dhaba retold

The sun was hot. Beating down, flapping its rays, painful gusts of heat flying around everywhere, sweat in the eyes and brows of those who were caught in its wingspan. The smell of cigarettes and the sound of the television mumbling audibly, and unintelligibly, as anchors and esteemed guests, people at the top of their fields shouted at one another. Drama. Drama. Drama. I tapped on the stained wooden table in front of me. A car stopped, all eyes turned to it. Two girls could be seen through the passenger seat. They didn’t leave the car. Probably for the best. I looked around. He would have made it the worst for them. Staring shamelessly. Cigarette hanging from his mouth, giving the tongue that would have been out at the sight of those girls, giving that muscle a break. His belly pushed the table halfway through. Half of it clumped above his legs, which were thick drumsticks. A stain right around where his left collarbone would be. A small stain on a corner of his chin. The second chin. The third was as of yet untouched by the crumbles of food. He chewed with his mouth open. Little crumbs of the roti flew everywhere, chomp, chomp, chomp. I tapped impatiently at the ground. A chicken clucked, strutting around, unaware, or perhaps uncaring of the fate it would be subjected to soon as someone with a desire for its flesh would come. I traced a finger against the table. The wood was worn. Unpolished. It felt nice. A return to a lost time. There is a rust anointed bowl in front of him. His thick fingers are lathered in curry. He pinches with his thumb and forefinger, a piece of roti held in between them, and scoops out some more saalan. His attention has drifted from the girls back to the mumbling on the screen. He watches with rapt attention as the educated angry red experts continue to shout at one another. If the so-called elite can behave like a pack of wild dogs, he doesn’t have to worry too much about his own anger issues. An impatient motorcycle honk somewhere, and as if on schedule, it lets go the second there is the loud thud of a crash. A few people rush, excited. Something new. Something exciting. Their cups of chai throwing out steam into the air. Their curry a sweet scent that seduces and invites the now unswatted flies circling above towards it. The man doesn’t move. He looks toward the sound seemingly bored, and then turns his head back, chins jiggling as they rest on the spot between his chest and neck. He puts his hand between his pants and starts to scratch. His face turns into an expression of pure bliss. The itch fading with each scratch. He brushes it through his sparse hair, the strands going back into their unruly places as his hand leaves. And then dipped back into the bowl of curry and into his mouth his fingers go.