A flying chip from the coffee cup, shattered dream sequence number eleven.
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