my (real) brother ibrahimdi and i are roaming the streets of kumarapuram, trivandrum in the dark, trying to find a place that’s still open and serving food. we’ve passed some kadas but we are, ie i am, in the mood for something a little fancier, some pasta perhaps, maybe even ramen (yes i have become partial to it) but this is god’s own country and there aren’t a lot of good options for any of those at this hour. in fact, there appears to be none.

‘pasta’s too heavy,’ mourns ibrahimdi and he has been in a mournful mood all day. i think he is pining for a secret girlfriend back home but the boy is not admitting to it. time to put an end to this.

‘tell me, then you will feel better!’ i say, grabbing hold of his shoulders and shaking him. ‘you really will. just TELL ME for gods’ sake!’

‘husenbe, people are staring!’ says my bewildered little brother.

so i let go of his shoulders and he sideyes me. i may be a bit old but i won’t be an embarrassment to my gen z bro. hell no.

‘you already are,’ mutters ibrahimdi.

‘what did you say?’

‘nothing.’

soon, there’s a gentle whiff of frying meat floating in the air.

‘hey, do you smell that?’ i ask my brother.

‘what?’

‘it smells like meat. good meat.’

‘i don’t smell anything,’ says my brother.

‘it’s all the cigarettes you smoke, kokko, they’ve clogged up your nose,’ i say.

‘you didn’t quit till you were forty, brother,’ he says rudely.

‘i was THIRTY EIGHT!’ i exclaim, startling a saronged pedestrian who mumbles something and scurries away.

but i trust my senses, and of the five senses that god has gifted me with, my keenest is the sense of smell. the ol’ olfactory business.

‘look!’ i say, pointing to a silver food truck with the sign SMOKIES.

‘wow, what a nose you got grandpa,’ mocks my brother but i pay him no mind.

‘it’s a burger truck, bro,’ i tell him. ‘you in?’

‘in.’

so we cross the street and inside a man is hastily frying away on a clean griddle. on the side of the road by the truck stands a youngish couple.

‘you’ve eaten here before?’ i ask the man.

‘actually i saw this truck on a reel so i came to try,’ he smiles a bit sheepishly.

‘oh,’ i say and check out the menu, settling on a beef smash burger.

‘me too,’ says ibrahimdi so i order two. meanwhile the couple get both their burgers wrapped in foil. they begin to eat. i observe them briefly: the man is in a brown shirt and the woman wears a sleeveless floral dress, neat and casual.

‘how are the burgers?’ i ask.

‘very good, i like them very much actually,’ says the man. ‘i’m sam, this is alcy.’

‘oh sorry, i am husenfulhu and this is my brother ibrahimdi. are you from around here?’

‘yes, born and bred in trivandrum,’ he replies. ‘alcy too.’

‘what do you do alcy?’ i ask.

‘your burger is ready,’ my brother tells me and i swat him away.

‘i’m a biology teacher,’ she says.

‘oh, i failed biology,’ i say and alcy laughs. she has a nice, gentle laughter that makes me think of sweetmeats.

‘what about you? what do you do, sam?’

as i eat my burger, which is a bit too generous with the mayo but otherwise excellent, sam tells me about selling fishing equipment, the family business, started forty years ago by his grandfather. ‘and some of my biggest customers are in the maldives.’ he says.

‘no WAY!’ i say. ‘WE’RE from the maldives!’

‘oh, not surprising, not surprising,’ laughs sam. ‘did you come here for medical purpose?’

‘i did,’ i say.

‘he thinks he has cancer,’ says my brother. when sam’s expression turns serious my brother adds: ‘he’s always thinking that.’

‘what do you do?’ asks sam.

‘well, there’s nothing to be done except wait for the results,’ i tell him.

‘no, for work?’

‘oh, work. i work for a construction company,’ i say.

‘ah really, they must import material from india,’ says sam.

‘they DO!’ i say, pleased at finding more common ground.

when they start wiping their hands and mouth, i say: please, sam. stay in touch. lovely meeting you too, alcy.

i wipe my hand with a tissue from the truck’s counter, give sam my business card, and shake hands with the couple and they start to recede into the dimly lit, but clean, kumarapuram street. kerela is serious about hygeine, i was told by an auto driver. if you want an example of a communist state that actually works, well, this is it. so i was told. of course scholars may disagree whether kerala is in fact a communist state instead of a leftist government within the wider republic but i don’t care: there are hammer and sickle graffiti and signs everywhere.

‘you’ve got mayo all over your moustache!’ says my brother, jostling me out of my thoughts.

‘why didn’t you tell me sooner kokko?’

‘you looked kinda funny,’ he says. ‘sorry.’

‘you will be.’ i mutter. ‘you WILL be.’