we find ourselves on this windless afternoon, just before ramadan, at d’olive, olive garden’s facelift in time for the blessed month. it’s still the same old place with its almost exclusively male clientele sitting around the paved courtyard, smoking and shooting the crap. it used to be where MDP bigwigs gathered over coffee and bilaiggandu to decide on the fate of the country. now they’re over at symphony.

yet i must note that my favourite dish has disappeared from the menu, which faathumaafulhu is diligently examining in between puffs on her vape. an electric saw slicing tiles occasionally cuts through the chatter.

‘why don’t we get the devilled beef?’ i ask her. she considers it briefly and responds: ‘what’s the difference between chilli beef and devilled beef?’

‘a matter of intensity,’ i tell her.

‘you don’t know shit, do you?’ she says. i shrug. she was the one asking me, after all.

we tell the server our order and wait. it’s devilled beef and rice, if you must know.

‘what’s new with you?’ asks faathumaafulhu who’s visiting from the resort.

‘yesterday i attended a funeral and a birthday party, one after the other,’ i tell her.

‘wow, deep stuff,’ she says.

‘right?’ i say.

‘yeah, the twin miracles of the world in one go.’

‘indeed, indeed.’

‘this is the kind of shit you’d blog about.’

‘huh.’

faathumaafulhu exhales a strawberry-scented cloud.

‘how was the funeral?’ she asks.

‘good. not too macabre, it was during the day after all, that always takes the edge off,’ i tell her.

‘did you get anything out of it?’ she says glancing at the counter with its gathering of servers.

‘i think i got what i needed,’ i tell her.

‘and what is that?’ she says just wanting to needle me.

‘it just made me want to live more deeply, not intellectualise life too much,’ i respond knowingly.

‘intellectualise,’ she laughs. ‘if only you had half a brain.’

we fall silent for a while. each encounter with death, for me, results in a heightening of the feeling of freedom, to the point that it almost becomes paralysis. if you know you’re going to die one day, if you REALLY feel this knowledge, you’d not waste time on things that don’t mean much to you would you? it will automatically force you to evaluate your life and filter out the crap. because it’s your life, and as far as you know, you only have this one chance to live. i can almost understand bank robbers, maybe even hijackers, because, really, why not? why not rob a bank if that’s what makes you really feel alive? after all, that’s what matters. right?

our meal arrives and we dig in. faathumaafulhu cannot finish it. i think the beef is too chewy but i don’t mind the accouterments of bell pepper, and i’m fine with the sauce. verdict? i can give it a miss but i don’t regret ordering it. this must be the bare minimum criterion of anything that you do in this life, i think.

‘what are you thinking?’ asks faathumaafulhu.

‘stuff.’ i say.

‘OK mr thinker,’ says faathumaafulhu. ‘what do you think of the meal?’

‘if i were to live a life where i repeatedly had to eat this meal for eternity, i wouldn’t regret it,’ i tell her.

‘my god,’ she says. ‘it’s always something with you isn’t it? nothing is just what it is.’

‘nothing is,’ i agree.

‘you know, when i was a kid i really thought you were someone,’ she says.

‘yeah?’

‘i see through your bullshit now,’ laughs faathumaafulhu.

‘bravo.’

‘i hope you’re getting the bill,’ she adds a bit cautiously.

‘if you’re paying the gst, OK?’