The Indian Kitchen

 The sweet aroma of freshly-brewed chai wafts into the air as a scrawny man, topped with a scarlet turban, pours the golden elixir into a tumbler. He swiftly turns away and swivels into the kitchen, only allowing a hint of the earthen scents to escape the room. To his right, a carnival of spices dances upon the countertop. To his left, a sheeny, buttery paratha swirls in the air and bounces back into the skilled palms of a white-capped chef, who slams it into a copper plate and nudges it away for service. The colossal rooftop cordially embraces the bustling kitchen. A lanky waiter waltzes his way about the checkered brown and white tiles to reach a svelte woman rolling out pale, oily dough for the samosas. He scoops up a pile of dirty dishes nearby and prances away to rinse them. 

Harmony. The kitchen beams in harmony. The archaic restaurant hasn’t lost its touch. Glassy white sheets roll out on the salmon-pink slab, yearning for a touch of the spicy sauces boiling in the cauldrons. Rotis puff up over dazzling tangerine flames and are tossed aside, longing to unite with their matching curries. Tangy rasam cascades down a mountain of freshly-steamed rice. Azure plates support a stack of greasy puris. The raw but endearing scent of fluffy flour sings into the air. 

A rather frazzled woman caked in dried roti dough spins about the room trying to find something to do. She stumbles upon a pot of biryani simmering away to glory. Burying her nose in the kadai, she inhales the sweet hints of saffron lurking beneath the yellow rice. Above her stands the chimney. Tall and grey- rather melancholic compared to the bursts of colour in the kitchen. It siphons away the mixed fragrances floating out from the infinite bubbling pots. 

In a corner, left alone in a crystal bowl, sits a lonely batch of rasgullas. They gleam white as little lilies in their shimmering syrup, lining up an army of ants determined in their desire. A brass kettle is filled to the brim with coffee, that is poured into a tumblur, frothing up like an incoming wave. The scrawny waiter grabs the tumblur and presses his back against the kitchen’s obsidian door once more, turning around to a crowd of customers, all wanting to be part of their symphony.