Why don’t you sit down at the table

while I make you some biryani?

You poor thing must be weary,

hungry,

guilty

I have got you freshly harvested hunger

right from the footpath before the road

stain-less, as you like it

have minced it into very small pieces,

since you make faces at its texture

peeled some morals,

chopped a few long-standing traditions,

all plucked from the kitchen wasteland

of utter intellect,

got a small fistful of disgust, anger, and

that oh so bohemian spirit

the pan is heated exactly at medium to high heat

of ignorance

look at the non-sticky privilege pooling at the center

ah, can you smell it?

took out some education from the cellar last night

oh yes, the English brand

especially imported

aged long and fine,

added a large tablespoon of edible colours

of social media,

and two cups of raw media,

yes, the one that’s owned,

sold

that speaks in power to weak

and devours bullshit of gold..

now cover the pan with a heavy lid of apology,

look away slightly,

let it simmer,

gently,

do you see?

the perfect texture of

society

darling, get me the container from the middle shelf

the one with two compartments

lower and higher

what do you mean you can’t see it?

what do you mean it’s not there?

How do I serve you?

The Middle-Class biryani

~ Rachit Sharma

India