Samosa Cock

The rains in Dubai had subsided nicely to reveal once again a hot summer, which was nice to look at from the large floor-to-ceiling windows of the hotel room. Rajan sighed in satisfaction, feeling the subtle warmth of the sun coming through the windows as well as its sight, comforted in the knowledge that the central a/c would keep him from breaking even a single bead of sweat.

Except for those losers in Sharjah, Rajan thought to himself, flexing his arm in the mirror to admire the bulge of the almond-brown bicep.

He then flexed both arms, but then dropped them, realizing that the ivory terrycloth bathroom obscured the view of either bicep or his trunk. He considered for a moment taking it off, but then thought that might be awkward when his date came out of the bathroom.

Just then he heard the click of the door lock, and knew he had made the right split-second decision.

“Just wanted to do some touching up,” a sing-song voice pealed as a similarly bathrobed woman stepped out of the washroom. “It’s hot – really dried up make-up.”

The woman was a bit taller than Rajan, but not noticeably so. She had the well-tonedness of someone who did yoga daily for fitness with little thought to the spiritual elements surrounding the practice. Some work had been done on the face, though nothing could fix the one eye that was clearly larger than the other.

“Ah Janice,” Rajan said, plopping into the light red armchair opposite the window, “You look great regardless, I assure you.”

“Thanks,” Janice giggled. “What’ve you been up to while I was freshening up.”

Rajan wanted to tell her all the scenarios he had been dreaming up while she was in the bathroom, but knew better not to. In fact, that was why he had sat down as soon as she had come out.

“Just thinking about some changes to the app,” he lied, smiling.

“Oh yeah, tell me more about it. I mean, other than what I’ve seen,” Janice said playfully, sitting on the edge of the bed and crossing her legs.

“Well,” Rajan leaned back. “I got the idea ‘cos you know, Tinder and all that are just so crowded and not focused.”

He wondered why this had not come up during brunch. But then again, Dubai brunches were all about unlimited booze, which he had imbibed in aplomb because the food other than the one Thai salad was quite bland.

“So I thought, why not make an app just for Indian men to meet cookasian woman.”

“Caucasian,” Janice said.

“Cock-Asian,” Rajan said, forming the word slowly and wondering about the etymology.

“You can just say white.”

“No, that’s racist.”

“I don’t think so,” Janice said, looking a bit confused.

“It is for sure,” Rajan nodded as he also crossed his legs.

“So, why’d you call it Samosa Chat?”

“Samosa Chaat.”

“That’s what I said.”

“No. Chat means talk. Chaat is a mix. It’s a play on the word, you see.”

“Yeah, I get it now. But why samosa.”

“Well you know the warm feeling of putting your finger into a samosa?”

“Why would anyone do that?”

“Er, I mean when you pick up a samosa, you might press a bit too hard and one finger might go in.”

“I’ve never done that.”

“Well how many samosas have you picked up.”

“Maybe 4 or 5.”

“Ha! I’ve picked up hundreds. It’s bound to happen based on volume.”

“You know, it’s funny your name is Jan.”

“Yes.”

“Since people call me Jan too.”

“Ah yes.”

Janice winced suddenly and held the region just above the bathrobe ties.

“Hey, did you have any problems with the Thai salad.”

“No, nothing. Why?”

“Oh, just a moment. Gotta use the girls’ room.”

Janice sprang off the bed and skipped-ran into the washroom.

Rajan walked slowly over to the windows again, pausing briefly to pick up and smell Janice’s sundress that was lying on the chair next to the TV table.

Being an entrepreneur, Rajan hummed the words to “Enkillum Chandrike” while thinking about the city lying in front of him. He looked at people driving and walking about, with the working class occasional cyclist going by.

“They don’t just look like ants,” he said. “They are ants.”

He began to laugh, in a low chesty way at first, but then louder and louder.

“Hi Jan!”

“Uh yes?” he stopped laughing.

It was hard to remember the Anglicized form of his name.

“I’ve run out of TP.”

“What?” He moved closer to the door.

“Toilet paper.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Could you call room service please?”

“Why? Just use the hose.”

“What? I thought that was drinking water.”

“Who puts a hose for drinking in the bathroom?”

“You’ve never been thirsty in the washroom?”

“No.”

Even as he said this, Rajan doubted his response.

“Can you at least give me some newspaper.”

“Seems an odd time to check the news, but okay,” Rajan said under his breath as he picked up the Gulf News sitting next to the TV.

He handed it to the slender hand reaching between the doorway.

As he waited, Rajan did some lunges, feeling the air waft past his balls with each one. He mused about creating a line of heat-proof makeup, but could not for the life of him imagine what that would entail.

“R&D,” he said out loud, finishing the lunges.

Just as he did so, he heard the flush. Within a too short amount time for any hand-washing to have happened, Janice opened the door.

“Hey, did you call room service?”

“Why? You got the newspaper you wanted.”

“I think you should still call them to take the trash out.”

“Why?”

Just as he said this, Rajan suddenly had the urge to urinate. He walked toward the door.

“What’re you doing?”

“I need to pass urine.”

Like many south Asian men, Rajan had not realized that he was pre-diabetic. He simply thought that everyone had such sudden and continuous urges to pee after drinking alcohol. His solution so far had just to under-hydrate.

“No, wait Jan,” Janice tried to block his way.

“This isn’t a joke; I have to go,” Rajan pushed through and pushed the door behind him, happy that the bathrobe made it so easy to pee.

All of a sudden, he stopped and reeled. The under hydration was having its usual effect. Another fainting spell, which Rajan had dismissed as low blood pressure, was on him.

He tripped, falling a bit to the side, onto the waste bin.

“Yuck, what the fuck is this?” he said, the smell snapping him out of his faint.

“Oh no,” he heard Janice say behind him.

“Fuck! There’s shit everywhere!” Rajan shouted.

The waste bin was full of shit-stained newspaper. Rajan got up quickly, and saw the same newspaper in the toilet bowl.

“There’s shit everywhere!” he shouted, backing out.

“I didn’t know what to do!” Janice sobbed.

“Why didn’t you use the hose?” Rajan wailed.

“I don’t know how,” Janice wailed.

Rajan fell to the floor, his under-hydration faint mixing with the shock of what he had seen. As he faded away he said:

“This app is a bad idea.”

The Office Tomboy

Kayo stood at the bay windows looking out onto Manila Bay. The city had its charm at certain moments, though Kayo could never understand how a people who were big on scented detergents and perfumes could possibly stand the smell of open sewage that hung around in so many places. The charm he was admiring at the moment had as a large proportion of it the fact that he could not smell the city.

“Kayo, you ready for our discussion?” a voice asked behind him.

“Of course, Ross. Let’s.”

Kayo turned around to see the entering Ross, his guy in Manila and the Philippines who was leading the team there.

“You were admiring the scene?”

Ross was an inquisitive person, having that natural love for gossip that was there in the Philippines. A larger man, he wore a dark suit and had protruding teeth.

“Yeah man. Sometimes it just blows my mind that I get to come to all these places, ‘cos in my mind I’m just a guy smoking shisha with my mates in Dubai still.”

“Well mate, coming from Dubai, you were bound to be international.”

“Well, I guess. Anyway man, nice to see everyone here.”

They both sat around the conference table, Kayo immediately reaching for his large thermos of water.

“Yeah mate, we grew the team. Only thing is, we made some cuts. You saw Nikita is gone?”

“Yeah man, what happened? Nikita was the one I’d always talk to before Rose came into the picture.”

“See mate, the thing about the Philippines is just too many women. They say we’re now at a ratio of 10 women to 1 men.”

Kayo waited, drinking his water, not sure where the line of thought was going.

“And you see mate, nature always corrects itself. If there aren’t enough men, well women turn to men.”

Kayo felt a bit akward since he felt he was supposed to say something in these pauses.

“And you notice these tomboys – they’re always short. They take their testosterone shots and become short. With short hair.”

Kayo again did not know what to say, but closed his thermos.

“So anyway, Nikita ran off with that tomboy we had – Charlie.”

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah, she left her husband and two kids for Charlie.”

“That’s harsh man.”

“Basically why I had to let them go mate.”

“Always tough with long-time staff.”

“They developed a whole romance while at work, mate.”

“Yeah, totally. Anyway, let’s talk about general strategy before we get into student visas.”

___________________

A few days later, Kayo found himself at NAIA terminal 1, getting ready to head home. He used these times to sit in the busy waiting area and recall everything that had happened. He also enjoyed watching people eating what was likely the worst airport food on earth – Filipino delicacies that had been sitting in warmers for too long and microwaved pizzas, burgers and the like.

“Sir Kayo.”

He looked up from his reverie to see a very short man with spiked short hair in what had become to be known as flying pants – sort of like joggers but even more comfortable – and a white Nike shirt.

“It’s Charlie.”

“Charlie! Hi!” Kayo got up and touched put one hand on his own chest – his standard way of not shaking hands.

“How are you, sir?”

“Good man, just heading home. And you?”

“Ah, just visiting my province. You heard I left the Manila office.”

“Yes, sorry to hear.”

“It’s okay sir. I cannot stay after I fight Sir Ross.”

“Wait, what?”

“Yes, one day I come in and he smell the seat in the conference room.”

“Smell?”

“Yes. I tell him, ‘That is Nikita’s seat.'”

“Holy shit.”

“He say no, but I tell him she always sit there and her smell there.”

“Oh, looks like it’s time for my flight. How time flies.”

Charlie put himself between Kayo and the way out of the waiting area. Kayo could see well over Charlie’s head the few cafeterias and Duty Free in Terminal 1.

“Then I grab his shirt collar.”

“Oh my.”

“We fight little bit there in the conference room.”

“Oof.”

“We fell on the chair.”

“Glad neither of you were too hurt.”

“We roll under the desk. We fight till the door. Then I get up and tell him, ‘I quit.'”

“Wow.”

“I carry Nikita out in my arms.”

“That’s like a teleserye.”

Charlie stepped aside finally, letting Kayo through. He walked, nodding at the small tomboy. Kayo after a few slow steps walked briskly away, wishing the departure gates area were not so small.

Kadal Kannu Orru Sasikutti

DM was happy to admit that the less he understood something, the more frustrated he became. This was one such occasion that fit into this if-this-then-that formula.

Here he was, finally in Kerala, after years of seeing the photos his friend Kayo had been posting. He had brought rolling cones and his appetite for beef chukka and fish fry with porotta. Instead, he was sitting in a rickety wooden chair at a town convention, being told to give a speech.

“Why do I have to even be here?” he asked.

DM had to admit, apart from the lack of marijuana and beef-porotta in the vicinity, the town square was idillic. Rain had just ended, making the whole place cool. Giant trees shaded the small wooden stage he was on. Autos put-putted by along with the milling people, who seemed to be growing in number every minute. He had never used the term “gaily dressed” before, but would have in this scenario since people were so colourfully adorned for the occasion. The chayyakadda nearby had kollas full of small yellow and bigger green bananas on display. He could smell them along with the milky chayya.

“Cos you’re kind of a big deal to blow into town,” Kayo explained, interrupting his friend’s sniffing of fruit and tea. “Everyone wants to hear from you.”

“But you’re not even using my real name,” DM frowned.

“I already explained that,” Kayo said, adjusting his white kaseri mundu with the gold-blue line. “This DM thing sounds like you’re some state rep, like the PM or CM. So I gave them this name. It’s actually a good one you can always use. Kind of like a persona change.”

“I don’t even know how to pronounce this – Sassy?”

“No, it’s Sasi.”

“I can’t even make that sound.”

“Just make a sound like you’re shushing someone.”

“Shush.”

“But now pop an ‘a’ in there.”

“Shashi.”

“Bingo. You came here across the sea, so I’ve named the event ‘Kadal Kannu Orru Sasikutti.'”

“What’s the kutti part.”

“Well,” Kayo put on his thinking face. “It basically means small boy.”

“So you’re telling everyone I’m a man-child.”

“You have to stop being so Eurocentric. It doesn’t mean the same thing here. It’s a term of endearment.”

“So they call you Kayokutti here?”

“No, but they use Kayomon.”

“What does that mean?”

“Son.”

“That’s way better than small boy. Why can’t I use that one also?”

“It doesn’t fit. Who’s ever heard of a Sasimon. You sound silly.”

“Man, they know I’m not from Kerala. Why would I have a Malbari name?”

“Why did Shantaram have an Indian name?”

“Touche. So, should I talk about Dubai?”

“Hold up. Let’s wait for the pullikali to end.”

As Kayo spoke, several men dressed in whole-body tiger paint danced up with a man dressed as a hunter. DM watched a whole scene with death and revenge unfold.

“No man,” Kayo told DM. “Almost everyone from here has someone close to them in the Gulf or go there themselves to work or for holiday. It’s not a big deal.”

“So then, Pakistan?”

“Ah man, we have elections going on soon. Maybe not that.”

“Okay then what?”

“Anything.”

“You keep saying ‘anything,’ but then shooting down my ideas.”

“I’m sure you’ll come up with something. We still have time since the mohiniattam will take 15 minutes or so.”

“What the fuck is that?”

“Easier if you just watch it than me explaining.”

DM watched the musical dance performance, and had to admit it was well done. But he would have enjoyed it more if he were high.

“Listen man, you know how long it took me to get this fucking visa. I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing here.”

“Man, you must have done speeches at work.”

“You want me to talk to them about aesthetic medicine?”

“Er, most people here don’t even shave their armpits. I think nose jobs and butt lifts will be well above their shooting level.”

“Okay then, you have to tell me a topic.”

“But then it wouldn’t be from you.”

“Listen. Have you ever seen me voluntarily do a speech, even back in high school?”

“Man that was 2 decades ago. I thought you kind of were big into speeches cos of work and sales.”

“I don’t do speeches for work and I don’t do sales speeches. The fuck am I? The guy from Boiler Room?”

“Which guy?

“All of them.”

“Okay man, it’s time to go,” Kayo said.

“I don’t know what I’m going to say.”

“Just keep it organic. And also, try to use as much Malayalam as possible.”

“Oh fuck you,” DM said as he gestured up to the speaking stand by the MC.

He moved close to the mic, feeling a bit underdressed among the finery, especially as he noticed now that Kayo was wearing with his mundu a powder-blue barong. Mr. Fucking International. He touched his own waist to make sure the twine belt he was using to hold the mundu he was wearing was still doing its job. Suddenly, a topic hit him, as did the few words of Malayalam he had learned from Malbari cafeterias in Dubai.

DM put one hand on the speaking stand.

“Orru crypto, orru dollaraaaa,” he began.

Scam City

“I don’t believe in this bullshit,” DM said, pushing out with his retracted leg into the solar plexus of the man standing in front of him, “I only believe in brands.”

As he kicked forward with his new ultra-light Under Armour shoes, DM used the intertia to do a quick backward roll and then stand up with his hands on his Reebok shorts hips. He adjusted his red Nike shirt with one hand.

The man he had kicked did not have such a graceful trajectory. The lanky, dark fellow with black hair in greasy spikes grunted and propelled back, falling on his brown corduroy ass momentarily before jumping back up.

The kick was meant more for warning than to hurt.

“Why you kick me, sir?” the man asked, dusting off the kick area which was that awkward spot between the chest and stomach. “If you don’t want to join our church, then just you say.”

“I said already,” DM repeated, more irritably this time than the first.

“Okay, fine, fine,” the man said as he turned and walked away into the sunset, just as DM put himself in a karate attack stance.

Just as the man disappeared over the horizon, Kayo walked out of the beach restroom.

“Was there someone shouting out here?” he asked.

“Another scammer.”

“How do you keep finding them?”

“They find me.”

“Still.”

“It’s not like I’m the only one. There are so many damn scams going on. From the time you wake up to when you sleep, you’re getting all these calls and texts.”

“Anyway, let’s enjoy the beach,” Kayo said, walking forward.

The rain had stopped just a few hours ago, as usual with the water and sun looking like there had been no storm that day. The beach was quite wet, however, belying the truth of what had happened.

“How many calls and text do you get?” DM asked, looking at the water as he walked.

“None.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Maybe they come in, but I don’t pick up unknown callers.”

“What if it’s the bank?”

“My bank only communicates with me on their secure online portal.”

“Well la-di-fucking-da Canada.”

“In India, maybe. But I can just pop into the branch next door and talk to them. I never pick up calls there either that I don’t know.”

“You know, Charo got her FB and WhatsApp hacked.”

“Yeah man, holy shit. Makes sense that she yelled at the last scammer who called.”

“Took a bit to get those back.”

“You know man, there’s this guy I’ve met once – Mohammad, Palestinian. He now goes online as ‘Alex from Azerbaijan.’ Does massages.”

“I had no idea the convo was going there.”

“Man, someone showed me the ads. The way he scooped the massage cream – I’ll never forget. It’s like he molested it.”

“I still have no idea how we got here from scam calls.”

“Just saying, everyone seems to be running a scam here.”

“The fuck is that bitch?”

As DM said this, both men halted suddenly, seeing in front of them on the beach a woman standing like she had just walked out of an ad.

“Hello po, boys,” the woman said in a falsetto like she was about to orgasm.

There was something unusual about her. She was clearly Filipina but trying very hard to look Japanese. She wore a white one-piece dress with a yellow spring jacket, yellow hells, a gold chain and platinum bleached blonde hair that had been immaculately ironed.

“Um, hi?” Kayo volunteered.

“Nothing like end of rain, po. Great time for,” she paused dramatically, “McDos.”

“What’s that?” Kayo asked.

“McDonald’s, she means,” DM said.

“Yes po. Delicious golden, crispy-fried chicken after rain storm.”

“We don’t eat McDonald’s,” DM said.

This was true. DM had stopped a couple of years ago with his improved diet. Kayo had been boycotting the corporation for a more than a decade over Palestine.

“Better than Jollibee,” the lady offered.

“No doubt,” Kayo said. “We don’t eat that either.”

“Well, if the kids insist, of course,” DM corrected.

“Bring the ninos, dow,” the lady said, putting up both her arms with elbows bent, as if the children in question would fall from the sky.

She stood in this position for a few minutes, not moving. Both men kept waiting for her to do something. As time ticked by, they could hear children yelling the background, the sound of waves and even a police siren in the distance. The lady, however, said not a word.

Kayo was first to run. He turned and ran at a ninety-degree angle from where the two men had been heading, this time going away from the water, towards the car parking and road. DM took just a second before he too ran.

Running at top speed, DM was surprised it took him a while to catch up with Kayo, who was sprinting barefoot, his sliders in his left hand.

“I’ve seen that woman on TV,” Kayo panted backwards as DM caught up, “It’s a guy. Filipino celebrity.”

“Why the fuck is she pimping McDonald’s on Kite Beach?” DM panted back.

“City of scams man,” Kayo yelled, not looking back to see what the lady was doing.

A Call Too Much

Kayo was surprised. DM had not picked up the call that they had scheduled. He wondered if he should call again or leave a message using the clunky BotIM interface.

He was typing in the message when he saw the calling coming in from DM.

“Hi man.”

“Hello. What’s up?”

“Man did you see the photos from the kallu shappe?”

“The what?”

“The coconut alcohol and the food.”

Kayo sat back in his wicker chair, legs up on the marble as his five dogs lazed around in the March heat of Kerala.

“Oh yeah, looked great. Sorry I got late. I was on a debate show.”

“About crypto?”

“No.”

“Aesthetic medicine?”

“No, not that. I was on this show about parental rights.”

“Oh yeah you were saying that they’d brought in that hotline in the UAE to report child abuse.”

“Yeah. A website too.”

“Man the way you said that guy was beating his kid at the mall and you had to watch. Good thing.”

“Thing is, I was on the opposite side in the debate.”

“Wait what?”

“Yeah. I think the whole thing went too far. Now you can even report someone for not asking a baby consent before changing the diaper.”

“What the fuck.”

“Yep, that’s what I said.”

“I ah, didn’t think UAE would go hard left like that. Well, I guess it is trendy, and they are all about the trends there.”

“Yeah, this bitch went on some US TV show and said babies should give consent, and that started the whole thing. UAE said good idea and now we’re in this hole.”

“How’d you end up on the debate show though – wait, they let you debate government policy in the UAE?”

“Yeah, unusual right? They’ve had a lot of pushback so the government is asking for feedback from people. I really hope they end this bullshit. This shouldn’t have to happen to anyone else.”

“Wait, you mean…”

“Yeah, some cocksucker reported me to them.”

“For?”

“Apparently I didn’t ask my kid when he was a baby for permission to change his diapers.”

“Man, that was 12 years ago.”

“Their liability term is 15 years, so that falls in there.”

“Damn.”

“I’d like to know who the fuck did this shit.”

Kayo put his feet down and sighed.

“Listen man.”

“Yeah?”

“It was me.”

“What the fucking fuck man?!”

“I just wanted to see if the website worked. Who knew they’d take a complaint like that seriously. I didn’t know about this whole diaper consent thing.”

“Of all the things you could have complained about.”

“I’m sorry man. I had no idea it would escalate like this.”

“So you knew about the website before I mentioned it?”

“Yeah, you know I keep up to date on weird shit that goes on there.”

“Fuck it; it’s fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I mean, if it were just one complaint against me, it would have just been a warning call or visit from the Ministry of Child Happiness and Protection. But thing is, someone else called in with the same complaint, which corroborated yours.”

“Okay that’s weird as fuck.”

“Yeah, and now I have this fucking woman from the Ministry living in my house, watching my every move.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yep, she’s in the living room right now watching some Arabic soap opera so I can’t switch to watching Aussie sketch comedy.”

“That sounds awful.”

“She eats all the meals with us, and complains there isn’t enough salt.”

“So just give her the salt shaker.”

“She said it’s not the same as when the salt is cooked in with the food.”

“Man this sucks.”

“If I knew who’d made that second call, I’d wring the fucker’s neck.”

______________________________

DM sat a few minutes after the call, staring from his balcony as the shouting from the soap opera blasted behind him.

His phone rang. He looked and saw a number he had not seen in years – Amrit’s. DM’s first reaction was to pick up; his second was to let the phone ring till it ended.

Finally he picked up, just since it had been two years at least since he had spoken to his former friend.

“Haaaiimaaa,” the familiar whiny voice went.

“Hi Amrit, long time,” DM said, smirking since the long time was because he had made it know that he wouldn’t pick up the latter’s calls.

“Aaaasorrryyymaaa,” the voice blubbered over the phone.

“About what?”

DM thought hard. What could the miniature idiot be sorry for if they were no longer in contact?

“It’s meeemaaaaa. Aaaaa callllthaaa Ministreeeeeeaaa!”

“Oh fuck you.”

“Yes maaa fuck maaaa. Aaaabaaad maaa.”

The dwarf was crying on the line.

“Why the fuck would you do such a thing?”

“Maa, I called to complain about maaa dad beatmaaa. But they said more than 15 years ago so aaa panic told them.”

“The fuck did you come up with the diaper consent thing?”

“Aaa saw some white bitch TV maaa.”

“Well that solves the mystery of who else made the complaint?”

“Who else maaa?”

Three Words That Can Change Your Life (In India)

“Hey listen, I want to tell you to watch out with anything you post politically,” Kayo’s boss warned him one day out of the blue, as they stood in the passport control line at Istanbul airport, “They’re canceling the OCI of academics who post these kinds of things.”

Kayo just nodded, wondering why his boss was telling him this now of all times as they stood way outside of India.

It wasn’t until they were flying through Saudi airspace into the UAE that Kayo suddenly thought to himself how fun it would be to write “Modi mere lund” somewhere.

Particularly in the repressed climate of India where any anti-government thought was attacked with gusto, it seemed like something that should be done.

The opportunity came up oddly within India itself, once Kayo was home. As part of continuous braggery about the smallest things, Kayo was accosted over WhatsApp to give feedback about some scheme the government had put in place.

Kayo typed the magic words in reply and hit send, not much thinking of what might happen next.

Incidentally, the WhatsApp message was one that was flagged as spam and became news because it was sent to Indians overseas, as well as for some reason, Pakistanis.

The Indian government did not much care about being flagged as spam. It did however not like anti-government messages.

Kayo was pulled aside the next time he flew back into India via Delhi (the staff in Cochi and Trivandrum usually ignored directions from the central government).

Sitting in a room, he faced a man with a large handlebar moustache who was chewing paan.

“You put message saying bad word to Modi ji,” the man said, getting right to the point without dancing around.

Kayo, being of criminal mind, had a response. He showed that the message was not inflammatory since he had actually sent a dick pic to Modi.

“You don’t have PM Modi number,” the moustachioed man said with confidence.

Kayo showed that he had in fact somehow required Modi’s number (or the number of someone whose name he had saved as Modi with a familiar DP) and sent a picture of his penis, unfurled with foreskin pulled back, to it.

After due deliberation, the security staff had to let Kayo go since he had not actually broken the cyber crime law since what he had said about Modi being his lund was factually true. They did have to look into cyber sex crime laws, but that would take some time.

However, the Modi government was not the sort to let this kind of thing go. Even before Kayo was apprehended at the airport, the cyber task force had caught that a Pakistani had applied for a visa to India to visit the man – the visa was duly denied.

“How ironic, with partition and all,” the head of the cyber task force said for some reason to himself, sitting in a dark room.

Man on Trial

Charo sat at the event table and took a meditative breath. She knew that she was about to speak to an onslaught of educational agents, and so wanted to take a moment before the craziness began.

She wasn’t able to release a full breath before a man plopped himself down across from her table, smiling.

“Hello, I am Ahmed. A bit early,” he beamed as he tugged at his grey blazer.

“Hello, Ahmed. I’m Charo,” she extended her hand and smiled, trying to still exhale in a controlled way while speaking.

The man was dressed in semi-formal, in keeping with the theme at the event – for work, but comfortably so since there were 8 hours of meetings with a few breaks in between.

“I think I saw you yesterday during lunch,” Ahmed said.

“Ah, yes. It was so good, especially the salad and humous., no?”

“Oh? But I saw you near the mutton mandhi.”

“Er, I usually eat vegetarian and seafood only.”

“There was no seafood mandhi, though. Only mutton and chicken. Which did you have?”

“Lamb, I guess.”

There was a brief silence as they both thought of the tender lamb mandhi from the day before.

“So, Kuwait,” Charo said, looking at the scheduler in front of her. “Why did you ban Filipino visas to your country?”

It was her turn to ranch up the heat.

“Wha- what?” Ahmed asked, stammering as he tried to think.

“Filipinos. Mafi visa. Shu?”

“Y’uhti, I’m not from the Ministry of the Interior. I don’t even know what a Filipino is.”

“How can you not?” Charo was genuinely shocked. “There are millions of us all over the GCC.”

“I thought you were Nepali,” Ahmed said, opening his palms in confusion.

“No, no,” Charo shook her head. “Look, that’s a Filipino.”

She gestured at one of the wait staff at Jumeira Emirates Towers where the event was being held, who for some reason had changed into a full violet barong, standing next to the cappuccino machine.

“Why is that man wearing skirt?”

“That’s a barong.”

“Oh, like Indonesian?”

“No, that’s a sarong. This is a barong,” Charo said in frustration.

“I don’t know what you mean or want.”

“Look, look over there,” Charo now pointed at a small child in school shorts and shirt, sitting with his bag at a kid’s table. “See, that’s a Filipino.”

No one knew how the child had showed up at the event. The man had deftly, meanwhile, changed out of the barong back into uniform.

“All children – they look same to me.”

“But look at what he’s eating.”

“A burgarh?”

“Not any burger. A yum burger-“

“But all burgarhs are yum-“

“-from Jollibee, the greatest Filipino burger and fried chicken restaurant.”

“I don’t know what this is, but why do they do both burgarh and fried chicken? It’s too ambitious.”

“They have the most famous fried chicken in the Philippines also.”

“Ah yes, Philippines! I know this place. But why one restaurant for burgarh and fried chicken? Must be small country. We have here KFC and many more just for fried chicken.”

“We have KFC also.”

“SFC, Texas Chicken-“

“Okay, but you know what I mean by Filipino?”

“Yes, yes, like that sharmoutha Bruno Mars.”

“Yes, but he’s not gay.”

“Okay, we will agree to disagree on this one.”

“But why no visas for Filipino-” Charo ended her train of thought abruptly as she saw a large mass make its way into the meeting hall.

The mass in question was large – it stood maybe 5 foot 6, but had enormous girth as well as forward protrusion. The suit on top of it all sat like a parachute, just barely holding beneath a lot of flesh and fat. It was barely a man – more like a bag of potatoes that had come to life.

Charo was surprised because the man had not been even told about the conference.

“Excuse me just one minute,” she said as she got up and snuck behind the man she had spied.

“But what about student recruitment?” her interviewee asked, and then flapped his hand in resignation as he took out his phone to order KFC.

Charo did not need to have been so sneaky. The hall was loud and her target was himself preoccupied with getting around without being seen by someone – whom?

The man walked up to one of the tables where two representatives – both Indians but of different sexes – sat chatting while eating pakoras.

“Hello Calabrian College, Canada,” the man said, bowing slightly.

They both looked up from their pakoras.

“Myself, Sameer, Ajman ka Sam-” he paused, a bit flustered. “I mean, just Dr. Sameer.”

“Hello,” both the reps said in unison, not putting down their pakoras, but not eating anymore.

“I was previously with Canadian institution also,” said Sameer, putting one hand behind his sweating black hair like he was reminiscing about being a stuntman in his youth.

“Ah yes, which one?” the woman who had a very sharp nose asked.

“Atlantic Link College,” Sameer said. “I was head of GCC and Pakistan.”

“Ah, I think Charo is your replacement then?” the man who was wearing a blue suit tailored so his rainbow socks would show asked.

“No, no. She is just marketing rep. I was more than that. Also working for institutions here in UAE: BKC, UCADC. You might have heard.”

“I don’t know any of those,” the man said.

“Why did you leave?” the woman asked.

Sameer dropped his arms so that the suit sleeves covered his hands down to the tips of his pinkies.

“Very bad they are,” he said, shaking his head. “I brought them maybe 1 million dirhams of sales, but they were always wanting too much quickly.”

“Oh,” the man shook his head.

“And you know, their manager for Asia and Africa – he’s a Malbari.”

“A what?” the woman asked, her eyes squinting.

“Like from, Malabar Hills in Mumbai?” the man offered.

“No, no,” Sameer shook his head, bits of sweat flying off. “From south India, you know.”

“Oh, like Sri Lanka?” the woman asked.

“Yes,” Sameer nodded hesitantly at first, and then vigorously.

“We didn’t grow up in India,” the man said in explanation.

“I’ve been to Punjab few times,” the woman defended herself.

“Great,” Sameer said, and then thought for a few seconds. “If you want to grow here in UAE or Gulf, I can do it.”

“Oh, as a local rep?” the woman asked.

“Yes, manager,” he underlined.

Charo had had enough.

“Sameer, what are you doing here?” she asked, walking up and around him so she was between him and the table.

Her target began to sweat anew.

“Oh hi Charo. How’s my – I mean – the job?”

“Oh good, good. Are you registered for the event?”

“Yes, yes!” Sameer tapped his chest, where the tag should have been. “I forgot the thing in my car.”

“He was just talking about you,” the woman at the desk offered from behind Charo.

“Well you know they’re quite strict here about those things. Maybe you should go get it.”

“I will now,” Sameer said, half-turning away from her.

“By the way, you never told me what your sales strategy for the gulf was.”

“I told you!” Sameer began, and then realized he was being too loud. “I told you, that was an inappropriate question to ask. But I’ll send you my strategy over WhatsApp soon.”

“Not over email?”

“Fine, over email.”

Charo crossed her arms and watched Sameer walk out of the meeting hall into the foyer, occasionally pausing to look back at her.

She looked behind her to the two reps, but knew even before she turned from the sound of crunching that they were back at their pakoras.

Charo walked back to her table. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sameer running while holding a small plate piled high with sambusas and Cornish pastries, Szechwan sauce running down his fingers, with a lean African security guard running after him. If animals wore clothes, the scene would have resembled a pig on its hind legs running from a panther.

Charo thought to herself, the chances of Sameer getting away from the guard were about as slim as for a pig in that situation.

How to Fill a Campus

Ras al Khaimah really was the step-sibling of the UAE. Abu Dhabi had the oil, and ironically, the green sector (something about a completely carbon footprint-free Ras Island). Dubai had, well, everything else – a big cargo port, tourists and business. Sharjah was sponsored by the Saudis and therefore was the place to go if you were devout and wanted to stay away from the wickedness of Dubai with its massage parlours, bars and shisha cafes. Ajman played off this and became the place to go buy booze, women or other elicit things if you needed a break from Sharjah.

This left Umm al Quwain and Ras al Khaimah, sitting next to each other, and Fujeriah which was quite a bit away. They were together termed the northern Emirates, and deemed as places to just kind of be in a rut.

Of course the rulers of these emirates didn’t just want their towns to be one-donkey spots where people from Dubai came to “get away from the rat race.” They wanted a bit more. Dubai’s ambition was infectious.

Ras al Khaimah, which is the setting for this story, had gone a bit full mode into a little of everything. It had leaned into the whole staycation vibe and catered well to visitors from Dubai with a chill vibe just a hour away from the bigger city. It also threw out rumours about potential casinos being built on its shoreline, which would attract addicts of all colours from around the GCC, and maybe even beyond.

Like every other emirate, RaK had gotten as much as it could into higher education. Having large swathes of land, it had created free zones and campuses, inviting in universities from abroad while building its own.

It was in one such university campus that Arun took a look around – specifically in a classroom full of swarthy-complexioned men.

“Who hit who?” he asked, looking from side to side with his green eyes.

There was pin-drop silence, even from the instructor, who stood there with hands in the pocket. He repeated the sentence as if it would have some kind of effect. Somehow, Arun did not realize that a roomful of south Asians would happily not reply to his question.

“I, ah, don’t think this is going to go anywhere,” Kayo said, standing behind Arun. “I’ve seen these people sit in silence for 15 minutes when an instructor asked them a question about tourism human resources.”

Arun knew when to admit defeat, and withdrew from the class back to the corridor. The class had a 90s feel to it – one of the aspects of RaK that it did not seem to modernize much despite many attempts at doing so. The corridor too had a look to it where it could have been the hallway of a university or prison or anything in between.

Pulling together his blue suit jacket, Arun walked in an authoritative way with Kayo down the corridor to a conference room that held several people.

At the head of the table was a clearly Indian man who was wearing a gunmetal grey kandura.

“Darlings, how was the tour through the campus?” he gushed in an effeminate manner. “Didn’t I tell you we have the largest campus in RaK?”

“It’s definitely big,” Kayo said, folding his arms so that the man in the kandura could not give him a belly-to-belly hug.”

“Hello again Dr. Ahmed,” Arun grunted, not having had the foresight to also cross his arms, and therefore being the victim of a squeeze that lasted 45 seconds.

“We are going to do so well with this,” Dr. Ahmed continued to prophesise.

The three sat down, along with Dr. Kumbalangi, the director of the campus – a dark man with an even darker moustache – and DM, who had arrived on the scene somehow. A few punes – orderlies that kind of did the default everything-else jobs – milled about, placing mineral water bottles on the table.

“So,” Arun said, looking over at DM first and then Dr. Ahmed and Kumbalangi, “how many students did we recruit for this intake?”

DM cleared his throat with the smirk of a man who had met his targets.

“4…,” he began in slow fashion, as if unveiling a masterful painting.

“400?” Arun asked, eyebrow cocked. “A good number, but low for here. Our plans were-“

“No, no,” DM corrected. “4…”

“4,000!” Arun sat up in his pleather executive conference swivel chair with a smile.

“No,” DM now smirked as Kayo looked at the ground. “4…”

“40,000!!!” Arun gasped.

“Yes.”

“How?”

DM just smiled, knowing that the details would be explored later. He felt the warm glow of the room marvelling at the number.

“This is an insane number,” Kayo underlined. “That basically fills up the next 20 intakes.”

“The largest intake given to any institution in Ras al Khaimah,” Dr. Ahmed mentioned, not wanting anyone to forget what he had gotten for the institution.

“Wow,” was all Arun could say.

The room sat in silence for a while, thinking over the number. On the slight rustle of kandura on skin from Dr. Ahmed cut the quiet.

“Well, let’s go over the numbers in detail,” Arun said, pulling a binder close to him.

“I’ll have the boys bring some Bagara Rice,” Dr. Ahmed said, reaching for his bell.

“No, no,” Arun said quickly. “Let’s have that after we discuss.”

“But it’s vegetarian,” Dr. Ahmed said.

“Dr. Ahmed, just that it’ll make us sleepy,” Kayo explained.

“All those carbs,” DM emphasized.

“Oh well, I guess I’d just be having my salad and barley, so I wouldn’t know,” Dr. Ahmed sighed as he put the bell back in place.

“DM, I’m just looking through the student profiles,” Arun mused.

“Yes.”

“They all look very similar in the photos.”

“Yes.”

“Why is this one,” Arun asked as he held up the binder, “holding a fish?”

“Oh, he’s Bengali,” DM said, matter-of-factly.

“Ah.”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“He’s Bengali.”

“Okay, but for the college photo?”

“Well, he is a labourer.”

“What?” Arun was dumbfounded.

“Yes, they all are.”

Kayo was looking at an ant on the floor. Dr. Ahmed twiddled his thumbs.

“What?”

“They’re all from labour camps.”

Arun was confused. He put down the binder.

“I’m lost. Can you explain?”

“See, Arun, you wanted 2,000 students per intake. I got the numbers by getting labourers.”

“But how can they afford our courses?” Arun asked.

“Oh, I got Kayo to create some micro-credentials that were affordable.”

Kayo at this point looked pointedly at the door, which was at the opposite side of the room from Arun.

“How much are these?” Arun pressed.

“400Dhs each.”

“What?”

“We had to make them affordable.”

“For labourers.”

“See, Arun,” DM rolled back his white sleeves as Dr. Ahmed stared at the new exposed skin. “These people make, what? 1,000Dhs a month? We had to set it at an amount they’d part with. It’s already almost half their monthly salary for a one-day course.”

“That’s still too low for a one-day course.”

“Well, we say one-day but basically it’s done in 6 minutes.”

“What?”

“Yeah, we bring them in for lunch, and by the time they eat, the course is finished.”

“We can make a course that short?”

“So long as we cover the material,” Kayo said, still looking at the door instead of at anyone.

“I guess that’s why we bussed everyone in,” Arun surmised aloud. “Well, 40,000 is 40,000.”

DM nodded.

“Speaking of buses,” Arun said, looking at the next binder, “what is this expense for a ‘bangbus?'”

“Oh, that,” DM started.

Kayo got up and headed to the toilet sign.

“See, you have to understand, 400Dhs is a lot for a labourer. You have to think about what they can get instead for that amount. That’s why of course transport and lunch are included. So is a good bang.”

“A good what?”

“We have some African prostitutes – one on each bus.”

“Holy shit.”

“Basically 30 guys on each bus to one girl. They can fill 3 holes at a time. Basically, by the time they get back to their labour camps, they’ll all have a certificate, a fully belly and empty balls.”

“Okay, that sounds like something illegal.”

“They’re all legal age,” DM said. “We only accept Emirates ID as verification.”

“On one bus yesterday 4 labourers put their…things…in one prostitute’s back side,” Dr. Kumbalangi, who had so far been chewing his moustache, suddenly said.

“Wow 6 at a time; guess those guys finished sooner,” DM said.

“I don’t think you’re getting that this might be seen as highly immoral,” Arun started.

“See Arun,” DM said, “You’re the one who said you wanted 100 campuses in 100 countries by 2025. That’s super soon. We have to drive hard to get to that.”

“Did you say that?” Kayo asked, walking back into the room. “That is kind of untenable.”

“Where did you see this 100 campuses thing?” Arun asked.

“On LinkedIn,” DM said. “I liked it.”

“No, no, I said we want to be in 100 countries by 2025. As in, working in them. We don’t want campuses in that many.”

Kayo rolled his eyes. Dr. Ahmed put his hand over his mouth.

“Oh, said DM.

Pinoys in Vancouver

Rudolph had never been in any predicament like this before in his life. And he had no idea to this minute how he had managed to fall into such a thing.

It seemed like a great idea when he had come up with it in conjunction with the three deans sitting in front of him at Gotham Steakhouse. He, or was it they, had suggested visiting Vancouver to see the college they would partner with, as well as employment hosts that would take incoming Filipino students. Rudolph had then pushed the trip with the college – paying for the flight tickets, hotel and tours of Vancouver.

To finalize the whole thing, he’d even booked the three deans’ visas for them and accompanied them on the flight.

Things went to hell on the first day in Vancouver. The three deans who sat in front of him eating steak and salad had stopped talking to him, even as they went to restaurants and tours together. They were doing the very same thing right now – eating and chatting with one another, but pretending that he wasn’t there.

Rudolph put his fork down partly on his untouched steak. He sighed as he pulled his coat around him, more for comfort than warmth.

“Ahem,” he began. “Ahh-hmm-hmm.”

He had to extend the ahem since none of the three looked at him.

“Deans Margie, Thomas and Dana,” he said, spreading his palms in surrender in front of him, “How has the trip been so far?”

“Perfect, Sir Rudolph,” Dean Margie, the smallest of the three deans replied, keeping her face close to the plate since she had not stopped eating.

Dean Margie may have been petite, even for a Filipina, but she was a fire-cracker. She asked most of the tough questions during most of the meetings.

“Excellent,” chimed Dean Dana, who said little in general.

“It has been fantastic,” Dean Thomas said, nodding as if some kind of judge on a trip competition show.

Rudolph felt awkward as they continued chatting to one another, leaving him to stare at his untouched glass of water.

He cleared his throat again.

“I can’t help but feel that something is amiss,” he said, pulling at his shirt collar as he did so.

The three stopped talking and looked at him for a while. He wondered during these painful seconds that turned into a minute if he should have said anything to being with. But he had to – it was now day three of this odd silent treatment.

“Maybe something bad happened during the trip?” he suggested, looking at the table instead of the thee of them.

“Sir Rudolph,” Dean Margie began, putting her eating utensils down, “Now you mention it, there is one issue worth mentioning.”

“You have to know, everything has been excellent,” Dean Thomas said, folding his arms over his ample body. He was a stout man – both big and fleshy.

Dean Dana nodded.

“Pala, on the first morning at the hotel, we went down and had breakfast,” Dean Margie said.

“Good breakfast,” Dean Dana emphasized. “Toast and eggs.”

“But then we had to pay for it,” Dean Margie said, shaking her prim head.

“Oh!” Rudolph said. “Problema! I had no idea deans! I’ll contact the reception and pay for the breakfast.”

He began to relax and breathe more deeply. It was all so simple.

“Pala, we already paid,” Dean Margie said. “29 dollars.”

For a moment Rudolph wondered why the deans of one of the most prestigious universities int he Philippines were squabbling about $29. But then he remembered that he saw their salaries when he applied for their visas.

“It’s no problem!” he rushed. “I’ll call the reception and they’ll charge it to me instead on checkout. I’ll take care of it.”

He was wringing a napkin for some reason.

“Speaking of checkout,” Dean Thomas said, unfolding his arms and leaning forward while looking at his colleagues.

“Do we have to fly economy?” Dean Margie asked, this time also looking at the tablecloth instead of at Rudolph.

“Ah, yes,” Rudolph said. “It was a last-minute booking, so all the flights were very expensive. We mentioned from the start that it would be economy.”

“Then can’t we fly direct back to Manila?” Dean Thomas asked, pulling at his tie to straighten it, even though it was already as straight as could be.

“I’m afraid not,” Rudolph said, feeling heat behind his ears. “These are too late to change now. I’m sorry, deans.”

He finished feeling like he should bow like someone who had failed in a Japanese game show.

“Well, let’s leave that as it is then,” Dean Thomas said with a little clap.

“How about today’s shopping trip?” Dean Margie asked.

“Yes,” Rudolph cheered up because he knew they loved shopping.

“Will we have to,” Dean Margie paused for quite a while but then continued when she realized Rudolph was not going to fill in the gap, “Pay for everything?”

“We just thought Sir Rudolph that there would be some shopping allowance,” Sir Thomas said, trying to fill in the vast chasm between the two.

Rudolph blinked as he tried to think.

“Deans, we didn’t think we would need to pay for…shopping,” he stammered, feeling a bit sick.

“But you said in Manila that you would take care of everything,” Dean Margie said.

She emphasized the last word a lot.

“Yes, but we don’t know what you’ll buy,” Rudolph said, still blinking. “Do we pay for all your clothes? And what if you buy a condo here?”

“At least we thought there would be a per diem of some kind,” Dean Margie said.

“Let’s leave that,” Dean Thomas said, noticing Rudolph was beet read.

“Yes,” Dean Dana said as she picked up her utensils again forlornly.

“Do we have to have the same driver?” Dean Margie asked.

“Driver?”

“We found him to be baho,” Dean Thomas explained.

“But he’s the head of Admissions for the college,” Rudolph said in disbelief, staring at the corsage on the table. “People don’t have drivers here.”

“Oh, but he had a Tesla so we thought he was your driver who also did Uber,” Dean Dana said, ending up almost breathless after this record-breaking long sentence.

“No,” Rudolph said shortly.

“Well then, just taking care of the bill will be fine I guess, Sir Rudolph,” Dean Margie said, also now picking up her utensils.

“That would be perfect,” Dean Thomas agreed.

“Thank you Sir Rudolph,” Dean Dana summed up.

As Rudolph sat in the restaurant feeling smaller than ever, the three continued their chat about the weather in Vancouver that they he had earlier interrupted.

The Golden Seal

Kayo saw in front of him a fairly depressing scene. No matter how popping Dubai was made to look in photos and YouTube videos, somehow meetings boiled down to a white painted wall with a moustachioed man in front sitting at a fairly bare desk. He had seen several such scenes, and all were fairly similar.

Why couldn’t someone just put a painting or some other gay thing on the wall? The occasional crack at least brought some excitement to the otherwise dreary scene.

“Good evening there,” this particular moustachioed man said.

“It’s morning here too,” Kayo sighed.

“Oh,” the man put his finger under the moustache as if to brush it.

“So, how are things in Ras Al Khaimah?”

“Great! We are excited that all the licensing is done now.”

“No I mean what’s new there socially?”

“Oh, I have many meetings today-“

“No, no,” Kayo tried to explain. “I mean when work ends, what do you do there?”

“Oh, the college is just 10 minutes from RAK city.”

“Ah,” Kayo realized that the man would never quite understand him. “Let’s talk about the articulation. Any questions?”

“Yes, thank you for the modules,” the moustache chewed out. “One important question – how are the diplomas and transcripts attested.”

“Oh, they’re not.”

“No?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. What?”

“I mean we don’t have them attested from here.”

“Let me explain,” the man sat forward. “See, everything has to be attested by a body. The student has to go and show that it is authentic. Even in the UK, you can get British Council to attest a diploma.”

“Yes, we don’t have that in Canada,” Kayo explained. “We are authorized to create our diplomas, so our ministry doesn’t do attestations.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Ah. What?”

“There’s no need to do them.”

Kayo could see the gears were grinding.

“See, even my marriage certificate here in the UAE has to be attested. Everything is attested.”

“Okay, but that’s a UAE thing. If a student wants, they can get the documents witnessed by a notary – that’s our equivalent.”

“But what about attestation and apostiling?”

“Oh, the embassy can do the last part. But don’t worry, we will get each diploma stamped with a gold seal.”

“Goldsh?”

The man Kayo was speaking to was not Malayali for sure – his name was not Keralite. However, he was from the south, which meant that he understood the importance of gold.

“Yes.”

“Okay, then maybe it’s fine.”

“Great. So can we make sure we have these meetings on time?”

“Yes of course.”

“The way it wasn’t today.”

“Ah yes. You see, by the time I come into the office at 9am and say hello to all the staff, it will be 930am at least.”

“Do you want to meet at 930 from now on?”

“But sometimes I can be ready by 915.”

“Okay, let’s just go with 930. See you next time!”

The man turned off his Zoom. He wondered how the bald Kayo could be entrusted with such an articulation when he wore a t-shirt that had such a deep V-neck. He wondered if the man were wearing a woman’s shirt.

Thinking back to what he had said about certificates, he picked up a certificate from his desk drawer and dialled a number on his mobile.

“Allo?”

“Hello, this is Dr. Kumbalangi.”

“Yes, what you want?” the local voice on the other side almost dared him back.

“I had submitted my marriage certificate for attestation.”

“Which number?”

“135783029385385983958393.”

“Again?”

“135783029385385983958393.”

He sighed. He had put all this in on the app.

“135783029385385983958393?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Naam, zain.”

“Okay.”

There was silence with some typing sounds.

“With Saniya?”

“Yes, my wife.”

“Why no last name?”

“It is their style in her family.”

“Okay.”

More typing.

“Your certificate – it is not attested.”

“Yes, that’s why I submitted it,” he sighed, “To be attested.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“It is not attested.”

“But I want you to attest it.”

“We cannot.”

“Why?”

“It is not attested.”

“What?”

“Not attested certificate, so it is not valid. I can even fuck this Saniya now.”

“What!”

“She is not you wife. Certificate is not valid.”

“But you attest it.”

“No. That is Indian embassy. We apostile it.”

“Great, thank you.”

He clicked end and sighed.