The residents above my flat, have crossed all limits.
Every day, they drop garbage and discards. Not only that,
their plants seem extra thirsty considering the amount of water they use to water
them with!
Being a, closet resource conservation activist, the pouring
rivulets on my balcony, set my teeth on edge.
I have deliberated on various ways I could give them taste
of their own medicine. But didn’t put my plans in motion, because they involved,
flooding their house, dumping garbage at their doorstep, break all their pots.
All the hooligan, uncivilized stuff!
This afternoon, the droppings from above shook me to my last
fibre.
When I went to my balcony to spread clothes for drying,
I saw an entire dustpan lying there, overturned.
Fuming, I kicked it out of my path. It turned over, and the
breath caught in my respiratory tract.
A finger pointed at me. A lone finger, manicured, with
glossy red paint.
Lack of oxygen, due to caught breath, made me feel faint.
I scampered to the living room. Falling, fumbling, in fear, as if the
finger chased me.
I called up 100. The police came.
I was embarrassed, when they first searched my house to see
if I was hiding more pieces. But the shock I was in, didn’t allow me to be
indignant.
I spare you the gory details, they took time; well, there
are nine floors above mine. But they finally found pieces of an unfortunate
woman, stashed in her own closet. No one is sure how the finger landed at my
feet, literally.
They have collected the dustpan as evidence.
I have told them they will find my big toe print there,
since that was what I had used to turn it over.
I stay vexed. The pieces were not found in the flat right
above mine. I will have to plan something else, to teach those residents some
civic sense.
This is what you get, when an author is left to her own
devices. The weirdo, whacky me. Mixing facts with fantasy!
Please leave your rants here ;)
