Wednesday, 16 September 2015

Don’t point finger…

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 ;)

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