Harakiri by the Puri...

Never thought Pani Puri, the Mumbai/Delhi Street food, would serve as poetic inspiration. But hunger and poetry complement each other.

And then my blogfriend Magiceye, seems to be determined to post more and more wonderful photos  of stuff that he then eats.

Traditionally eaten on the streets, the spicy liquid sloshing in leaf bowls as you slurp and crunch through the stuff, it is important that the puris that are stocked in thousands, exclusively protected , remained puffed.

At the end of the day, in life,  it is a learning lesson, when puffed egos are punctured, by a enthusiastic hoi-polloi.

(First photo by Magiceye, the other by Google)

Proud,
golden,
exclusive,
protected in special places,
they sit
in importance
puffed
in their prosperity,
making fake announcements
about
public service
and
dedication to humanity.

But the hoi polloi
know
that they need to be exposed
to
public needs.

A few puffed ones,
their prestige
nicely punctured,
and some newly sprouted and cooked
mung types
rush  in there,
encouraged by potatoes
mashed in excitement,
sometimes
dragging
some Boondi ladies along.

A massive hydration
of tongue tickling
minty, green masala water,
and
the puffed ones,
unable to bear
the load of
public expectations,
dripping a few spicy tears,
simply sacrifice themselves
into
a waiting mouth,
to be crunched into oblivion.

A lesson indeed,
for those
high up,
powerful,
with punctured egos
waiting in line,
resigned to their fate....