it feels like a furnace outside so lunch at moon cafe might seem counterintuitive yet i have been waiting, no, aching for a chance to annihilate my guts ever since i recovered from a stomach bug. i call up hasanfulhu, the perpetually broke lawyer, and we stroll down majeedee magu towards our destination. hasanfulhu saunters, perhaps even ambles, the point is the man moves with an easy gait like he’s seen it all before.

and here at moon cafe, a familiar stink envelops us. i rush towards the buffet and pile on the rice, lonu mirus, onion, rihaakuru dhiya – i have a little trick where i skim the milky layer off the rihaakuru dhiya, if you try it at home and like it, please credit me.

i sit and start eating frantically as saththaaru might say, but you can’t begrudge a starving man for laying waste to his lunch at speed. hasanfulhu seems to be saying something however.

‘hmm?’

‘i said your nose is dripping,’ he replies.

goddamn.

plus, there’re no serviettes on the table. i understand it’s not sala thai but can’t a guy expect some basic level of service?

so a waiter finally brings them and i blow my nose to the delight of hasanfulhu who enjoys bodily sounds, the weird little man.

‘anyway,’ i begin. ‘i’ve not drunk any coffee this week.’

‘cool,’ he says.

‘yeah, i’ve been doing this breathing routine after i wake up.’ i show him how, inhaling and exhaling in two second bursts.

‘i jerk off after i wake up,’ he says. ‘and then i go back to sleep.’

such scintillating wit.

i finish off my rice and man, it’s really cleaned out my sinuses. but all the flavours you expect are here – the silky, sweet and savoury taste of rihaakuru dhiya, the zing of the onion, the zap of the lonu mirus, oh, so many zaps. yep, it’s something i return to again and again, with no boredom, just with the expectation that it remains as good as it was.

the little piece of cardboard they hand me reads 120MVR, a good deal, and i pay the plump, moustached seytu who completes the transaction while reciting the quran without pause.

so, off we go to movenpick to round off our meal with ice creams.

i order a chocolate and caramel scoop in a cone, and hasanfulhu gets the boring but delicious swiss chocolate.

we eat, enjoying the cool, wafer-tinged silence, a welcome relief from the busy, barely sanitary environs of moon cafe.

‘fuck,’ says my friend, startling me.

he’s spilt some ice cream onto his crotch. i laugh.

‘who’d believe you got that from ice cream,’ i say.

‘if i could explain…’

‘nobody wants explanations these days man.’

and now we walk towards his home in the muggy heat of this may afternoon, hasanfulhu no longer nonchalant, the suspicious stain on his crotch robbing him of his usual grace and i enjoying his discomfort like an invested bystander. ah, yes.