The Broken Nail

Once upon a time there was a girl and she had a right leg with a big-toe which had a brightly painted nail. So this girl was on a bus in calcutta which was being driven by a a person who thought none less of himself than Michael Schumacher. Whirling through heavy city traffic the bus danced its way, slamming on the brake anytime it pleased the Schumacher incarnate. Now it so happens on these prehistoric buses that metal protrusions are aplenty.
So the girl is chirrupping away happily when the fatal brakes are slammed. Her legs which were poised on one of these metal protrusions as a manner of comfort fell with a jerk and went under the metal, only the nail from the big toe refused to go under. SO it went up , up over the metal and with one quck sharp jab the nail and the flesh was open. Her white slippers went red. And there was the rebellious big-toe nail holding its head high; High above the flesh it is attached to the normally.
And all that blood.

Waiting for Godot

I face a ritualistic existential crisis each day. It is quite ridiculous when I think about it in retrospect, but I feel the same virgin trepidation each day.
I take a bus which my office provides each morning, from the same bus stop at the same time every day. Since I am a bit of a hyperventilating punctual I happen to reach the bus stop well in advance, almost ten minutes before the bus arrives. With the cobbler spreading out his modest shop on the footpath and the a few regular people scampering into overpacked buses the day has just begun.
The other people who avail the bus with me have not arrived at this point in time. Though I know in my heart that they would be coming sometime soon, I have this weird feeling that I have surely missed the bus. Invariably I am late and the bus has left without me. Whether there is some deeprooted Freudian explanation to this I do not know. But somehow it is as if my existence at that place and that time is validated by the presence of my co-passengers. Until the others are around there is this gnawing sensation of discomfort eating at my heart.
The regular school children pass me by. Still I keep a lookout for whether a familiar face has come. If even one person reaches I heave a sigh of relief. I must confess that I have never spoken to any of these "familiar faces", except for a cursory hello or a seasons greetings. Mostly they are quite unfriendly, shoving their faces (which are as it is hidden behind his thick glasses) into pink newspapers or happily lost in the sweet melody of their iPods. Yet I look for this detached sense of reassurance from these very people.
Now I know who Godot is; finally, when I don't have to write out answers anymore.