An Angel in the CafeA flying chip from the coffee cup, shattered dream sequence number eleven.An Angel in the Cafe by =SiNg0d
I opened my eyes by a fraction to find Ramu standing in front of me. He stood with his arms crossed, oblivious to the various customers waving frantically at their necks to get his attention. I picked the cup up and took a sip.
“Cheeni kam hai.1” I said, frowning, taking care to lace my words with the maximum malice I could muster.
Glaring at me, Ramu produced a shoddy packet of sugar, from the depths of his dirty apron. Across the store, the counter’s well-worn bell rang. It was a delivery boy.
Putting down the cup, I smirked at Ramu, who scowled and tossed the sugar onto the table. With an exit worth of a Shakespearean play, he went to the counter to attend to the delivery. Sensing that the sachet would take time and patience to open, I decided against it, rested my head to the wall, and sank back into my daydreams.
Evidently, my day dream’s director had taken a walk, and it was
The Dead Bee SyndromeFamily and friends would often comment how great Mr. Sharma’s life was. The house in Mumbai, the son overseas, he was living the Indian Dream.The Dead Bee Syndrome by =SiNg0d
He had retired two years ago, with sufficient income to support his wife and himself. The son in the UK did wire some money now and then, but that was just frosting on the cake, the pension made sure of that.
The son would call them almost every fortnight, the ring of the telephone echoing through throughout the empty house. Every time, just before ending the call, he would ask them one thing, and the answer was always the same.
Mr. Sharma loved his freedom much more.
But the retired Quality Head was bored. For as far as he could remember, his life had been like a bee, always humming. Until his retirement though. At his retirement, the bee died. Watering the plants, reading the papers, house-chores had replaced carrying out quality audits, shouting at people, and having fun. Life had hit the brakes, but Mr. Sharma wasn’t loving i
The HolidayMr. and Mrs. Gupta killed rats for a living.The Holiday by =SiNg0d
Theirs was a small company, just the two of them. Once the call came through, both of them would put their heads together and plan out the entire thing. Mrs. Gupta would handle the front end of the operations, the billings and other things, while Mr. Gupta would be the back-end, the one who got the job done.
This arrangement had worked well for the past forty years. Acquaintances would claim the two had never taken off a day off all these years; something Mrs. Gupta quietly reminded Mr. Gupta every time they went to bed. We would do something someday, Mr. Gupta would kindly reassure her, and they would go to sleep. But that someday never came.
It had been an arranged marriage. Someone on Mrs. Gupta's side had come to know about this young man who had just started his own business and was now making quite some money. Inquiries were made and a year later, Mr. Gupta had brought his new wife to the row house they would still be callin
PainThey had told me how it was going to be.Pain by =SiNg0d
I was to lie still, and let them do the work, but hey, I never agreed to not scream, did I?
So I screamed. I screamed as if there was no tomorrow. I screamed because the local anesthesia didn't quite mask the effect of the six inch knife that was now slicing its way across my gut, the blood flowing down the sides, onto the table.
"Clench on this." The orderly pressed down a cloth firmly into my open mouth. The dry cloth smelt, but there was nothing I could do about it. So I clenched, as hard as I could. I must have been clenching really hard, since I think I passed out.
When I woke up the bearded doctor was standing over me, his pearly white teeth gleaming in the fluorescent light that hung over the window. A sulking nurse stood on the other side of the bed.
"It was a successful operation. You rest for now," he patted me on the shoulder. Leaving, he motioned to the nurse, "If you will."
From the corner of my eye, I saw the nurse inject something