Menu

Pulse of India

by Varsha Sreenivasan

“idli vada

Sir?”

asks the waiter

at the

breakfast place;

“sure,”

smiles

the busy

one,

in the middle

of his steaming

brown gravy;

dhak dhak,

goes urad – .

the proud offspring

of

the rain soaked

Deccan.

Then the train

chugs lazily

up

to the centre,

just out of reach

of the drenched

Deccan fields.

With the showers

just about enough,

before long

it has struck gold.

Hey, calls out

the yellow gravy

left to simmer

on the low flame;

into the crackling

tad ka,

goes arhar.

huff..puff –

now the journey

becomes a climb,

when the plains

seem to change

their mind,

just within

the grasp

of winter’s

cool fingers,

sings the soil

rich with wealth,

from the land

of the five rivers.

Hey, wait

there’s food

here too!

From beside

the blob

of cooked green,

comes the a-maize-d chuckle

mak ka..

says “yoo hoo!!”

Now the

wind

has a bite

to it;

the rocks

have hardened

beneath

the feet.

The nip

in the air

calls out

from afar,

over the tops

of the

mountains.

“Come hither,”

call the secrets

up the sleeves

of the

lofty ones.

The steaming hot

cup of broth

in the biting cold,

whispers –

“Now

take a sip

of me,”

coaxes barley.

Goodbye,

the train calls

with a sigh,

as it enters

sandy stretches

to the west.

The glowing embers,

the desert air,

the camel mountains,

of shifting

sands.

The pan

silent,

letting it roast

in the whistling winds.

Pats on its back,

round round,

turn,

slap in the plate,

lands one neat

roasted bread.

Jowar cackles –

“Hello there!”

About turn

now it chugs,

parallel

to the mountains;

the train

has entered

a different soil.

Now it rains,

now it doesn’t;

“Ah, but wait!

You must come

for tea,”

call out

Assam, Darjeeling!

The stars

are out now

in the clear

dark far above;

It’s dinner time

soon,

the clouds

have passed,

the air

is heavy with moisture;

not to fret

says this one,

green and friendly;

clouds may come

and clouds may go,

but not food

in this land

you call home.

Oh, soon it will be

time to return

to urad land;

but not without

shaking hands

with

dearest moong!

Pic : dey – http://www.flickr.com/photos/dey/

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