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

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