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 a dumb mother-sniffer,” Kayo thought to himself as he waited for the tray of the air fryer to open.
He was thinking about someone who had told him that karimeen and other such fish could hold a candle to the legendary neimeen (kingfish) that was the greatest fish that was ever fried.
The fish in question was something that could not be described on paper or site in the sense that words could never do justice to the smell and taste of the seafood that could only otherwise be compared to prime AAA steak or top grade fillet mignon.
It really was like well-cut steak, but from a fish. Thick, white-meat fish with a readiness to take on the flavour of whatever it was paired with. As a well-travelled man, Kayo had only found two fish to come anywhere close: ling-cod (not regular old cod) and halibut.
The legendary Kerala style of frying neimeen was simple – lots of red chile powder, a bit of turmeric and lime, all marinated with black pepper before frying in (and this was the most important part) coconut oil, known in Kerala as velichenna (the oil of light).
Kayo’s mum, after having heard him rave on about an air fryer he had encountered in Vancouver, had bought one for convenience. Her son had so far been non-plussed by air fried poppadum.
The fish was not bad, Kayo thought, trying one piece from the fish that came out in the fryer basket. It did not have the same flavour of something coming out of bubbling oil. A solid eight, he thought.
Kayo put three pieces in a small steel plate and hurried upstairs.
9am west Africa time was lunch time in Kerala, and no one wanted cold fish.
Kayo hence sat in front of his Apple Mac Air as the Zoom session began, eating the fish.
“Mmm,” were his first words as the group of Nigerians and Kenyans came into view.
All eyes were on the steel plate, and specifically the brown-red fish as they moved up to Kayo’s mouth between his introduction pauses. As people coming from two coastal countries, they understood the importance of eating fish while still warm.
Kayo talked briefly about how he’d had good fish in Senegal.
It was only after the meeting, and after he’d washed his hands that Kayo realized a problem had caked itself into his life. It was a problem so noticeable that he even thought about using lemon juice on his laptop, only to relent after reading some online recommendations against such a move.
The problem persisted months later when he was in Vancouver sitting at work when a Filipino staff came into his office, walked past the Mac Air and said, “Baho baho.”
Kayo knew what these words meant. And he knew that this could only mean that the keyboard still smelt like neimeen fry.
Kayo enjoyed the passing rush of lights on the highway, which had just ended as the car turned off the highway into Sports City. It was one of the many aspects of Dubai that was fun to enjoy as a visitor – one that he also enjoyed whenever he got to the airport to leave.
Charo pulled into the building parking, not quite taking in all the sights the same as Kayo.
“You’ll see DM is in quite the mood,” she said as they exited the lift onto their floor.
“Yeah, he told me,” Kayo said. “He said he’s started having his drinks neat instead of with a lot of teenage mixers in them.”
“Yes. It’s a big change.”
“I’m glad ‘cos you know I do the same.”
“He’s taken it to a different level.”
“Nothing like straight gin,” Kayo said, reminiscing. “He said he had some kind of new track to play as well.”
“Yeah, a new track. Few new tracks, actually.”
“Tiesto?”
“No, not Testo.”
“Chicane?”
“No. You’ll see in a moment,” Charo said, opening the door.
The scene in the flat was something Kayo never expected. DM was, for the first time on a non-Diwali day, wearing an ivory kurta on top of his shorts (which were usually pants on Diwali). Playing loudly was “Aaj ki Party Mere Taraf Se.,” the hit Bollywood track that had become a mainstay of birthdays and other such celebrations.
What was additionally unusual was that DM was dancing to the track, in a sort of uncle-at-a-wedding fashion, moving his arms to create and then break a circle.
The track mercifully came to an end in a few seconds. DM clapped.
“What, um, is going on?” Kayo asked.
“Great news man,” DM smiled broadly. “I finally got that Indian visa!”
As he said this, DM closed his eyes and faced the ceiling.
“Well that’s a relief,” Kayo said, sitting in one of the plush armchairs in the living room. “It took, what, 6 months?”
“8.”
“I honestly was starting to think you wouldn’t get it.”
“Oh, I knew it would come,” DM said, also sitting down. “Drink?”
“Yes, let’s do it. The gin I brought last time?”
“No man, I took it to the next level.”
“I heard about this. Rum?”
DM didn’t say anything, but instead pulled from behind his armchair two fat glasses and a bottle of Johnny Walker Green Label.
“Okay, this is really taking it to the next level.”
“Yeah.”
DM had a look of satisfaction as he poured two fingers into the glasses.
“Man, you were the guy that only drank vodka since that had no flavour, and only after you flavoured it with all those syrups and sodas.”
“Gotta get ready for India.”
“Well, this is really getting ready. Also, most people in India can’t conceptualize beyond Double Black. You’ve gone to green.”
“Shall we go double double?”
“Ah, no. It’s blended Scotch after all.”
“Man, you can’t be such a snob. Gotta be down with the people.”
“Huh,” Kayo said as he took a sip.
DM also took a sip, and immediately shut his eyes while sticking out his tongue like he’d just had cough syrup.
“You okay?”
“Oh yeah, that’s a good burn.”
“So, as I was saying, I didn’t even think it would come. You know how things are under these BJP fuckers.”
“Well, here’s proof positive.”
DM reached into his shorts pocket, fished around, and then switched to his kurta pocket. He brought out his green passport.
“Take a look.”
He handed over the green passport. Kayo opened it with anticipation. It took a while since there was no visa stamped on any page, which was norm. Instead, on one page, someone had drawn on a visit visa with crayons.
Kayo knew not to say anything smart.
“I see,” he said after a few moments, shutting the passport.
“Yeah man,” DM beamed as he took another wincing sip of whiskey.
“Hey is that your phone ringing?” Charo called from the kitchen.
“Let me put on this other track,” DM continued. “Man, I am getting in the mood.”
“You know we don’t listen to Bollywood in the south,” Kayo replied, digging for his phone.
“Oh, then what?”
“Well, Malayalam track like, ‘Kukranname.'”
“Okay, you know I can’t say these tongue twisters,” DM said. “Orru chayya, randu samosa, are all I need.”
“Oh, it’s Sameer,” Kayo said, turning off the ringer.
Charo called out, “Is he coming to the education fair?”
“What would he do?” Kayo asked. “Sit at the table and tap his huge ring?”
As Kayo stared at his glass of whiskey, DM danced to “Sari Ki Fall Sa,” doing a bending movement to show the falling of the pallu.
Sameer tapped his ring on the steering wheel as he turned off the car. He had been on the road again for 3.5 hours, getting from Karama to Sharjah. His bitch wife had called twice. Luckily, it would be a short drive home after this final stop.
Rajna sat at her desk, marking papers with a desire for speed, but a lethargy that came with end of day.
“Where is that fat fuck?” she found herself saying under her breath more than once.
Said fat fuck poked his head into her classroom just then. His jowl jiggled as his loose brown suit made its way in.
“Hello Rajna,” Sameer said, waving.
“Hi Sameer, good to see you,” Rajna said. “It’s late.”
She wanted to make sure he knew right away and was not under any impression that they could have a long chat.
“Yes, yes, I know,” Sameer said, bowing a bit, as much as his girth would allow. “Very short. I just want to give you our new year special present for continued relationship.”
He had said the last part like he were standing on stage.
“Thank you,” Rajna said, awkwardly. “Thanks.”
Sameer beamed broadly. He brought his hand out from behind his back, and along with it a red shiny cardboard box. He fumbled for a few seconds with the box, and then extended it towards her.
“Thanks,” she said again as she took the box. “What?”
“What?”
“Were you singing, ‘Sari ka fall sa?'”
“No, you must have imagined it. Please open the box.”
“I can open it at home.”
“No, please open it here.”
Rajna sighed. She looked at the colourful butterflies on the east wall and blinked hard. She opened the box. Inside was a red saree.
“Ah, thanks.”
“Please, let me,” Sameer said as he brought his bulk towards her and pulled the saree out of the box before Rajna could do anything.
He made a gesture holding the saree in both hands, like she would know what he meant.
“What?” Rajna asked as she closed the top button on her yellow kurta and remembered that she was the last staff left in the school, and that the security shack was far from the main building.
“I will put it around your shoulder, for honour.”
Rajna wondered what the fuck the idiot was talking about. The fellow had not even noticed that along with the sweat rolling down his neck, there was also spittle coming down one side of his mouth.
She turned around, holding her breath. She could hear Sameer holding his as he slowly draped the saree around her shoulders.
“It’s an unusual gift from a Canadian institution,” she said, finding the silence unbearable.
“But it’s the same colour as the flag,” the voice behind her said.
“Isn’t that red and white?” she asked, turning around and moving back, away from him.
“Oh,” Sameer scratched his sweaty head. “I should have bought you a white blouse. But I didn’t know your, er, size.”
As he finished, he brought his hands up under his chest and looked directly at hers for a second.
“Have you been to Canada?” she asked, moving behind her desk in order to have something between them.
“I tried,” he sighed and leaned back on one of the student desks, which groaned. “They denied my visa.”
“Oh, why?” She was genuinely curious by this.
“They knew – er – I mean, they said I was not coming for the purpose stated.”
“Ah.”
“They said I would run away, burn my passport and try to get some job in a meat plant in a small town,” Sameer said, staring out of the window.
“They said all that?” Rajna asked.
“No, just insinuated.”
As he stared out of the window, Rajna grabbed her handbag so that she could towards the door. Sameer heard the noise and blinked out of his reverie.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said. “I have to tuck the saree pleats into your pyjama.”
“There’s no need for that,” she said, already walking out through the doorway.
As she walked briskly through the corridor, she could hear Sameer’s heavy footfall that was something between a slow jog and a shuffle behind her, getting further away. He was shouting something about pleating. Eventually all she heard was his panting getting further away since he was doubled over somewhere far behind her.
Rainbow Kandura 