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Lovely Omelette

Preface: This is a sequel / prequel to "Stupid Roses". Do read that as well, if you haven't already.

He glanced around the room. He did not want to be late. There was something missing but he could not figure out what. A dozen or so items lay on the table, neat and tidy. He ran through the list once again. Chopped onions, mashed garlic cloves, tomatoes, capsicum, coriander leaves, butter, salt, pepper and of course eggs. Ah, chilies, he had forgotten green chilies. He rushed to the refrigerator. He did not want to be late. Not tonight.

She could handle this on her own, she told herself. Vials of various sizes were spread around. The pills, at last. She gulped down two at a time. This should ease things down, for a few minutes at least, though she could never be sure. They came in waves – these attacks, in ebbs and flows – and they were becoming far more frequent; and punctual. For now, though, she was calm. In the distance, the second hand of the wall clock was loud as a drumbeat. The breathing had slowed down. That was a good sign. She stared at the keypad, unsure. She could handle it. Today, she had to.

The eggs were in for a treat. He was never too harsh with them anyway, but tonight he was especially soft – as if he was caressing them with the spatula. He hummed along as he beat up the froth. The pan was sitting on fire. A dollop of butter went it – he hesitated, contemplated – then a dollop more. What the hell. Today was special. The aroma of roasted garlic filled the room. He looked at his watch and chuckled. It was time, almost. The phone rang.

She let it ring once, twice – then hung up. This was not a good time. She could really use some comfort. She just needed to hear his voice. But this was not a good time. She knew it. They had been over this before, more than once. She had thought that he would learn over time. Yet, it had only grown worse. He acted like a child, she thought, carefree. Sometimes that was cute, not on nights like these. The palpitations got worse; the knot in the stomach tighter. She breathed heavily, twice, and stared at the screen.

1 missed call. He was surprised. Why did she hang up? The pan was still simmering. He checked his watch and turned out the flame. That was his secret. He liked them slightly undercooked on the inside. He thought about calling back. Should he? He was wary of the past. Such conversations did not pan out well. Not for him. He never quite knew what to say, ending up with monosyllabic replies, which she took as a sign of disinterest. How could he stay interested in times like these? Three guys in suits chattered on the telly.

She heard the clock strike seven. He looked at his watch, again. Against her better judgment, she dialed the number. His phone rang – once, twice, thrice – then he picked it up. She was not sure what she was going to say. He could not make out the words he heard.

She was slightly upset, he judged from her voice. It was expected. He tried to calm her with his onomatopoeic responses. He did not succeed; she could tell that he was distracted. She was feeling cheated. Calling him was her last option. He thought of the eggs and walked towards the kitchenette. She could hear him fidgeting with the pan.

She hated herself for having called at all. She fell silent. He was busy with the eggs, one eye on the watch. He was silent. The clock seemed to be ticking faster; time seemed to have slowed down. It was getting late, he thought.

Suddenly there was a sparkle in his eyes. “Can we talk later”, he said. She hung up without a reply.

He ran to the hall. She sank to the floor. Messi had opened the scoring in the final. She wept.

“Lovely Omelette”, he said, and turned up the volume.


  1. nice ending :)...and the anticipation built up too

  2. It can NOT be a prequel ever... am sad for the eggs though...y no Cheese?? just kidding!!!
    Honestly...heavy stuff...i just hope its only fiction!!!

  3. @Gaurav: Thanks :)
    @DD: yeah fiction only .. Messi hasn't scored yet !!

  4. The day has been pretty good for him. Boss called off the meeting, squib for lunch and a handful of complimentary chocolates again. He puts the papers aside, sniffs around to see if the feet's actually smelling too bad. Looks back to the screen, and there it is, another link. A blogpost this time. 5 minutes more to kill between work.

    He sits there back home in front of his desktop. One of those lazy afternoons during a vacation. Surfing, having a nice chat with good old friends, the same loyal ones who be there every day, unfailingly. So much for being in a job(lessness).The mouse hovers around the tab time and again. Someone has to comment on my post. This is so awesome. I am so awesome. Come on, just one more. One more comment!

    He slowly moves the mouse to the "Post comment" tab. Re-reads the typed content. Perfect, he thinks and smiles. Humorous and witty. Twitches the finger to click. Knock knock! ...and there's a colleague at the door, "Kaka scores for Brazil. Ronaldo's gotta lift Portugal up now." PUFF! Switches off the comp, and rushes to the staff lounge.

  5. @meher: if i ever have a prize for the best comment on my blog ever, just claim it. forget the modesty, just claim it like the pirated claim them drunken blondes on the shore.

    and contact aggu to perfect this style (of writing), everything else is right on the money !!

  6. awesum :) ... ye wala mast tha

  7. short and interesting.It kept me gripping till the last sentence:)


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