someone’s decided that what hulhumale needs is another indian restaurant. and they’ve gone and placed it right next to bombay darbaar, how’s that for confident? and tonight, i’m here with my friend george, a mild-mannered but somewhat eccentric man who lives in phase two, who took the bus over here. he’s frugal when it comes to transportation but extravagant with food.

‘it’s like the guggenheim effect,’ giggles george, lit up in neon green like a portly tree. yeah, he’s a giggler.

‘it is, huh?’ i say.

soon, we are ushered into the restaurant by a member of the staff who has to stand outside to tempt passersby with the menu.

it’s a bit cosy inside, and the booths with their red tufted vinyl don’t look at all comfortable.

george takes the booth, spreading his considerable girth across it, and i sit opposite him in a surprisingly comfy chair.

‘you would make a good woman,’ says george after we give our order.

what the HELL does he mean by that?

‘is it my small hands?’ i try to ask nonchalantly.

‘you’re sensitive,’ he replies.

‘right,’ i say. ‘what are you basing this on?’

‘you ordered the chef’s special biriyani,’ george says. ‘you think you’re special so you deserve special things.’

‘it was YOUR sugges-‘

‘tut-tut,’ he says. ‘too sensitive, this husenfulhu. can’t take a joke. by the way, where’s our delightful samfa these days?’

‘ah, we’re on the outs,’ i tell him.

‘ooh, trouble in paradise. tell me more.’

can you believe this man?

‘jesus george, it’s none of your concern.’

‘ooh, is it the sex? it must be! tell me more! please, i beg you.’

‘just shut up.’

he pouts a bit with his big lips and then looks at me slyly.

‘i think you look pretty fit for a fifty year old, husenfulhu.’

‘why thank – did you say FIFTY?’

the server comes with the biriyani and though it’s a single portion it is very generous and is easily enough for two, unless they are both absolutely starved. in which case, a sri lankan chicken fried rice at the coffee residence in hulhumale would be a vastly better option.

‘but you haven’t tasted this yet my dear,’ says george.

was i thinking out loud? i admit i have been under great strain these past few weeks, too much work, not enough sleep, not enough of anything in fact to handle samfa’s whinging about work, which is pretty awesome if anyone must know, her work, not the whining, and my god can’t a woman be happy to HAVE a job in this economy when people are killing their brothers just to land an interview and good LORD is it too hard for a woman to be GRATEFUL for once, THANKFUL? why must there be all these COMPLAINTS all the time, it’s not like MY work is not giving me grief, hell it’s like they’re really jealous of my great vacay down south a few weeks back and want to break me for actually enjoying LIFE for a change, really feeling its BEAUTY, its true, indivisible NATURE, how we’re ALL…

‘my GOD husenfulhu,’ exclaims george. ‘there’s absolutely no need to take that tone with me, my GOD, i was just asking you your opinion of this fabulous biriyani.’

‘fabulous?’ i say, boiling over like a volcano. ‘FABULOUS? YOU KNOW WHAT, GEORGE? YOU’RE GAY! YOU THINK NO ONE KNOWS THAT? JUST COS YOU’RE MARRIED? YOU’RE GAY AS A STRAWBERRY MILKSHAKE! GAY AS A FUCKING RHODODENDRON IN SPRING! GAY AS CHANDLER BING! GAY!’

george looks at me in horror. in fact, everyone in the restaurant is looking right at me. there’s no swallowing. no chewing. not even the clink of cutlery. chills run up and down my spine. heat rises to my cheeks. my stomach caves in on itself.

shame.

‘i never thought…’ george whispers, his flabby face all droopy like a much older man’s. ‘all these years, i never thought… and you…right here. in taste of punjab. husenfulhu. why?’

i try to say i’m sorry, and i truly am, i cannot believe my outburst, honest to god, i… and george would be the first to tell you that i’m not homophobic, i really am not, i’m a sophisticated, western educated man of impeccable taste…but george looks down at his biriyani, and takes a delicate bite. then, chewing, he observes something behind me, ignoring me completely.

‘you know,’ he cries, breaking the icy silence of the restaurant. ‘this biriyani IS pretty fucking gay.’