i am in a taxi, i think i’m going to hulhumale. i have a bag. what’s in it? a mango! i remember now. it’s from my friend dhaleyka, a huge mother of a fruit as heavy as an infant. a honey mango. my god. the power. the power of this mango summons its name. the power of objects, good people.

my phone vibrates. alifulhu.

‘we’re there,’ he texts.

‘where?’ i ask.

‘rajdhani.’

oh yes, that’s where i’m supposed to be.

‘send me their menu,’ i tell him.

he sends me a facebook link.

‘who the hell uses facebook?’ i snap.

‘old people. don’t you?’

huh. funny.

the restaurant is small but posh. i feel like a katheeb as i stride towards the end. indian music in the air, nice, serene melodies that really BRRRRRR.

‘what the hell’s THAT?’ i bark as i settle in between faathaanike and alifulhu.

‘relax, husenfulhu, it’s just the blender,’ says alifulhu.

‘they should do something about that, soundproof the kitchen.’ i say.

‘what do you feel like having?’ asks faathaanike.

‘jesus, it’s 200 rufiyaa for a curry here,’ i exclaim, thumbing through the menu.

‘this isn’t aibbalhey you know,’ remarks alifulhu.

we settle on some curries and naan. i’m getting a lamb curry, australian lamb they say. an attempt to justify the pricetag.

the food arrives. we dig in. it’s excellent, but the lamb can be more tender. tenderer? and i asked for a spicier masala. this is white people stuff.

‘we can mix two curries up like a dhigu riha,’ says alifulhu.

‘never heard anyone say that,’ i reply. ‘dhigu riha.’

‘that’s because you’re from male,’ grins alifulhu. ‘you never had to mix two curries to make a bigger pot of curry that’s enough for everyone.’

damn this man.

faathaanike laughs and takes a sip from her glass of yellow liquid.

‘what IS that?’ i ask.

‘have some,’ she says. ‘it’s mango lassi.’

‘there’s a good lass,’ i say and have a sip. it’s great, almost like a milkshake, sour, a little sweet, thick. then it hits me.

‘FUCK!’ i yell.

‘what?’ they say.

‘MY HONEY MANGO!’

‘your WHAT?’

‘THE HONEY MANGO. the one…the one dhaleyka got me. i left it in the cab.’

‘there, there.’ say my friends.

‘it’s a common thing in old age,’ remarks alifulhu. ‘you should start getting used to it. set reminders.’

i sink back into my chair, feeling a terrible weariness. time. there’s no escaping it. i finish the meal, but the joy of the night is gone. it is made worse when the bill arrives, which is over a thousand rufiyaa.

‘don’t be so glum,’ says faathaanike as we walk out. ‘if you’re meant to have it, you will.’
and then i get a call.

‘it’s him!’ i tell them excitedly. ‘it’s the driver.’

i talk for a bit and hang up.

‘he’s going to deliver it to me,’ i tell them. ‘hurray.’

‘it’s synchronicity,’ says faathaanike, getting behind alifulhu on his vespa.

‘what?’

‘you know, things that happen in the world that align with your thoughts,’

‘it’s power,’ i tell them. ‘it’s all power, acting out through everything!’

‘speaking of,’ says alifulhu. ‘i hear you’ve been saying some funny things recently. still on your meds?’

‘i’m not crazy you moron,’ i tell them. ‘i’ll explain it to you. now -‘

‘not tonight, we’re flying tomorrow, remember?’ says alifulhu and they motor off
leaving me here, in the wake of their crippling power.