banana leaf isn’t the best place for indian in male, but it’s certainly not the worst and sometimes that’s all you need.

tonight, i’m with jaufarji, with whom i went to that little korean place in hulhumale. i didn’t particularly care for it but i’m glad it’s part of our food ecosystem. you gotta start somewhere.

jaufarji is without his sketchbook this evening. it might be the first time i am seeing him without it, in fact.

we order two dosa meals and stare at each other for a long, drawn out moment in mute horror. why are we here? what have we done? who have we become?

‘what’s on your mind, husenfulhu?’ asks my dinner companion.

‘oh,’ i say, wishing i can confide in him those very thoughts. but the words don’t come to me, perhaps because i am wary of him. a young man of talent who may never have felt that moment which until now i believed we both shared.

so how can we be friends, i think. how can we be friends if i am afraid he won’t understand me? how can we if we’re not on the same level?

perhaps this means i should try telling him. give him the benefit of the doubt.

‘do you sometimes look back on your life and mourn the decisions that made you the man you are today, man?’ i ask.

‘are you asking me if i’m unhappy with who i am now?’ asks jaufarji. ‘then, no.’

the server brings our food to the table. the dosa is crisp, but not as much as it could’ve been, and there’s something off about the chutney. it’s subtle, this offness, only someone familiar with the goods from south indian diners may detect it.

‘i don’t care for this chutney,’ remarks jaufarji.

i look at his expressionless face.

hmm. he told me he’d spent time in india.

i give him a nod of agreement and we continue to eat in silence, a markedly less uncomfortable one than that which prevailed earlier. yeah, maybe there is hope for him yet. maybe i CAN be friends with this man.