Continuous refill of noodles. Oodles. Never ending noodles. Handfuls of salt and fistfuls of spices. A gush of oil, spreading its glistening oiliness over the growing, jumping, moving tangles of noodles. Above shines an accidental street light. Accidentally shining down on the tactically placed wooden stall. The bright beam of light reveals the black bottle cylinder of kerosene - pump pump - and greasy coat of the glass bottles, showing their assortment of coloured sauces. Street light – stage light. The centre of attention on the little run-away street. The pot-bellied chef loving his show, playing with his noodles, juggling his sauces, dramatically seasoning and decorating. The spill-over from the neighboring chai stall mingles with his waiting customers, swelling the audience and adding to the ambiance as the last sips of chai are sounded by the delicate smashing of the left over clay cups. Smash, sizzle, shouts, spicy steaming trails moving silently towards the light and dispersing a hint of burnt chili into the evening air. Hungry eyes step forward, taking center stage. A star for a minute as a plate piled high with shining slippery noodles is traded for a flimsy worn piece-of-paper note. The noodles walk away fading from the lime light, only to be replaced, randomly. Continuously. Never ending pot-pan frying flying supply of noodles.
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