one of the best kept secrets in henveiru is comfood’s excellent savoury pies – they’re doing two types at the moment: chicken & mushroom, and beef. all under fifty rufiyaa. it’s a bargain, especially for those who’ve spent time abroad down under.

anyhow, here i am with moosaalhu again at raalhugandu, watching people of male enjoy the surf. i know i’ve said it before but i STILL can’t get over just how quickly the FEEL changes when i cross the ring road and climb onto the sand of this beloved surf spot.

now, we’re sitting on the bench under a canopy of kuredhi. it’s late afternoon and cloudy, but we have a triad of colourful expatriate workers seated on the seawall, brightening up our mis en scene.

‘i wonder if any of them had seen the sea before they moved here,’ muses moosaalhu, gingerly biting into his chicken pie like the cautious man he is.

‘not all of them are bangladeshis you know,’ i tell him, taking a hefty chunk out of my beef pie. it’s fantastic, i love the crispy crust and the filling. maybe i’d like some cheese in mine but that’s another story.

‘why, do you think bangladeshis are the only people who’ve had no experience of the ocean?’ moosaalhu grins.

oh boy.

‘anyway,’ he continues. ‘i love their colours, they are the same as my palette for the place i’m designing at this resort.’

‘you know,’ i begin. ‘by the time bodu sappe’ was your age, he’d already designed a bunch of resorts. not little cupboards in restrooms like you. ENTIRE fucking resorts!’

‘hah, he was the only person around!’ moosaalhu says with what i feel is a touch of envy. aha! i am pleased to have hit a nerve.

‘have you SEEN nautilus, man?’ i ask him. ‘he’s STILL making stuff. putting his thumbprint on maldives tourism. while there are SO MANY architects here.’

‘huh, i don’t judge my worth based on the work i do,’ moosaalhu responds, grinning.

‘what DO you judge your worth on then?’ i ask him.

‘i just don’t judge myself,’ he replies. ‘unlike you.’

huh. i mean, what kind of person doesn’t compare himself to his peers? his betters? moosaalhu clearly, but just look at this complacent man! how is one to live like that? how is one to IMPROVE?

‘fuck self-improvement,’ grins moosaalhu. goddammit! can the man read my mind?

‘well, i pity you, moosa,’ i tell him. ‘really, i do. you’re in arrested development while everyone around you rises to greatness.’

‘yeah, like yourself?’ he says, smiling.

‘i’ve been published,’ i tell him. ‘in journals read by INTELLIGENT people.’

‘is that what you tell yourself?’ he remarks casually and finishes off the last of his pie. before us the expatriates sit, as if posing for a photograph. beyond them, the youth of male tumble in the surf, utterly oblivious to their greatest gift: time.