His Missing Cat, My Secret Companion: Living With Guilt And Love.
I live in one of those crowded society flats where the walls are thinner than my patience. My neighbour, a boisterous young man, was more concerned with his booming music and late-night gaming than the tiny black cat he kept. This poor *billu* would be left out on his minuscule balcony for hours, regardless of the scorching sun or sudden monsoon downpours. I could hear its plaintive cries through the vents – a heartbreaking symphony while he was inside, oblivious. My heart ached for the helpless creature.
Then came that stormy night. The wind howled like a banshee, rain lashed against the windows, and the temperature dropped sharply. I could hear that tiny cat shivering, its cries weak and desperate. Something inside me snapped. I couldn't bear another minute of its suffering. I waited until the building was completely quiet, then, with a pounding heart, I carefully made my way to his balcony.
The cat was a soaked, huddled mess, barely moving. I scooped him up; he was feather-light. Back in my flat, I dried him with a warm towel, offered some milk, and watched him curl up, finally safe. I named him Kajal.
The next morning, I saw my neighbour searching, calling out "Moti! Blackie!" His confusion, his calls echoing in the stairwell, twisted my stomach. It’s been six months. Kajal is thriving, a playful shadow, my constant comfort. But every time I glimpse my neighbour, still occasionally scanning the grounds, a heavy pang of guilt hits me. Did I steal him, or did I rescue him? I live with this secret, this beautiful, purring secret, and the silent question of whether I did the right thing or simply became a thief with a conscience.
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