Six months ago, I rescued a neglected soul; his owner still searches.
My small apartment in this crowded city has walls thinner than ego, making me an unwilling audience to my neighbour's life. He was one of *those* guys – loud, inconsiderate, always blasting music or yelling into his headset. But his most tragic accessory was a tiny, jet-black cat, often left shivering on his minuscule balcony, exposed to Delhi's unforgiving summers and piercing winters. My heart would ache hearing its plaintive cries through the ventilation ducts, a stark contrast to his blaring Bollywood tracks or aggressive gaming shouts. The poor creature, small and helpless, would just sit there, sometimes for hours, rainwater plastering its fur or the sun beating down mercilessly.
Then came *that* night. A monsoon downpour, the kind that floods streets, coupled with an unexpected chill. I saw the cat, drenched, huddled against the railing, shivering violently, its cries weaker, almost a whimper. Something inside me snapped. I waited until late, when his music finally died down. My hands trembled as I carefully coaxed the wet, frightened furball over the low balcony divider. It was surprisingly easy. A silent, desperate rescue.
That was six months ago. Today, 'Shadow' (I named him) is curled up beside me, purring contentedly, well-fed, loved. He’s my secret comfort, my quiet companion. But every morning, I see my neighbour on the ground floor, sometimes calling out, sometimes just looking around, a bewildered expression on his face. A pang of something — not guilt, perhaps a strange, cold satisfaction mixed with a deep, silent prayer that he never finds out. I stole a pet, a tangible thing. But I believe I rescued a life from neglect. Was it wrong? Perhaps. But seeing Shadow safe, truly loved, makes me believe it was the only right thing to do.
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