Wrath.

Her eyes opened. It was dark. It was not a midnight, it was noon. But the curtains and the dust and the buildings blocking out the foggy sun all took a share of the cause. She had been sleeping and I believe you even assumed she heard a noise. Well, she did. It was the calling bell. Again. She cursed so bad the neighbours would hear if they cared. But the neighbour from upstairs died at the start of this book and no matter how waspy he had made her or how insensitive he had called her, she was neither. It was just the circumstances - this time, it was her not being able to see.

But, well, now she can - see, that is - because apparently, the glasses she’d thrown away didn’t break. But the spyhole did. The last time she didn’t open the door, and he hit it with his mother’s umbrella.

People, when ‘people’ were a ‘thing’, used to say she was a control freak. He used to say, “Get a grip.” And she died, convulsing. Now, she’s dead, mind you. Just not half physically. But she'd sincerely hoped, at least, with her utmost effort, that there’d be someone at the door. Since there was not, she hit her head with a bottle of water and moved on to the kitchen, for some hint of leftover aloo bhujia.