Waiting outside in the car
he brings the chali.
the salt and the warmth sears my lips
the stickiness of the lacha clings to my hands
yet it is not an entirely uncomfortable experience
unevened pathways
not streets as much as alleys
deserted plots,mounds of earth
a recognizable face here and there
small houses with almost too small doors
a crisscross of chaos
cloth by the meter, yarn by the yard
a hullaballoo of waving men
and bargaining women
a world within a world
*lacha is cotton candy
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