The place had no soul or spirit left, and it was evident in the colourless walls, the unclean glasses, the empty eyes of the server who left me a menu card.
I’d never felt sadder at the prospect of not being a part of someone else’s story.
The infallible whiteness of the walls, the omnipresent smell of disinfectants, and the fields of artificial grass come back to me. Swimming before me are visions of smiling children and the legions of overworked childcare professionals constantly at their service. Every blink threatens to permanently relocate me to their world of ceaseless laughter.
It’s God’s funny way of reminding me that all that is received is a gift that is broken.
Malta chaa literally translates to orange tea. But the very essence of it cannot be felt only by savoring it in street corners.
The paper I slept on clung to the corner of my mouth. My mouth felt bitter, as if the protagonist in my story had just been betrayed by the love of his life.
The attempted music floating out of the barbershop was positively ghastly, but I had no choice other than to keep approaching it.
I looked at my watch. It was five past ten in the afternoon. The spring gust was a little shivering. The sound of wind came along with a sound of crunching leaves.
It was a regular Wednesday. I was sitting in an auto-rickshaw, feeling like I was being roasted under the Dhaka sun, waiting for the traffic to get moving.
The guard has fallen asleep, indicating that finally my chance to escape has come. I stare intently at him to be assured with certainty that he is asleep, as there is no room for mistakes tonight.
