There is always a flurry of activity At the Indian dhaba Located precariously by the roadside Amidst the whizzing of trucks and flies, Where, lithe young boys clean and wash While men force medieval pots and pans To do a variety of things from Baking rotis to creating subtle curries.
If you are not worried about hygiene Or the hurry of traffic on the road You can enter the magical swirl of dust, And smell the sweet tandoori bread, Spicy dal makhani and butter chicken; And eat with your hands, or even a spoon, On long rosewood tables Amidst the melody of stainless steel.
Let me assure you that even now You would not have exhausted all olfactory delights, For the fragrance of spices fried in clarified butter, And hot green peppers with raw onions would Open your olfactory senses into a liberal tradition Making you sit in bonhomie with the policeman, The rickshaw puller and the bank clerk And enjoy a sumptuous public meal.
