Momo Memory

At dusk, he wears a black cotton turban

wraps a red strip lungi around his

waist and carries a white strip of cloth on his left shoulder.

He pushes his rusty four-wheeler kiosk

From his front yard towards

the sloping bus station. Its wheels

without tires. He covers his food

 with a thin white cotton cloth.

He settles by the curb of the road.

He lights a kerosene lamp and attaches a clear

Tall clear chimney globe from the top.

He pumps his noisy kerosene

Stove and places a sizeable

Aluminum dish fill with water over it.

The stench of kerosene fills the air.

He wraps the meatball in a thin wrapper

and places them in circles on the dish.

Soon, the first batch of Momo is steaming

A bowl of earthen clay holds

A slurry of spicy tomato pickle with

flecks of white mustard in it.

I dip a steaming Momo in the pickle as

The tang of Momo moisten my tongue.

I licked my lips, trying to moisten my parched mouth

As I walked away home from the kiosks.