@shaari_ and i are finally at dosa 99, the place that’s on everyone’s tongue, everyone who likes indian in our fair city anyway. and it seems particularly fitting that we are to give something back to our gigantic neighbour, who’s thrown us a lifeline worth hundreds of millions of dollar$. but will our little economy be taken over by the twin giants of asia? i think thakuru thinks this has already happened.

‘you never tried the masala dosa here?’ asks shaari, bringing me back to earth.

‘nope. should i?’

‘of COURSE you fool.’

so that’s what i order, plus a cardamom tea while shaari gets a chicken tikka dosa and a masala chai.

‘i went to the track today,’ says shaari as we wait for our order.

‘isn’t it full of crap?’

‘not today. it was beautiful – the sun was out, no garbage.’

‘i like the channel between phase 1 and 2,’ i tell him. ‘it’s clean.’

‘can you swim?’

‘badly. but hm is so far to go for a swim on the regular.’

‘why don’t you go swimming here?’ says shaari pointing to the flooded road outside.

‘i might drown.’

and the server brings our meals. folded dosas, sambar, coconut chutney, and that red spicy chutney all rest on gleaming metal trays. shaari takes a photo.

‘it’s beautiful,’ i say after taking a look.

‘why can’t husenfulhu take photos like this?’ asks shaari. ‘he’s got a pixel too.’

‘come on, husenfulhu can’t take pictures, that’s the whole point.’ i say. something about talking about yourself in the third person kinda creeps me out.

‘i thought the whole point was immersive content,’ says shaari, putting his phone away.

‘dear lord, EVERYTHING’S so immersive now,’ i say. ‘does no one want to stand back and reflect?’

‘do you do much reflection?’ asks shaari digging into his dosa. ‘it’s really good. how’s yours?’

i take a bite of the plain aloo masala dosa. it’s crispy, pleasantly sour, and the potato masala is freakishly good.

‘mmm,’ i say, washing it down with the cardamom tea. they hand-brew it here – shaari might say ‘hand craft’.

‘what are you muttering?’ says shaari.

‘what did that old woman with the silumbu say to you?’ i ask. ‘you know, the one we passed by on our way here.’

‘ahhh, she didn’t want her photo taken.’

‘snubbed by an old woman, hawhaw,’ i snicker.

shaari shrugs.

‘i’ve got a nice pic of you two,’ i tell him, showing the photo on my phone.

‘you have zero boundaries, husenfulhu,’ says shaari. which is a lie, i do. around me.

‘don’t you like?’ i ask.

‘it’s nice, i would crop it a little close.’

‘huh,’ i say. ‘it’s better than some of YOUR pics.’

‘heh heh,’ laughs shaari. ‘now, time to part with our money. how much do you think?’

‘150,’ i say.

‘wanna bet?’

‘what are you talking about? it’s haraam!’

it’s actually MVR145 for the whole bunch. they don’t accept cards, just cash or transfer.

‘close,’ says shaari.

‘hmm,’ i say. ‘i should’ve ordered an omelette.’