The tale of Chulbul and Bulbul @broasterchickenindia

They sat there in silence, having a staring competition. Unblinking. Unapologetic.
“How dare you?” He said “Was I not enough?” His eyes moistened as he said that. But he didn’t blink. “You are overreacting, Rohan. This is not a competition,” said the tall, lanky man with kind eyes sitting across him. “You are replacing me. All my life, it’s been just you and me. Now, suddenly I’m not that important.” The kind man blinked and held his soft hands gently. “How many times do I have to tell you? You’re the first love of my life.” He snatched his soft hands away from the kind man when he said that, “But I’m not the only one anymore. I’m not.” The match was over. He looked down at his empty plate and tears started rolling down uncontrollably. He looked back up at the kind man and said, “Are you happy now? I lost. You won.” The kind man smiled at him and pushed the menu towards him. “Now have this. It’s the weirdest thing in here. It’s called chulbul.” Rohan looked up at him and resisted a giggle. The kind man laughed and called out to the waiter, “One chulbul and one bulbul please.” Within minutes the drinks were on the table. Rohan sipped on the chulbul happily; the mixture of Thums Up and chaat masala, making him forget everything. He smiled looking at the elderly, kind man imitating him. The bulbul was a fizzy mix of Fanta and chaat masala. They both dived into the drinks, laughing, chatting and teasing each other with slurping sounds. Just then the phone rang and the elderly man took it instantly. A big smile spread on his face. He took his first born in his arms and with a spring in his step, walked towards Lilavati hospital. “It’s time to welcome your sister into the world. You better be a gentleman, chulbul.” Rohan sulked and said, “Only if you name her bulbul.”

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