A smell of cooking maize coming from
rusty coal oven on the corner
of an unknown street meets my nostril.
The night bus departing to KTM soon arrives
at the bus top. Its cacophony of honks
and screeches fill my ear.
People rush inside and sit by the window
waving outside to their loved ones.
There is no light on the street other than the light from the bus.
Nearby, a tan tall turban man with quivered mustache
is pushing his old wobbly cart slicing the long green cucumber &
setting it down on the white paper plate for sale,
a chunk of juicy lime with red chili paste is placed on the side.
He covers it with a thin see-through plastic
as house flies’ hover over it.
As darkness embraces the street, the
Shops began to close. The turban man
returns home pushing his empty cart
through the dusty streets. He throws the
leftover food from his cart.
The local chowk is quiet now.
The stray dogs are out
struggling to find food thrown from the carts
in total darkness of that night.
I walk into a hut across the street
Its roof thatched with straw.
The light tin can fill with
kerosene sits on the window sill.
A gentle wind stirs its orange flame.
The fresh tuna from the local river is frying
on a 3-legged iron stand over wood fire.
Its smell fills the hut.
A small chimney puffs out bits of dark smoke
from the corner of the hut. I look around and
grab a stool made of bike tyres & bamboo sticks
and wait for my evening meal.