i’d heard from a friend that this place needs, and i do mean NEEDS, checking out so here i am with faathumaafulhu and our dear old dad sagarey.

roastown global grill, kochi, (@roastown_global) has a cobbled courtyard and creeping vines on its walls – obviously a fancy schmancy place. there’s even a lift to take you up to the first floor in case you can’t make it up the stairs. dad gives us a look of contempt when we step into the lift but joins us anyway.

‘this place will be expensive,’ he says.

‘it won’t be cheap,’ says faathumaafulhu. ‘but you’ve just beaten cancer so why not splurge a little?’

‘i didn’t have cancer, firstly, so i didn’t beat it,’ says sagarey without humour. this is how the man is, contemptuous, belligerent, and quite clearly on the spectrum. you simply cannot have a conversation with him because all conversations to sagarey are about dominance. he’s always trying to score a point on some technicality of language.

earlier that day, for instance, i had told him that we were going to the hospital in an hour.

‘alright,’ he said.

an hour passed and i knocked on his door. he answered, wearing his mundu and ganjifaraas.

‘i told you to get ready to go to the hospital an hour ago dad,’ i said.

‘no, no, you told me we were going to the hospital. you never told me to get ready.’

and a little while later, while we were about to leave, i asked him if he had the doctor’s report.

‘no.’ he said.

‘no? where is it?’

‘i don’t know.’

‘i told you we needed it for this appointment.’

‘why didn’t you remind me?’

so now it was my problem.

i lost it. OK, i didn’t scream at my old man but boy was i rude until we were in the doctor’s office and got an all clear. it was a moment filled with such sweet relief but my dad looked unhappy.

‘why so glum chum?’ asked my sister.

dad refused to reply.

‘i think it’s cos his future is unclear again,’ my sister told me as we walked back to the hotel. maybe she’s right.

‘you two choose for me,’ says dad, bringing me out of my thoughts. he seems a little miserable. faathuma picks pho for him. she also orders a kind of pizza to share while i ask for a lebanese hashweh with lamb. hashweh. how can it be bad with a name like that?

so when the food comes, dad tries the pho and makes a face.

‘how could you not like it?’ says my sister. she’s been to vietnam recently as she is fond of reminding anyone who’d care to listen. sagarey doesn’t respond and looks on gloomily.

then comes the pizza and it is a thing of beauty. the server spreads runny egg yolk over the crust and divvies it up with the pizza-knife.

‘my god,’ says my sister. ‘it’s great. don’t you think it’s great, dad?’

‘it’s good,’ says my father, chewing.

‘not great?’

‘how much did it cost?’ says dad.

‘i’m paying the bill,’ says faathuma.

but before things can escalate, my hashweh is placed on the table.

‘it smells very good,’ says dad. ‘can you put some on my plate?’

faathuma does so. and he eats it, and his large mouth curls up in a grin.

‘this is from lebanon?’ he asks me.

‘yeah that’s what it said,’ i tell him.

‘what what said?’

i begin to tell him ‘the menu’ but think better of it. he is eating hungrily.

‘it’s very good. it’s sad what happened to that great country.’

‘what great country?’ asks my sister.

‘weren’t you listening?’ says my dad.

‘jeez,’ says faathuma.

‘it is very, very good, husen,’ says dad. ‘i haven’t had rice like this in my seventy years.’

he looks content, a rare expression on the man. he is a creature of a different time, when men, especially fathers, could never be wrong, and spending on luxuries like a meal from a nice restaurant was vulgar. money should be saved, not spent. but right now, his old, grizzled face seems happy, so let the old man have a moment. in fact, let us ALL have this moment, because god knows it doesn’t come easy.