The Chutney Vendor Of Mumbai Royal India Turf Club Poem by Bernard Henrie

I do not gamble at Mumbai racetrack.
My goal is to once more see Marti,
a food wallah selling hot and cold treats
from a cage above the customers.
Her fingers darting among the chutney
and hot sambar. If I order, she shyly
returns my soiled 2 rupee note. Nestled
close together on the subway ride home,
she has a rich masala scent, hands fragrant
with black gram. How richly she smells.
She thinks I mean the Chanel I purchased
from Suraj, my half-brother who sells
purloined discs and perfumes at the station.