Towards evening he used to come
to the local bus stop carrying his
flat wooden box on top of his head.
Its chambers filled with
ingredients full of rich flavors
Of shredded onions, of roasted potatoes
of marinated cabbage, of chickpeas chutney,
of Chunks of lime, of red chili paste and
a packet of puffed rice.
He would set his kiosk for
Chatpate under the shade of Peepal tree.
The sound of his two headed drums
would reach our ears.
He would put bits of ingredients
from all his food chambers into
his red weathered mug and
mix it with a bamboo stick.
He would then toss the chopped
coriander, bits of green chilies
and squeeze a chunk of fresh lime
on top of it and served us
in a piece of purple paper cone cups.
It used to leave a sour and a spicy taste in
my mouth for days.
He was short frame dark skinned man
with a long-quivered mustache.
This evening, my mouth waters
as I recall, in all my memories,
his strong spicy and sour flavors,
that I can hardly find it elsewhere.