I was having a very bad day last week – the kind of day that begins with an unexpected bill before exploding into a complete and total lack of electricity, gas, heat, internet, petrol and sanity. Although things have improved in the last few years in terms of utilities, I am never more than a day away from a complete technological/mental breakdown, and managing this and other disasters takes up more of my week than it should. Anyone who runs a home in Pakistan knows what I mean. In the midst of this wide-eyed mania there was a knock on the gate. Yameen, my major domo, sensing that I was one surprise away from mass-murder-suicide, went to the gate to deal with the visitor.
“Something’s happened next door,” he told me afterwards.
Long time readers will know I live in a little lane culminating in a dead end: an architectural metaphor if ever there was one. For the most part I tend to avoid the nosy inmates of my colony and most of them regard me with abject disinterest. That is to say, all but the house immediately next door.
Next door. It’s such a small phrase for such a big enemy.
In the short time that we have lived together, my neighbours have built a tall extension on their roof to loom over my modest home. Then they filled this roof with goats. Large smelly lactating demonic goats that they use to drink fresh smelly demonic goat milk every morning, which I imagine goes well with their fresh eggs, the product of actual chickens that they keep next to the goats. The air, you can guess, doesn’t smell great.
I would be willing to deal with these small inconveniences if it were not for the fact that they are deeply, extravagantly and ambitiously unpleasant people. The husband, used to my being away, parks his three cars in front of my gate every morning because he likes his driveway to be “free” (a feeling that sadly doesn’t extend to his goats). The wife haunts the home, the only evidence of her vitriol being the steady stream of domestic help that flees from their house every three weeks. Their children are harmless enough (it helps that I told them that I lost my pet scorpions in my garden) but they are all ruled by the Grandmother, who moved in some years ago, no doubt with the singular goal of making my existence troublesome.
She’s constantly sending questions over: asking me why my car has a dent, why the wall isn’t higher, accusing me of stealing gas or, as she once believed, a single cucumber from her property.
“She’s not all there,” Yameen said last time she blamed us for the presence of crows on her windowsill. “Leave her be.”
I thought my leaving the neighbourhood for months at a time would mark a truce, but Next Door has taken it as a sign to openly colonize. I’ve found their wires worming their way across my garden and their goat droppings carelessly thrown in my backyard. I can’t even tell you about the time they clogged the communal sewers without taking an anti-depressant first.
It figures, I thought to myself last week, that they would jump on the disastrous bandwagon that was shaping up to be my awful day.
“What?” I spat at Yameen, tucking the phone under my chin so I could continue to shout at the World Call internet people later. “Did they buy another goat to keep on their roof? Have they moved into urban poultry farming? Did the blow up the car? Are they still stealing gas from us by hacking into the mainframe? Does she want my soul?!”
“What? I demanded when he kept silent.
“Well,” he said, avoiding eye contact, “she’s very old and…”
“Oh stop defending that old callous. I don’t believe that she’s not all there. That woman is sane and she is evil.”
“Actually,” he said, brightening up, “She’s not there anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“She, um, she died. Last night.”
I ignored the timid telemarketer trying to get my attention on the line.
“Died?” I repeated.
“Died,” He confirmed. “Tripped over an electric wire apparently.”
“It was their own wiring,” he added, reading my thoughts.
“Ugh,” I said, slamming down the phone on the Worldcall. “Typical! Now there will be quls and jenaza’s and…and….” I was so angry I couldn’t find the word.
“Prayers?” Yameen offered.
“PRAYERS!” I roared reproachfully.
After a minute it dawned on me as to what a complete and total brat I was being.
“Sorry, ” I said to Yameen, “I’m sorry. Just having a bad day.”
“It’s OK. At least its not as bad as Mrs. Kabir’s!”
It’s amazing how quickly your mood can get better.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com
“Something’s happened next door,” he told me afterwards.
Long time readers will know I live in a little lane culminating in a dead end: an architectural metaphor if ever there was one. For the most part I tend to avoid the nosy inmates of my colony and most of them regard me with abject disinterest. That is to say, all but the house immediately next door.
Next door. It’s such a small phrase for such a big enemy.
In the short time that we have lived together, my neighbours have built a tall extension on their roof to loom over my modest home. Then they filled this roof with goats. Large smelly lactating demonic goats that they use to drink fresh smelly demonic goat milk every morning, which I imagine goes well with their fresh eggs, the product of actual chickens that they keep next to the goats. The air, you can guess, doesn’t smell great.
I would be willing to deal with these small inconveniences if it were not for the fact that they are deeply, extravagantly and ambitiously unpleasant people. The husband, used to my being away, parks his three cars in front of my gate every morning because he likes his driveway to be “free” (a feeling that sadly doesn’t extend to his goats). The wife haunts the home, the only evidence of her vitriol being the steady stream of domestic help that flees from their house every three weeks. Their children are harmless enough (it helps that I told them that I lost my pet scorpions in my garden) but they are all ruled by the Grandmother, who moved in some years ago, no doubt with the singular goal of making my existence troublesome.
She’s constantly sending questions over: asking me why my car has a dent, why the wall isn’t higher, accusing me of stealing gas or, as she once believed, a single cucumber from her property.
“She’s not all there,” Yameen said last time she blamed us for the presence of crows on her windowsill. “Leave her be.”
I thought my leaving the neighbourhood for months at a time would mark a truce, but Next Door has taken it as a sign to openly colonize. I’ve found their wires worming their way across my garden and their goat droppings carelessly thrown in my backyard. I can’t even tell you about the time they clogged the communal sewers without taking an anti-depressant first.
It figures, I thought to myself last week, that they would jump on the disastrous bandwagon that was shaping up to be my awful day.
“What?” I spat at Yameen, tucking the phone under my chin so I could continue to shout at the World Call internet people later. “Did they buy another goat to keep on their roof? Have they moved into urban poultry farming? Did the blow up the car? Are they still stealing gas from us by hacking into the mainframe? Does she want my soul?!”
“What? I demanded when he kept silent.
“Well,” he said, avoiding eye contact, “she’s very old and…”
“Oh stop defending that old callous. I don’t believe that she’s not all there. That woman is sane and she is evil.”
“Actually,” he said, brightening up, “She’s not there anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“She, um, she died. Last night.”
I ignored the timid telemarketer trying to get my attention on the line.
“Died?” I repeated.
“Died,” He confirmed. “Tripped over an electric wire apparently.”
“It was their own wiring,” he added, reading my thoughts.
“Ugh,” I said, slamming down the phone on the Worldcall. “Typical! Now there will be quls and jenaza’s and…and….” I was so angry I couldn’t find the word.
“Prayers?” Yameen offered.
“PRAYERS!” I roared reproachfully.
After a minute it dawned on me as to what a complete and total brat I was being.
“Sorry, ” I said to Yameen, “I’m sorry. Just having a bad day.”
“It’s OK. At least its not as bad as Mrs. Kabir’s!”
It’s amazing how quickly your mood can get better.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com