That evening

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.