Eggshell Story

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You meet twice or thrice a week, each time, maybe an hour, or less

Maybe over chai and cigarettes?

You speak of expenses, the weather, the mundane and existence’s bane

But somedays you exchange childhood stories

Of a particularly unlucky string of eggshells in omelettes

Of a bonda wala who made bondas of questionable hygiene, but unquestionable taste

You exchange in earnest, not knowing where this tidbit will get filed, if it will get forgotten.

Frankly, you don’t care.

You laugh, you smile, you sip, you smoke and you go home

Now, its been five years since and you are just contacts in the phonebook

Maybe a “scroll past” on Instagram

Maybe a “Happy Birthday” message , and that is grand.

But, when you bite into an eggshell, on a bad Monday morning.

Just for a split second, you are laughing again at the eggshell story, miles away from home

Under a sky that still makes you feel alone


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