as my goofy Golden Retriever licked my face, I laughed. A real, deep, cathartic laugh. The anger was still a part of me, a simmering, powerful energy. But I was no longer afraid of it. Thanks to a modern mix of ancient herbs & a friend’s weird but wonderful advice, I had learned to stop being the dented pressure cooker. I had finally learned how to whistle. & it was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard.