we’re riding with ullas, our crazed and perpetually cheerful auto driver who streaks like a demon through the streets of trivandrum.

‘can’t you drive slower?’ i ask him.

‘you’re in my safe hand, don’t worry please,’ shouts ullas. i think the fellow might be drunk. ibrahimdi shakes his head.

‘pussy,’ he tells me.

‘well, do YOU want to die here on this road?’

ibrahimdi says nothing. he’s a bit pissed off with me for what transpired in the last post. and he is extremely hungry, the poor lad hasn’t eaten anything today and it’s almost 3pm. we bumped into ullas, our family’s friendly auto driver, while we were walking down the road to catch a three wheeler.

‘i’m coming for you,’ he had said back then. and we asked him to take us to the best biriyani place he knew.

‘i know one very good place, which biriyani you want?’

i looked at ibrahimdi who said: mutton.

so here we are, parking outside kumar cafe.

‘i’ll wait downstairs, you go eat,’ says ullas. and when we enter the place it is busy af, even during late afternoon. kerala men and women are eating rice and all kinds of curries on banana leaves, and drinking lime sodas and gulping gallons of warm water.

‘it’s got to be good,’ says ibrahimdi, his grouchy face breaking into a little smile.

we’re finally shown a seat upstairs. but to our dismay, we’re told that they’re out of mutton. ibrahimdi’s mood sours, but i ask them if we could get beef biriyani.

‘sure,’ says the server, a mustachioed, no-nonsense man who hurries off.

then comes a female server with banana leaves that she spreads out in front of us. an older woman waddles up to our table soon after to pile condiments on our leafy plates. raita, chutney (strangely), and lemon pickle.

when the biriyanis come in their steel pots, ibrahimdi pounces on his and starts eating straight from the container.

‘oh man,’ he says.

‘that good?’ i ask, heaping the rice and meat on my leaf. i mix it up with the raita and chutney, the latter i find a bit odd as i’ve never had it with biriyani but this is no mistake. the spice and beefiness of the biriyani get a massive compliment from the sweet sweet chutney.

‘so good,’ i say. ‘should we bring mum some?’

‘if there’s any left over,’ says ibrahimdi.

and turns out there is absolutely none.

‘i’m too full,’ i say. ‘but my god, what a trip.’

‘ullas knows his biriyani,’ says ibrahimdi.

‘a man who knows a thing or two about this world,’ i say and ask for the bill. it’s under 500 rupees. imagine. that’s less than 90 rufiyaa for not one but TWO excellent dishes. but then, it’s trivandrum and not male.

‘you feeling homesick yet?’ i ask ibrahimdi as we speed back to our place with freaky ullas.

ibrahimdi shakes his head.

‘are you sure?’

‘yes, why?’

‘no reason,’ i say. male is a place of memory, only these smoggy, dust-laden streets seem real. and my ache for samfa. only these, the rest are just ghostly glimmers in the gloom.