Mrs. Batra made omelets every
morning at 6 o’clock. Mr. Batra came home at around 7 o’clock after his night
shift and went to sleep immediately after savouring whatever eggs he was served.
Mrs. Batra then woke up the son, who apparently finished his nap in the toilet.
The grandmother generally lay awake most of the time, moving only on a need to
basis. The grandfather went out to play tennis. The dog barked after the
newspaper arrived, and the morning as it came, came expectedly.
There was a milkman, obviously.
He came on the right time, although not fixed time. Neither was he any Ravan,
nor was Mrs. Batra any Sita. Neither could he fly away with her, nor did she
wish for anything otherwise. So it was all good, life as it is. Until one day, when
the cooking gas got over. And there were no omelets for Mr. Batra.
Mr. Batra worked through all
night sitting inside the AC cabin of a chemical factory. He thought of the omelets
in the pie charts and the glass windows of his world. There was little thought
to it than a mere reflex. So when Mr. Batra could not have the omelets, he
decided to start putting things on fire. Starting with the curtains in which
was hiding the poor milkman. So much drama followed.
The milkman shouted for quite a
bit but all the neighbors only looked up and around their roofs searching for
a source of the sound. Few increased the volume of their radio or television. Mrs.
Batra could never work in the kitchen without a radio playing in the
background. She also upped the volume. The milkman said before dying, that the
day was his most unlucky one.
So then it was all good, life as
it is. They packed up the body into pockets and threw it away one by one, and
by the evening it was all was gone. The only difference the omelet incident
has ever made is that the grandfather now does not go out to play tennis. Also
Mr. Batra said he was looking for a day job. And the rest is all good, life as
it is.
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