t’s always there waiting, this big beige mutt that’s forever following me around, barking. i don’t care for dogs as most of you would know, they’re too big, too boisterous, too chummy. and to make matters worse, this particular dog has only three legs, making its gait very clumsy. why can’t it just concentrate on its own life instead of trying to complicate things by introducing ME into the equation? i really don’t understand it.

anyhow, we’re in northern bangalore now, me and ibrahimdi, and we’re going to our favourite chaiwallah. fortunately for me, the dog is lying spent on the walkway outside. it looks like it’s pissed itself but that’s probably not the case.

this part of town is not made for walking, the pavement ends abruptly in places, and sometimes it doesn’t even exist. we have to walk down the road, with tuk-tuks streaking past us, honking horribly, and leaving us in their wake of exhaust.

‘why did we have to come here?’ asks ibrahimdi.

‘it’s not my fault,’ i say.

‘no one’s saying it’s anyone’s fault,’ says ibrahimdi.

what actually happened was that i saw a deal on airbnb in a place that seemed to be in my fav district by 100ft road, where all the cool places are. it’s probably the most maldivian part of the city, we like our amenities about us, very close by like in male.

‘dho coffee,’ i say to the chaiwallah. the sun is beaming weakly for it’s barely eight, and the coolness is comforting to us who’re kitted out in shorts and shirts. the men of bangalore however, gathered near the chaiwallah, are in jackets and pants.

‘maybe they just like wearing jackets,’ i mutter.

‘what did you say?’ asks ibrahimdi. i shake my head dismissively.

the chaiwallah loosens the tap of a large container to pour concentrated black coffee into a small silver bowl. he takes this bowl and puts equal amounts in two glasses. then he takes a ladle of boiling milk from a big steaming pot on the counter, and pours the contents into the glass from a height – so you see a stream of milk in mid-air. i think it’s to make the coffee frothy.

we wait for the drinks to cool down and ibrahimdi lights up a cigarette.

‘you know, you should probably think about quitting a bit seriously,’ i tell him.

‘ah stop lecturing me,’ says ibrahimdi. ‘you didn’t quit till you were forty.’

‘i was 36, brother,’ i say, indignantly.

‘same diff,’ he says nonchalantly. then something sharp digs into my calf.

‘oh, look, it’s the doggy,’ says ibrahimdi.

‘why can’t this goddamn beast leave me the fuck alone?’ i say.

‘ignore him little doggy,’ says ibrahimdi squatting down and fondling its head. ‘he’s a mean old man, ignore him. who’s a good doggie then? huh? who’s a good doggie?’

‘christ,’ i mutter turning away from this despicable scene. hmm. maybe the three-legged dog is a metaphor, but for what? in any case, this metaphor’s one that ibrahimdi has no qualms handling.