The sunlight filtered thru the winter fog-

melted the morning chill, dispelled the fuzz.

Big trucks revved and rolled for the journey long,

as the dhaba warmed with a spicy buzz.

The air swarmed with the scent of parathas

that crackled in a fiery tandoor.

The tables topped with fancy pickled jars,

and somewhere a fridge hummed to sweet curds’ groove.

Bottles of buttermilk cooled the weary

who plunked down on charpais strewn all over.

When folklores churned – some funny, some teary-

they wished if it dusked a wee bit slower.

Across the road the rolling meadows glazed.

And the sweet gales carried the taste and tales.

This entry was posted in Poetry on by .

About Rahul Aithal

I am from Mumbai, India. Composing poems gives me immense pleasure. Few poetic sites I write on are - poemhunter.com, poeticvoice.ning.com, poetfreak.com and, recently Avant-Garde-Writer's Haven (on Facebook). You could browse my other writes on my private blog, rahulaithal.blogspot.com. I am glad to have joined this site, thanks to Louis. I hope to add value and get the group going.

8 thoughts on “Dhaba

  1. Louis Kasatkin

    A very visceral and evocative work capturing time and place adroitly .


    Dhaba – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
    Dhaba is the name given to roadside restaurants in India and Pakistan. They are situated on highways and generally serve local cuisine

  2. pramilakhadun

    Lovely poem with superb imagery which reminds me that I must visit India soon as I love the local cuisine in the dhabas.


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