Tangy

As a rickshaw and a few cars whizzed by forming a few dust clouds, the man at the counter deftly served Maya a succulent panipuri in the steel bowl she reverently held out. Under the gleaming streetlight, each crisp spherical wheat cover almost crumpled to sogginess with the sloshing sweet and tangy tamarind liquid it briefly held.

“Plop”, he went, dunking a tiny golden orb laced with bits of potato and pea filling into a large metal pot holding the chilled spicy liquid. A puri then quickly found its way into each outstretched bowl by turns. A semicircle of strangers bound for that moment by a spicy kinship, shared intent. No one looked at him, or each other. No one talked. Almost like a prayer, this act of ensuring that the puri reached their mouths almost intact. An act of sublime concentration, finishing each puri well in time before the next serving.

In a flash, the tangy juice, the blend of green- red chillies and the just about dissolving wheat cover worked their magic. Opening up long forgotten nerve endings, setting the brain afire, as the first of tears flowed. In that moment, nothing else mattered. Not what he said – or didn’t. “I don’t particularly care for street food,” he’d said, disdainfully. “Oh, but I do,” she’d said, finally walking away.

(222 words for sub)