He slammed the glass bottle on the table. She looked up, almost startled and found him staring at her.
She had stayed up all night making bhajjis and vadas, while her husband moaned in drunkenness. All she wanted was for him to not shout when she worked or get into fights with customers. The customers were getting less every day.
She crushed the 100 rupees note in her hand. Too late, he had seen it. He walked up to her and snatched it. She struggled for a second and then gave in. At least he will walk away.
That green bottle reminded him of childhood. Childhood when 2+2 was 4. Childhood when the only things to cry about were scrapped knees and not broken hearts. Childhood when Goti Soda used to quinch thirst instead of cold beer. He snapped out of his imaginations only to realise he was high again and its not childhood anymore..
once a solution for gastric trouble,
enjoyed as cool drinks during summer;
an alternative to soda with some alcohol,
greener than the evergreen forest..
Why did you leave me that night? Questioned Shweta, fiddling with the sprite bottle admiring Rahulâ€™s looks.
Why didnâ€™t you stop me? Rahul had been always and still awestruck with her beauty. He could not take his eye off her.
Even after four years of marriage Shweta looked the same, gorgeous and mind-blowing he thought. Life never moved for him after that night. For an orphan with a meagre salary job, he had no guts to ask for her hand compared with the one chosen by her father.
Have you seen the movie â€˜Murderâ€™? He casually asked.
"Lets do the Chatpataka", crooned Devansh to the latest masala soda ad.
His granddad was good at centering the marble in goli soda bottle. It was more of a humble man's drink, a far cry from today's variegated versions. Stacked away in clay pots as freezers were pretty unaffordable.
"Sorry to tell this, but the fizz made up by the old one is simply unmatched, plus no artificial sweeteners", grandad grinned.
"Ok, you win grandpa", with that he tried out the desi soda..
"Bees Rupay!" Said Banta. With his ironic name, the 12-year-old shabbily dressed lad continued to make Banta (a soda drink) for others at a road side dhaba in Chandni Chowk. My motivation impelled self promptly said "Eei! Why don't you spend all this time studying? You know you are squeezing your life like the lemon in your Banta, but not getting any juice out of it!â€
Plato said â€œWise men speak because they have something to say; fools because they have to say something.â€
Banta, with his infantile winsomeness said â€œDada, when life gives you lemons, make lemonades!â€
She kept staring at the bottle as her fate for the night was being decided. She remembered rubbing the bottle during the earlier days in hope of a genie; a prince; anyone to help. Slowly she had surrendered to life but she never let the kid in her die. Each night she named herself a character for her clients. "Cindrella". "Alice, "Rapunzel".
Horror stories meant more relevant to her now. She was in one..
The world seemed to be incomplete and unclear, but when gazed it sharp, found that it was only you, the center of hope, the lane to despair, the path to darkness but the difficult path to win, the road to live was to choice between the heart and mind. But I decided to choose me over you, because I live for you but live by myself..
In our college days, me and my beloved shared the lemon soda outside our college campus. Such was the craziness of our love for the soda we were called the love soda couple of the college. As the gas inside the bottle evaporates, the love in our life also evaporated and circumstances separated us. Today it's the same soda but I am drinking it alone, the company for me is this dark night which reminds me that the brightness of our love was shadowed by the darkness of clouds..
Raj starts his running ritual, the upcoming 10K marathon is not a joke. A rainless April, the heat wave is hitting the city hard. But he is adamant. â€œRun Runâ€ playing repeatedly in his mind. The air is burning, there is no sign of rain.
His avaricious soul hunts for water after a long, tiring and exhausting run, but the water bottle is empty. His eyes spot a Dhaba near, he takes the green water bottle from the bench and quenches his thirsty swallow. He notices the newspaper beside, the headline reads, â€œAnother Death: The Drought is Killing Life.â€
The warning label on that bottle tells you not to drink it.
And theyâ€™re wrong.
Youâ€™re supposed to sip it. Savor it. Enjoy it.
Some people drink it with soda or aerated drinks or the people who mean business will take it straight.
Are you wondering about the skull and crossbones on the label?
That's telling it's rich in calcium. You know, for healthy bones.
The government lies about phenyl. Like they lied and took away our farm.
You know how much I love you son. Did I ever lie to you?
Here let me pour you a cup.
"Those who love a writer, never die. They become immortal!"
"Yeah! That's why I love you."
"Ok! Just finish your soda water. I wonder what kind of man you are! You love soda more than a beer!"
That was the last evening they spent together. Somebody killed her with that his soda bottle; because she was raising voice against corruption.
Now he was afraid of death. Nobody was there to make him immortal. He started writing against corruption to make her immortal. Her sacrifice would not go in vain. .
"People are addicted to CO2 drinks than normal water, but what is more so in it.?"
"Let me explain!"
Those were the conversation between two friends in noisy local market just outside a fizzy shop. Meanwhile, a fisherwomen rose drenched in soggy sweat and fish essence, exhausted by the scorching sun . She too had the same fizzy drink, but galopped the bottle down in no time feeling pleasant and energetic as she had drank holy water or glucose. All she uttered was "pyaas bujathaa hey aur pet bhee bhar jataa hai!" .
On most weekends, one could find them there, piling bottle after bottle, until they had run of topics to talk about. Their educational pursuits had taken them apart.
They had met at their favourite joint for old times sake.
As he read the article next morning, he figured the nausea wasn't her doing. It was the unsanitary bottling. The mainstream brands and technology were destroying the labour oriented industry. He couldn't help notice the similarities in their situations. He was outdated and the ghosts in his closet were not helping his cause.
That one-last-time had proved costly, again..