Terror (after Rustom’s)

I reassess

the jar

of gajar mewa nu achar.

If I swaddle it in underwear

and secrete it in my cabin bag

will I be found out

by the hunched man at security?

Clearly, he’d be suspicious

of its chilli-sting

and the cloying sharpness of vinegar

enveloping each shaving.

I bury it till it’s gone.

I weigh my chances

and look unpreoccupied.