The Waiting Room

A bright sunny spring day, a cuckoo’s call woke her up. It sang to her everyday- from spring to autumn; through morning to afternoon to evening to night. Kind of like a forlorn lover speaking in his leisure time. Today is the second day, after the vernal equinox.

 

She came out of the waiting room and proceeded towards the ticket counter. The 8 o’clock morning local  just about to arrive.

“one first class ticket, please”, said the day.

“where to?” enquired the young lad.

“Anywhere in 100 rupees, just make sure it is first class”, answered the lady.

The confused lad looked up at her. Seeing his surprised look, the vendors said “just give her a ticket and you’ll get rid of her. Otherwise she’ll trouble  you for the whole day.”

Finally, she succeeded in getting a ticket and off she went.

 

She lived in the waiting room. She abhorred houses, they reminded her of stagnation- of death. She loved waiting rooms. For her, they resembled life.

45 years ago  her father breathed his last in this waiting room- waiting for her.

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