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.