Evening at the Dhaba

We sat in a row on a long flat stone

underneath a neem tree: she and she, and me, and she,

with paper cups of scalding tea, sweet tea,

and talking in that low untroubled tone

that comes from twilight.

Here languid murmurs only thread the night—

‘Ganga dhaba’s so much more exciting!

There the hostellers are always fighting …’

Politics, not fists, same old left and right

with Cold War heat.

Long culled elsewhere, the spectrum here’s complete:

you’ve Marxist types and Leninists to boot,

and Trotskyites and Maoist types who moot

their causes, diagnoses clear, compete

for ears beneath the trees.

But here the dhaba’s quiet, and all to please:

soft conversation and easy plans are made,

we lean together while noise and daylight fade,

balancing our teacups on our knees,

sweet as the evening.