who the hell knew there are places serving food at the kaanivaa after midnight? not me, and i mention this to my man bakurube as he finds us a parking space by ‘the deck’. surprisingly, to me at least, the place is bright and swimming in customers.

‘shows how much you know,’ says bakurube ambling in to the cafe.

yet why is only ‘the deck’ open among all the other places here, i think. do they play a game of chance to find out which cafe will claim the 24 hr spot? and for how long? really, i’d like to know how these details are sorted out.

anyhow, we order the tuna fried rice and try to relax and dispel the worries of the day in this electric setting. it’s packed with people who’re juiced up on red bull and coffee, even middleaged dudes are sipping the dark liquid. at this hour! don’t they have work tomorrow?

‘don’t YOU have work tomorrow?’ asks bakurube.

‘i’m always on call,’ i tell him.

‘how can you wake up after this? it’s almost 2am.’

‘i don’t know,’ i say. ‘but i will have to. man, what a life.’

‘indeed.’

’40 years and we’ve barely enough money for a tuna fried rice each,’ i tell him. ‘and we still have the rest of the month to get through.’

‘at least we know a thing or two about the world,’ says bakurube.

‘do we?’

‘you saying we don’t?’

the rice is taking an awful long time to prepare, and bakurube is annoyed, i can tell.

‘what do we know about the world?’ i ask him, to stoke the flames.

‘suffering, that’s what,’ says bakurube. ‘we’re thrown here, we suffer, then we leave.’

‘you call it suffering but i call it living,’ i tell bakurube.

‘aren’t you suffering, husenfulhu?’

‘your company,’ i mutter.

‘what’s that?’ snaps bakurube.

‘nothing.’

at last, our rice is brought to the table and we dive right in.

‘they used to put a lot of soy sauce in the rice didn’t they?’ asks bakurube.

‘yeah, they still do at taste me.’

‘what’s taste me?’ he asks.

‘it’s the first kada, the really big one,’ i tell him. ‘can’t believe you don’t know taste me.’

‘the fuck do we know anyway?’ snaps bakurube.

‘yeah,’ i say. ‘at the end of it, we’re none the wiser for having lived. none at all.’

a dish clatters onto the floor and someone let’s out a squeal of panic.

‘if i didn’t have my kids i’d probably have called it quits years ago,’ says bakurube in a rare moment of openness.

‘but this is what we get, my man,’ i say. ‘this is all we get. and we have to accept it. even love it.’

‘huh, i’m loving this tuna fried rice,’ says bakurube between forkfuls.

‘that’s because you don’t have what they call a discerning palate.’

‘is that what you call yours?’

‘i’m a man of taste, baku-rube,’ i tell him, pleased with myself.

‘just not REAL taste,’ he says and burps loudly. a curly haired, portly woman looks at us in alarm, then returns to her plateful of chips.

but honestly, i think all anyone has to know in this life is what they like and what they don’t. the rest will follow. and trust me, this isn’t easy when you’re being dragged this way and that, buffeted by the winds of other, greater people’s tastes and expectations.

‘you’re a real fount of wisdom did you know that?’ snaps baukurube when i tell him this. but he is in a visibly better mood.

‘at least we’re lucky enough to be able to reflect on our lives,’ i tell him in an attempt to lighten the mood.

‘there’s far too much reflection and not enough living,’ says bakurube. ‘you can’t live till you have a bunch of fuck you money.’

the bill is 149 MVR. we pay up with our very docile cash and scurry into a cool november night filled with the promise of rain, leaving behind this cafe and its anxious patrons.