it’s the last friday of ramadan and so i’m headed to my mother’s all the way up in phase two. i think of taking something but my funds are rather low so i decide to make do with whatever mother has. and she DID say today will be a day of feasting. my dad’s long-time indian tenants are giving our family the annual roadhaveellun. that means tikka, butter chicken, farata, the works.

‘you must treat the gopals like family,’ said my dad some years back.

now he’s one of those ‘india out!’ folks. strange fella, dad.

i take the scenic 5.15 bus to phase two – the light is soft and a gentle warmth begins to settle on my skin as the sun pools on my face and arms. i’m listening to the radio dept’s sun drenched dub of ‘never follow suit’ – it’s feeling like a great day guys, one worth remembering.

‘ding.’ goes my phone.

it’s a message saying i’ve been paid. ok it’s just 100$ but to a man on the R8 bus, it hits like a million. and i’m already dreaming of my mother’s kulhafilaafaiy mashuni, made with my aunt’s famous rihaakuru. mother is great at selecting the leaves, they’re always fresh and crunchy, and just the right amount of bitter. mmm, that mashuni is a true meal, even by itself.

‘hello, mother,’ i say, giving her a pat on the back.

‘not so hard, my body aches,’ she says. ‘where’s samfa?’

‘she’s watching netflix at home,’ i tell her.

‘she must be exhausted from all the work,’ says mother without a hint of irony. my mother thinks samfa works a lot. and it’s true, she does, harder than most people anyway. unless they’re pearl divers or something.

‘what did you say?’

‘nothing mother, where’s dad?’

‘he’s gone off to the mosque,’ mother replies.

‘so soon?’

‘there’s barely fifteen minutes till prayer time,’ says mother.

‘where’s ibrahimdi?’ i ask.

‘i don’t know where he is, i told him you were coming, maybe he’s avoiding you,’ she says.
huh. funny that. why would ibrahimdi avoid me? i call him up.

‘bro,’ i say. ‘i’m right outside your room, where the hell are you?’

‘i have an iftar in male,’ he says.

‘a WHAT?’

‘an iftar?’

‘we say ‘roadhaveellun’ in these parts, brother. we’re not stupid arabs.’

‘don’t insult arabs,’ says my brother. ‘i have to go, my friends are here.’

i was expecting the company of my brother but i guess i will have to settle for my mother.
the table is nice, there’s a big sandwich from city bakery, butter chicken, farata, a ton of roshi, some chicken tikka, a few fuh jehi kavaab. but one dish is conspicuously absent.

‘where’s the mashuni?’

‘oh, i didn’t make any because there’s a lot of food,’ says my mother.

‘REALLY!’ i cry.

‘don’t be a child, husenfulhu,’ says my mother. ‘you’re forty-five.’

‘i’m not even forty TWO yet, mother,’ i mutter.

‘do you want me to make you some mashuni? oh, there’s the bangi.’

‘no, no,’ i say. and i begin to eat. it’s all right but my god how in the world can any of this scratch my itch?
i can’t eat the curry so i try the sandwich. it’s a typical city bakery chicken sandwich, lots of mayo and thousand island dressing, plus a dry af piece of chicken. i have some of the fuh jehi kavaabs but i don’t like the filling too much.

‘that’s too little, husenfulhu,’ says mother, looking a bit dismayed.

‘it’s ok ma, i’ll grab something for tharaavees,’ i tell her. we talk a bit about her patching things up with my aunt (the one who makes the great rihaakuru) and then i decide to go and wait for the bus downstairs.

there’s a group of young men by the lift.

‘who’s giving coffee tonight?’ says a skinny guy with close cropped hair.

‘how about you giving us coffee for a change,’ says a big curly haired man, and everyone laughs. he must be the leader.

‘i haven’t got paid,’ says the skinny man.

‘c’mon, you work in sarukaaru,’ says curly hair. ‘don’t be so greedy.’
the lift stops. the curly haired man steps out first and almost slips.

‘what the!’ he cries.

‘it’s SHIT!’ says the skinny guy. the young men begin to stagger off, gagging, while an old man places a brick over the crime scene.

what a thing to end this on.