The comely girl absent-mindedly dips
a chunk of idli in the sambhar bowl,
while the awkward lad silently sips
buttermilk, and swallows a chilli whole.
Two tables away, the parents have begun
talk of what would be a suitable day,
sure their child will approve of this one
and feel glad at having had a say.
On the wall, the management's comments
are lost in the crowd of a dozen signs:
"We make all marriage arrangements."
And so caterers further cosmic designs.
Three years hence, the couple will be back
and order two thalis, and Baby will cry:
passed back and forth in its blanket pack.
And food will get cold while the poppadums fly.
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