Monologue of an Egg

#1: The street savior – An Egg

I saw them walking by the stall
As I waited for the owner to make things out of us
The stall does smell differently when we are made
Do the passer-by smell the difference too?

I do not remember how long its been since I left,
But still I remember those days so clearly.
It seem as if it were yesterday,
Before I was brought here.

#2: Few weeks back in a poultry away from the stall owner…

It was so crowded.
There were others too, like me
Beside me. Around me.
Are we related? We look the same.

And then suddenly.
I was tumbling down.
In a basket. Again surrounded by like ones.
But something was different.
The warmth was gone…
I always wondered whose it was?

I could see some still under the warmth
And some like me are in this basket
And we go tumbling and rumbling
Away. To some place.
Excited are we?
Maybe, a little.

We are stacked. That’s what I heard them say.
Now I am not surrounded anymore.
But I don’t like being stacked,
I feel vulnerable.

#3: Few hours before the stall opened.

I don’t remember how long I have been here
But I have smelt different kind of smell
I have heard different sounds
And I wonder what would happen of me?

Would I be just broken and kept on the pan?
Would I be broken and beaten both and then put on the hot pan? On fire?
Or would I be boiled in water and peeled?
Oh no! I can’t think more. He is coming towards me!

These are probably the last things I could think.
What if I were one of them to stay under the warmth of my mamma?
Yes! I finally figured out we were related.
Did she ever wondered too the same?

Advertisements

Share your thoughts?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s