As the twilight seeped in one winter afternoon, and the iconic coffee hour crept closer, I made myself a comforting cup of coffee. Eagerly, I lay down on the couch to lose myself in my writings, an endearing routine after a busy day of work. The clock struck three, let the races begin from the neighbors upstairs.
There is a routine in my building, especially for the kids living upstairs. After they return home from school around 3 PM, my upstairs neighbors become living, breathing storms. As if they were auditioning for the lead roles in ‘Stomp The Yard,’ the running edition, the yelling, and the sheer chaos doesn’t stop until eight in the evening.
The idyllic bliss that I seek after a hectic day has vanished, now replaced with heavy footfalls and unrecognizable crashes and bangs. Initially, I thought I could withstand it, believing the relentless marathon upstairs to be temporary.
But this became a normal routine, an extended school play turned tragic theater, incessantly running from 3pm to 8pm on weekdays and the dreaded, ceaseless, full-day riot on weekends.
There are, of course, broom-punctured holes in my ceiling. In my attempts to stop the mayhem, three brooms have suffered this madness and worst of all my poor ceiling has war-wounds from eight broom-stabbed holes.
Knocking with the broom had, momentarily, brought relief. The racket above would quite for a minute, maybe two, and I would take a deep breath, the anticipation building before the stampede would restart.
A letter was sent, which was straight to the point asking for peace and quiet, addressed to my thunderous upstairs neighbors. Still, the unending circus persists. Sleep, was something I once cherished, slightly slipping away, my dreams, are filled with the noise from upstairs like a herd coming through.
Every clang, thump and rattle upstairs, gets me upset, threatening to go upstairs and not be so nice about this on going situation. Repeated conversations with the building management have done little to nothing about what’s going on up above me.
Many of us seek solace in the comfort of our homes. My thoughts was no different from when I first moved here, eager for just a little quiet with a warm cup of coffee, and one peaceful weekend. Little did I know, I was signing up for a constant marathon.
I’m a trooper, I tell myself. But the demise of three brooms and eight holes in my ceiling tells me a different story. One where peace, is only a made up word. I fear my sanity is next. One day at a time, my friends, one day at a time.
Despite the ruckus, I maintain hope. I picture serene weekends, silent evenings where you can hear a pen drop and that desired is just a blur of my imagination. I’m a resident of an urban jungle, bracing a different kind of roar - the soundscape of the wild children living above.
What happened to peace? What happened to respect for your neighbors? And, oh, I sincerely miss the good old silent days.
🫶🏽👑
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