Tongilicious...

“Shree khodiyar American Indian sweet corn” – As queer a name, yet something aromatic, something specific too... Maybe the four-wheeler is hand in glove of an American Indian!!! ‘Four-wheeler’ a misnomer, lets call it a cart.

A teenager guarded them- shy, shabby and smiling. The corn lay calm on the coal bed. Basking in the warmth of the puffing pulsations, the faintest green sheath continued browning in the redness of coal. Flannels flew while the corn conversed the coal. Anger? “No, it’s our love” - They said. Well aware of their destiny... a few moments of passion.

The petro-max shed a convenient shade. Five of the already prepared corn cousins lay conspicuous in the lower compartment, sleepy, tired and weeping for their love life stood incomplete and a little jealous for the one taking pleasure from the fondling of those masculine wood splinters now.

“How much for one?” – Pop came my question.

“ How many do u want?” – Pat came his inquiring reply.

The bargain starts, ending on a positive note. I cornered my eyeballs to have a glimpse at the simmering intimacy.

“ Two of the hottest, fresh cones please.”

He stripped the papery green sheath, already darkened to spots of isolated black. In half nude husk, they did shy a little. Lemon takes its turn in a hemisphere, a slight squeeze and came the juice, sour and translucent. Dipped in the Reddish-orange mixture of salt and chilly, they exchange a deep kiss. Like a shy guy smeared with his girl’s lipstick, lemon goes licking the bare body of cone, up and down, top to bottom. The skirt forcibly lifted, my cone looked innocent in shame. Pretty they looked with the tiny kernels stacked like a hundred little teeth.

My hands took the offer and the lusty front teeth dug into it ferocious. An assembly line of cute yellow stood audacious, but in disturbed disarray. The taste buds excited at the new prospect, tongiliciously tempting, irresistibly mouth-watering, tantalizingly aromatic, and invitingly succulent. Sour, salty, hot and tasty, what more of a flavor could my buds long for on that wintry night on the beach where waves blend one upon the other in another saga of love.