BY ARYAMA MUKHERJEE
The entire world is our oyster,
And we are all chasing its elusive pearl.
Armed with our knives and forks,
We peer with excruciating curiosity over our fellow diner's plate
And hover our tongue over their succulent vulnerabilities.
We gnash our teeth and fumble with our fingers with pensive dexterity over this conchiolin celebration of life,
When sometimes all we want is to hide behind our menu cards,
And bask under the morbid comfort which the alluring mirage of choice provides.
Sometimes we might want a reminder that the entire oyster is our world
And that there is a chance of peace and contentment by the meagre act of scraping its walls,
Under the shade of the spoon, trilling in the joy of just getting it to open.