Pulp

The juice stall opposite Hinduja hospital is an uniquely eventful place, a live spectacle of human emotions in its most raw form. Often while the sweet nectar travels through my throat it manages to leave a lump in my throat, swallowed by triggering a thousand thoughts in a jiffy. This multi-utility place is an inconspicuous host to human drama every moment. It is quite oblivious to the intricate tales it weaves in its everyday simple transactions.
While I am sipping my juice I happen to notice this man characterised by a certain unperturbedness, he seems to be a man of very composed demeanour aptly reflected by his sharply edged facial features. But at this moment the play of emotions on his face  are narrating a different story he is squirmy like a fish craving for a drop of water as he's rummaging for a one rupee coin to use the payphone. One can't help but ponder how a mind is trying to seek the convenience of just a few seconds only to be preoccupied with a measly struggle of finding a one rupee coin or perhaps it's the only convenience affordable at the moment. As his struggle with a coin ceases my eyes capture a glimpse of few swift movements of a finger and a trimmed flow of words bringing forth his composed demeanor. A moment before he has hung the receiver I finally see a fish that has fetched a few drops of water as  some tears trail down his face blurring all the definitions. And a moment later my eyes fail to trace those swift rapid movements of his feet as he vamoosed while I am still sipping my juice.
It was a phenomena of just a few seconds, the briefest breakdown that I have ever witnessed in my life. It's  strange that life sometimes doesn't give you the liberty to cry to the fullest. I felt my juice was little sour but didn't feel like commenting over it as I rush to my workplace, perhaps one has to be economical

with emotions too.