by PritiJ
Masala Chai
I do not learn from my mistakes.
Did not want to go, dreaded past experience dictated, but had to
nonetheless, social niceties insisted. A classic case of better sense prevails,
but nonsense persuades.
As I sat down to the repast, washing down the tandoori chicken
dipped in a lethal orange dye, tough as jute, and kebabs stiff and dark as
pieces of ebony, chewing which made my ears ache, with a strange smelling juice,
rotis best left unmentioned; decorum (be damned) demanded I praise the cook with
every mouthful that choked me. Only to be helped with added misery.
And as they sit in my poor stomach like demons made of stone; sure
to bring me nightmares as I stagger my way home; I concur with P.G Wodehouse
that aunts aren't gentlemen, and that some are best left unvisited...
Dismiss gastronomic bliss. An after dinner peptic ulcer,
anyone???
About the author
PritiJ has lived a life across cultures. She is an outspoken
representative of her gender; still unsure whether she represents liberation, or
equity, and finds humour, and inspiration for her poetry, in odd
places.
