An eggy morning

9.15 am: I wake up with the alarm, that has been snoozed over and over again in the last few hours (I set my alarm at 6.00 am with an everyday-hope of waking up early and going for a morning walk), with the thought of preparing some delightful French toast and hot tea for breakfast for both of us: myself and the apparently-pretending-to-be-asleep man of the house.

9.20 am: Still lying semi-asleep on the cozy bed, I recollect the ingredients of French toast in torpid head: milk, spices, eggs, bread…okay! everything is available in the kitchen. French toast for breakfast can be a possible reality today. It is already the onset of winter and leaving the warm, fuzzy blanket is a heavy task during these days. Somehow, I manage to cross the first quarter of difficulty level and leave my bed to start preparing myself for the remaining difficulty levels of the day.

9.30 am: I still have two hours to reach office. Few days ago, I have decided that I would do the lucrative second shift that starts at 11.30 am, thus giving me ample time to wake up, think and then re-think what to prepare for the day, sing along and cook the meals, get ready at my own sweet speed, and then go to office. Having so much leisurely time to spare, I zombie walk to the kitchen in my loose tank top and pyjamas. Rubbing my forever-sleep-deprived eyes, I manage to mix good proportions of water, milk, sugar and tea-powder and keep the proportionate mixture of everything on the stove to transform itself into fine cups of steaming, hot tea. Meanwhile, I initiate my preparation of making the much-desired French Toast without having the slightest possible idea of what was coming next.

9.45 am: Almost everything done. I only need to add the eggs in the batter, give it a good whip, dip the breads in the mixture, and fry. French toast would be ready in few minutes from now. The tea is ready and served in big coffee mugs. The steam from the coffee mug is spreading the essence of aromatic Darjeeling tea. ‘What a wonderful morning, the day seems to have a good start’, I thought to myself. Soon after, I take the eggs and off goes the first one in the batter. All good so far. Then, I take the second one, tap hard with a spoon to crack it, I see some black liquid spill from the cracks and whaaaam! It is a rotten egg!

Some seconds after 9.46 am: The foul smell of the rotten egg emancipated quickly from the cracks and the spilled liquid, and spread all over the house. I am frantically running in every room, opening all the doors and windows, switching on all the fans, and grabbing everything possible to cover my nose from the nauseating, stomach-churning smell of the rotten egg. My indolent brain and body sprang into action to save myself from the rancid odor. My brain, now in a state of shock from having cracked a rotten egg for breakfast in my hands and in the wonderfully prepared French Toast batter, is frozen, and momentarily I had lost the capacity of thinking and reasoning.

For those who have not encountered a rotten egg so far, you’re as lucky as the passenger who gets out of the stuffed metro compartment before another passenger silently lets out a deathly smell of mutton biriyani mixed with all the other stuffs he (or she) ate two days ago.

9.55 am: I have almost emptied the bottle of my Yardley Lavender deodorant by using it as a room freshener, yet my stomach is convulsing, and I am feeling heavily dizzy from the stench of the mixed odor. The house smells so unearthly that is beyond my capability to put in words. I have visited the toilets innumerable times to retch out the remaining food in my stomach.

10.00 am: The odor has penetrated through the multiple layers of protective covering and reached the apparently-pretending-to-be-asleep man of the house. He jumps from his bed and gasps for fresh air. Bewildered by the deathly odor, the man makes his way to the pit of the death and finds the cause behind the morning distress. I exclaimed that I am not in a healthy state, mentally and physically, to clean it up, so it is him who must take the honorable duty of saving his wife and his house. I provide the cleaning accessories and scoot off.

The man cleans the black liquid and throws the batter of hope and delight in the kitchen sink hole. I looked at it as it washed down and morosely wondered ‘There goes my French Toast in the gutter. There goes the good start of the day and a delightful breakfast’.

But, I must not take away the credit from the man of being a savior. Today was one of the very rare moments when I visualized him as some hero with some supernatural powers who saved me from the horror and torture of the rotten egg like how Batman saved Gotham city from the horror and torture of Bane’s reign. I looked at him with sparking eye-balls and a melted heart.

In this morning pother, the aromatic Darjeeling tea had lost all the aroma and was as cold as drinking water or fruit juice. I was, anyway, tired, hungry and running late. We both gulped down the only edible part of the breakfast – the cold tea, and he politely (or maybe he felt terrible pity) decided to drop me to office.

As we quietly drove to my office, I pondered for how long the scientists tolerated these malodorous eggs to arrive at a conclusion of naming the odor ‘Hydrogen Sulphide’, and what urged them to find out the chemical reaction to reproduce this gas in laboratories to teach young children how rotten eggs smells like. I recollected, with a smile, how desperately I wanted to run away from the chemistry lab on that awful day when the lab-in-charge taught us about Hydrogen Sulphide with the most devilish grin on her face.

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