Lunchtime

A scorching village in the desert
wishes for a cloud in the sky.
Sunrays shine on dry land
and hammer its inhabitants into submission.

Travellers come from afar,
fatigued, painted with
a matte glossing
of sun-beaten sweat.

They draw closer to
their shack of relief,
here to quench their
thirst slash hunger.

It’s opening time.
We’re expecting droves
of hungry pilgrims.
It’s a greasy blur.

When their voices bray out orders,
we retreat to the backroom to
work our magic. Chopping, marinating; mixing.
Cooking! The AC whirs as
we lick melting kulfis.

This is food even
momma would be proud of.
Served are the steaks and pies
and the last single cranberry in stock.

Families struggle to control their flock
and oily platters crash. The mother
must cry over spilt milk.

Work’s never unusual.