Kati Rolls
I hear the colors, before I see the sounds…
A band. It plays outside. A marriage of pot.
Of rap, of reggae, of rump, of raves, of rounds.
Of Flavours, of colors, of nations, I’ve heard of and not.
I hear the colors, before I see the sounds.
Consider or ponder I do not these last few days.
I do recall it is Sunday. A day of rest.
No cars, nor cabs, no busses, nor horns, nor chaise.
This street shuns work and value in favour of jest.
Blinkers, and drinkers of Starbucks and stronger, and shoppers,
Engrossed in panes, and peeping, and passing, they dwell.
Tis fair because the windows have little for droppers.
For shoes, or dresses or vases they cannot sell.
A dozen, two dozen more times than they would go.
At Harrods or Fortum and Mason, Selfridges. More dough…
A turn to the left, then a walk in a straight line. No aim
I know not where I go, or for what I strain.
This city was made for people who love this game.
Who seek to walk and walk to seek again
A street so full of rich and radiant shops.
But unlike before it feels more real; more true.
Prices are honest, as is the person that stops
with wallet and money, and cards for credit to woo.
New Bond Street, I pass and Hanover Square. Perpetual building.
I cross the lights of Regent’s and Marlborough Street.
The Greater. I wonder if a “Lesser” lurks unyielding.
Behind the shops or adorned with dwellings neat.
Regardless of time, the Kati Roll shop is filled.
Of people. Who will savour the taste of wheat grains milled.
Yet, lines move fast. And not five minutes pass. Inside.
The lighting is sparce, there are a few stools for takers away.
To sit. while rolls are rolled. And fries are fried.
The air is dense and complex with nice hearsay.
Not long after that at the cash machine, I stand.
Many variants there are, but crave I the original variety.
With lamb, and tomatoes, and chilies and garlic. By hand
They sell and I own an original Kolkata Kati.
Tuck in straight away, I could, on the half mile roam.
But no. A quaint and curious aversion I hold.
For food on fingers and face, I wait for home.
By then the rolls are lukewarm, if not quite cold.
I retrace my steps. Same roads. But different scenes.
A British policeman. With black machine gun he weans.
I pull out my key and open the door — 47.
A prime number. I think all houses should be thus so.
Two, Three. I climb two stories to my haven
A second key. A turn, a click and an open door.
The walls are soundproof. If not, one would get no sleep
In this the heart and stomach of this bustling town.
When I shut the door, all is silent, and still, and deep.
Except for the hum of fridge and the pendulum’s down
The oven is on, and ready to receive my rolls.
In they go and out I stare at the street
I hear no sounds and see not much through the holes
This city, which beats and dances, and drives at my feet
I bite into a roll and hear its sights and flavour.
I see the sounds, and hear the sights, I savour.
