A Noisy Neighbor

I was resting on my couch after a long day. Helping needy people all day is not easy, but it gives me joy. Suddenly, the terrible noise from the apartment above started again. I had heard that some thoughtless, inconsiderate mothers let their children ride bicycles and skateboards inside their homes these days, and I imagined what was going on up there. I picked up the intercom to call the apartment manager again. “May I help you?” he said. His voice seemed impatient. “Is this about the noise upstairs again? Do you want me to tell her to be quiet?” I hung up and waited. In a moment, my intercom rang, and the apartment manager said, “The woman upstairs says she’s being very careful about the noise, and she says she’s sorry.” He hung up. Sorry? Wasn't the annoying sound the same as before, and why was she being so inconsiderate? Since I was determined to end the matter once and for all, I grabbed the intercom again and asked him to connect me to Apartment 909. After many rings, a young woman's voice answered. I spoke strongly, “Listen, I live downstairs ― unfortunately right below you ― and I've had just about enough of your rudeness. There are do's and don'ts when we live in an apartment, aren't there? The noise from your apartment has pushed me to the point where I'm almost ill.” “Look,” responded the young woman, “if I had had the ability myself, I'd have been quieter. Can't I just move around normally in my own home? You've gone way too far with this, and I'm becoming nervous since you complain almost every day.” Her voice became desperate. “What do you want me to do?” I stood up a little straighter, and I held the intercom even more tightly. I made my voice calm and polite. “I want what any reasonable person would want,” I said. “For you to be understanding and considerate. I wish you'd been quieter, that's all.” I firmly put the phone down. How shameless! I couldn't stop thinking about her rudeness. Yet the wisdom that comes with age told me that the angrier I became, the more I needed to calm myself down and act carefully. Suddenly, I remembered a pair of slippers that I had received as a present but had not used. A present can be a good way to communicate. The slippers could represent my suffering and at the same time serve as a constant reminder to soften the sound of her steps. I'd teach her in this quiet way how to live with others as a considerate neighbor. I placed the slippers in an almost new gift bag and added a small, used ribbon. Then I walked upstairs and rang the bell. No one answered. I could hear someone inside, so I waited. With her cooperation, I'd have already delivered the gift along with a kind greeting such as, “We're neighbors, but we haven't exchanged hellos yet ....” But now I was being made to wait. Finally, the noise became louder as it approached the door. The lock turned once halfway, then again completely, and the door slowly opened. A young lady looked up at me from the doorway. She was seated in a big, metal wheelchair. Far from angry, her face looked tired and worn, and I hid the slippers behind me as quickly and naturally as I could. “Actually, I was just about to replace the wheels. I'd have done it earlier if it hadn't taken so long to order new ones online. Anyway, I'm sorry, and I can't even offer you some tea because my helper isn't here right now.” My eyes ran away from her face and fell instead on her lap and then her legs resting under a colorful blanket. The noise had ended, and now there was only silence. My slippers felt heavy in the cheap bag as I looked back at her face and tried to find something to say.

Further Reading

Burnt Bread
- Former Indian President Dr Abdul Kalam's Story

One evening my mother prepared dinner for the family after a long, hard day's work. She placed a vegetable dish and burnt bread on the table. I was waiting to see if my father would say something about the burnt bread. To my surprise, my father just enjoyed the bread as usual and asked me how school was. I do not remember what I told him that night. However, I remember I heard my mother saying sorry to my father for the burnt bread. More importantly, I clearly remember him saying, "Honey, I love burnt bread." Later that night, before I went to bed, I asked my father if he had really liked the burnt bread. He wrapped me in his arms and replied, “Son, your mother put in a long, hard day at work, and she was exhausted. Sometimes we forget that, don't we? Besides, burnt bread never hurts anyone, but harsh words do.” I will never forget what he said.