The sun has set, but the sky is still far from dark, and closer to the ground there are fairy lights strung across a crumbling wall. At the first food stall, I have to rack my recalcitrant brain for a few seconds before managing to remember what the dish I want is called. “One plate of halim”, I order, relieved that I don’t have to point dumbly to the huge pot in which it is simmering. The sparse pieces of meat are more symbolic than substantial, but the halim is warm and soothing and wonderful.
Two long rickety tables have been set out on the pavement, surrounded by closely packed plastic stools. Every stool is taken. At one table are the men and boys – unseparated – at the other the women and girls. There is little talk, everyone sits solemnly watching the plates of food materialising on the table. Poverty is stamped not only on the clothes of these revellers; their silent faces too speak loudly of too much work and too little food.
Suddenly, one girl’s face lights up as a plate of kababs makes its appearance.
red reflections
a truck rumbles noisily
down the wet road
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment