i’m with an old friend of mine, adhly, at musammaa cafe in henveiru (get the exact location on google maps). we go way back to the #mvcoup era when the line between good and evil was clear and the stench of true revolution was in the air. a simpler, more romantic time. me and he are from opposing camps but we agree with each other on most things.

the interior of musammaa cafe reminds me of quench, that dimly lit restaurant of my childhood by the maaveyo magu/majeedhee magu junction. this air conditioned space, right at the very back, has little booths, separated by sections of wood fixed with rubber tires! and we squeeze our considerable girths into a booth.

‘what should i get?’ i ask adhly.

‘musammaa of course.’

so i get the kukulhu musammaa and he the kandu mahu musammaa.

‘what’s been going on with you?’ i ask. we haven’t met in a few years and i want to catch up.

‘this and that. working for avas ride.’

‘you get a decent income?’

‘more than you probably,’ he laughs.

funny.

‘but jokes aside, the taxi centres were not prepared for this. avas ride i mean,’ he starts to explain.

‘ah.’

‘cycle taxis came and began stealing rides from the centres. cos it’s half the pay of a normal taxi.’

‘hmm,’ i say. ‘yeah i guess they didn’t see that coming.’

‘yeah, and people could get in touch with drivers directly, even car drivers so the centres started losing ground to avas and cab.mv pretty steadily.’

‘i see, have any of them gone bankrupt?’

‘i don’t know, but avas has bought off a few centres at very discounted prices.’

‘oh yeah?’

‘hey you’re not writing this down are you? it’s just gossip.’

‘ah no, no need to worry about that,’ i assure him.

the server brings our meals and we dig in to the musammaa.

‘oh man,’ i say. ‘it doesn’t taste like musammaa at all. the havaadhu is weird. and no raisins. no pandan leaves. no cinnamon. nothing.’

‘aha,’ says adhly, happily gobbling up his roshi. ‘you can’t get anything authentic anywhere anymore.’

‘maldive kitchen does a good kukulhu musammaa actually,’ i tell him.

‘isn’t that 300 rufiyaa a riha?’

‘200. but worth it.’

‘i’ll go if you’re giving,’ he says.

i finish off my roshi, barely touching the riha. it’s not for me, and i for one wouldn’t mind paying a bit extra for something truly good. i was expecting more from a place called musammaa cafe. maybe a trip to maldive kitchen is in order again.