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.