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?”

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.

A Haram Assault Story

“Imagine me wearing a pig suit,” DM said to Kayo on the phone on loudspeaker, taking a selfie.

“That is unusual,” Kayo concurred.

“Well, I lost this crypto bet and tried one on – check your images.” DM paused.

“Wow.”

“Yeah, I kind of like it.”

“That’s you having your coffee in it.”

“Yeah. Took it to the desert too. Nice stroll.”

“But what if someone sees you?”

“Yeah, what if?”

“Won’t they have an issue if they’re, you know, Muslim?”

DM laughed. He laughed and laughed. Silly Kayo had been away for so long. He stopped the car and paused, enjoying the sun and the way the pink pig suit reflected off the windshield inside.

Dubai, even in the throes of BDS because of the Israeli bombing of Gaza, had liberalized considerably. Sure, people were boycotting Starbucks and KFC, but Israelis were showing up for parties in Dubai (though maybe not with their little hats and Star of Davids visible like before, not wanting to be spat on). There were even raves in Saudi which ended with the beach being littered with condom wrappers.

“But Jews don’t eat pork either,” Kayo said.

“These do,” DM paused as he got out of his car.

“Oh right, EuroJews.”

“Listen, whatever they are, things are not like before. I mean look at this.”

DM took a photo of the poster outside the mall he was entering.

“What’s this?”

“New Dubai, man.”

“I don’t get it – is it anti-massage or just anti-card?”

“Anti-card.”

“But the symbol says no massage.”

“No that’s a card with a massage on it.”

“But I thought they’re okay with the massage part. Just not the happy endings.”

“They just don’t want cards thrown all over the place.”

“That’s some odd prioritizing.”

“Exactly – so massages are fine, but just don’t make a big mess.”

“But-“

“Wait,” DM said, stopping at the food court off the ground floor. “Man I think I see Sameer.”

“Wait, like from my work?”

“Yeah. I’ve seen the photos of him you’ve sent. And his LinkedIn. That jowl and loose suit are the same.”

“Huh, I wonder what he’s doing outside Ajman.”

“Maybe taking a break from his wife complaining about his stature in life. Man, I’m going to hit him.”

“What?”

“It’s the perfect time. He won’t even know it’s me.”

“But wh-“

“Listen, already, a pig hitting Sameer – he won’t like it-“

DM could not finish because Kayo began laughing uproariously.

“Yeah he won’t like it. He probably has never fathomed such a thing ever happening in his life. Especially living in a Muslim country.”

“Man, they’re gonna build a casino. What Muslim country.”

“Didn’t they end up not getting that fatwa?”

“There is no way Trump and Caesar’s Palace would open hotels here if casinos were not on the way.”

Kayo was silent.

“Okay but be careful.”

“I’m going to get him from the back.”

For tense seconds, all that could be heard was the subtle swishing of the plastic inflated material as DM hunted Sameer.

“What you do?” the voice was loud and made DM jump.

“What?”

“Why you dress like kinzhir and walk like Counterstrike stealth?” The speaker was a man with a well-built chest in a crisp, white kandura.

“I can wear what I want and walk how I like. This is new Dubai,” DM said.

“I want to beat you,” the man said, raising one hand, “but you are haram.”

DM wondered about the technicality of this. He didn’t know Islam well, and Dubai made it hard to figure out since the whole city was built around loopholes.

“Excuse me sir,” a new, far more feminine voice interrupted.

Both DM and the man looked to see, standing next to a plastic-clay planter, a Filipino man with braces. He had one hand caressing his necklace.

“Sir, would you like to come to a birthday party tonight?”

“I do not go to parties with only men,” the man in the kandura said.

“Not you,” the Filipino man said. He pointed with his elbow since the hand was busy caressing. “You.”

“Why the fuck would you invite a stranger to a party?” DM asked.

“So we can eat-just to make friends,” the man smiled.

“What were you going to say before the friends part?”

“Just so we can eat with you.”

“Why are you salivating?”

“My, so many questions.”

The Filipino man suddenly turned and ran away, flailing his arms as he did so like he was fanning a fire.

“It’s definitely a new Dubai,” Kayo said, still on speakerphone.

Jowls Collide: Part II; Two Men, One Dream

Sameet sighed for a moment and thought a bit about his life as he watched the lone fat man dance on his own at the far side of the shisha cafe.

It was a high-class cafe, but for sure not set up for dancing – that was the lot of clubs that also had shisha, not something shisha cafes were supposed to butt into.

“Shehzad hi accha tha,” his phone rang, making him wince because it was the voice of his wife as the ringtone.

She had made him set that as the ringtone, as a constant reminder of his inabilities.

“What are you doing, man,” she said when he clicked Answer and put the phone to his ear.

She didn’t mean “man” in the sense of a Goan talking to her friend or some hippie. The word had to it the ring of being told that Sameer was the man of the house, but had not met his obligations as such.

“I just finished the deliveries today,” Sameer said, like he was giving a report. “I just had to make a call.”

“What’s that music?”

“I had to stop at a shisha cafe to use the bathroom.”

“You’d better not be spending money willy-nilly.”

“No, no. Just had to buy a tea since the waiter caught me using the restroom.”

“Why do they care who uses the restroom?”

It was beginning to sound like an interrogation, as often these calls did.

“I don’t know,” he sighed.

“You’re sitting there enacting your wild fantasies, no?”

“What wild fantasies?”

“The same one, of standing like an idiot and doing that anal feeding.”

“Chupp!” Sameer stopped himself, knowing this would lead to further argument. “I am just sitting here about to come back home.”

“So another 3 hours before you get home?”

“Yes,” he said, checking his watch.

“Enjoy,” his wife said. “You were made for that only.”

Sameer sighed and put the phone on the table.

“What’s the matter, man,” a voice said, but with a much nicer, sing-song ring to the word “man.”

Sameer looked up to see the dancing fat man standing next to him. He was considerably smaller than Sameer, but as fat, with almost the exact same wheatish skin. The man’s hair was wet from dancing.

“Oh, just home problems,” he sighed.

“Ah,” the man said, sitting in the other chair by the table. “My wife is a fat, black bitch too.”

He lighted up a cigarette. Sameer was shocked – he’d never seen a fat smoker before.

“Mine isn’t black,” Sameer replied, as if that was worth anthing.

“Back when, I banged a Korean chick 6 times one night,” the man said, exhaling with feeling. “That was the life. Not this shit.”

Sameer didn’t know what to say.

“I’m Amrit,” a small chubby hand extended. Sameer touched it lightly with his just as chubby but bigger hand.

“Sameer. Hi.”

“Man, sometimes I think about how good my life used to be,” Amrit said, waving the cigarette in his hand. “I had a good life on Tinder before this bitch became my wife. Job with accommodation. Also I had a best friend, nice guy. Then this Malbari came to Dubai and told him some bad things about me.”

Sameer suddenly felt a bit closer to the man.

“You know,” he said, “I also got screwed by a Malbari.”

“These Malbaris man – they’re all like that. I used to work for one. He made me work for no salary.”

“Yes, just like that. This one cut my salary.”

“Bastard. I showed that guy. I claimed so much petrol expenses and gave all the samples to my friends.”

“Good. But I don’t know what to do with this guy. He just keeps asking for weekly report.”

“I hate those.”

“Not anymore though,” Sameer pondered with one finger on his chin. “He seems to ask less nowadays.”

“Must be eating fish molly or some crap.”

“Still, 2/3 salary cut is bad.”

“Aye man, why did you work for a Malbari company anyway?” Amrit scripted his still-wet hair.

“No, no, it’s a Canadian company,” Sameer also itched his scalp, knowing how hard it would be to explain. “But the manager is a Malbari.”

“Ha! What!”

“And he’s not even a Malbari in Canada. He lives in Kerala.”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah man, I even made a private investigator take some pics of him riding around on a motorcycle in lungi. But the CEO didn’t see it as scandalous.”

“Man, do you have these photos?”

“Yes, why?”

“I want to check who this is. He used to be in Dubai?”

“Yes, that’s where I met him.”

Sameer looked through his photos for the two he had kept in case they might be useful in the future.

“See, him.”

“Oh fuck me, bro,” Amrit exclaimed, grabbing the phone. “Fucking Kayo.”

“That’s him! Bastard!”

“Bastard! Ruined my friendship!”

“Ruined my good life here in Dubai,” Sameer added from his side.

“You know bro, if he were here in Mumbai, I could get some guys to kick his ass,” Amrit said, putting the phone down.

“In Lahore, he would be dead,” Sameer said with determination.

“Bitch.”

“Whore.”

Sameer looked at Amrit, who was staring at him intensely.

Suddenly, Amrit leaned over violently and kissed him. Sameer had never felt another man’s tongue in his mouth; but Amrit’s lips felt just like a woman’s – soft and supple, though sweaty.

“What fuck! Yuck!”

Sameer pulled away and saw the waiter, there like the angel of death.

“You fat, yuck! Not gay club. And not for fat gays.”

“I’m not gay,” Sameer said, faintly.

“I don’t fuck care,” the waiter said, walking away with what was, Sameer realized, a very gay gait.

“Sameer, bro.”

Sameer looked shyly at Amrit, part of him wanting to run away.

“Slap me.”

“What?”

“Slap me.”

He could never for year ever explain why, but he did it without question on the second prompt.

“THAPPP!”

The sound was satisfying, like a whip.

“THAPAAAA!”

Sameer’s head rang, and he almost fell.

“My turn,” Amrit was smiling.

“THWACKK!”

This time Amrit almost fell. Sameer took a deep breath.

Back and forth, for 15 minutes, the two men traded slaps. By the time they left the cafe, both had red faces. Amrit walked off like a snail who had no place to go. Sameer got in his car, ready for the traffic to Ajman.

Jowls Collide: Part I; the Delivery

Sameer was a bit lost and a bit worried. As usual, he was behind schedule because of the awful Dubai traffic. He got out of his car, unbending slowly after 2 hours sitting.

He took a few steps toward the shisha place on Sheikh Zayed Road, and then had a thought. What if they didn’t let him use the restroom? This had happened before – some waiter had stopped him, and that too after he had eaten hale and really needed to unleash the backside.

Sameer walked back to the red Nissan Altima and opened the back door. He took out the food delivery bag he kept there for his freelancing.

“I hope this works,” he sighed as he slung the bag over his shoulder and closed the door with a thud.

He walked slowly over to the shisha place.

“So far,” he sighed as he was half way through the 100 metres to the door.

Sameer ducked through the door and went straight to the restroom, where he urinated while staring at the tiles in front of him. Picking up the square delivery bag, he smiled with a bit of contentment as he walked out of the door.

“What you do here?” The voice was strict, like that of a teacher of delinquents.

Sameer stumbled around verbally, saying something about relieving himself on his way to a delivery.

“You take delivery bag into toilet?” the man asked.

Bloody Ukranians, Samen thought. They were too uppity, thinking they were white. Walking around like they owned the city. He nodded the affirmative, wishing for the waiter’s whole country to be carpet bombed.

“This dirty,” the man said, making a face like Sameer was carrying faeces in the bag.

Sameer was trying to think of a way out when he saw the clock over the waiter’s shoulder on the wall.

“Ah, I will order some tea and sit,” he said.

“Why?” the man interrogated.

It took several precious minutes to convince the man to let him get a table, hiding the delivery bag under the table.

Once seated, Sameer pulled out his phone and texted furiously. Finally, he put in his earphones and started a WhatsApp video call.

“Sameer bhai hello,” the man on the screen said, filling the entire rectangle with his chubby moustachioed face.

“Dr. Akhtar hello,” Sameer said, smiling as best as he could. “I was saying, why not use BotIm?”

“Sameer are you a salesman for BotIm?”

“Uh, no…”

“Then why you always say BotIm BotIm. What is this thing? I asked my staff – some app people in Dubai use to call their village. You want me to go to your village?”

“No, I’m from Lahore only.”

“Then use WhatsApp, like everyone else from Lahore. You have VPN?”

“Yes, I just bought it.”

“Then all is well. Now, let’s talk about the partnership with your college?”

“Yes, sounds good.”

“So, MOU is good. Next, when shall we sign the MOA?”

“One thing, sir.” Sameer said, scratching his ample chin. “Before we sign, your institution has to pay,” his voice went very low here, “5,000 Canadian dollars.”

“What? I can’t hear over the music. Are you at some mujra?”

“No just a cafe,” Sameer cleared his throat. He repeated what he said louder.

“Paanch hazar dollar?” the tone changed. “Kya hum sabh idhar randi hein kya, dupatta mein ye cash rah kar?” What, you think we’re prostitutes, with this kind of money kept in the shawl of our salwar khameiz?

“No, no, nothing like that,” Sameer was sweating despite the AC. “It’s a new directive from the CEO. They – we – have so many partnerships now, especially with high rank institutions in Philippines. To start new ones, we need a fee to do the audit and setup, na?”

“CEO!” the man on the screen came closer so his pores could be seen. “That man was there on the Zoom call with his scarf. Bloody, trying to cheat-“

“You don’t want him to take off that scarf,” Sameer said, looking at the table leg. “He becomes something else…”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Sameer looked back at the phone. “I know it’s a new thing, but needed for now. Please understand-“

“What about that other guy, the bald one?” the man asked, moving back to a normal distance from the phone screen.

“That bastard! Malbari” Sameer suddenly sat up and his eyes opened up wide. “Sonofabitch!”

“Your language,” Dr. Akhtar said, ignoring his own language just minutes ago.

“I hate that fucker!” Sameer continued, unabated. “Wo bhenchoth bas gumta hein kerala mein, lungi penh kar.” That sister-fucker just roams around Kerala wearing a lungi.

“Par wo tho Canadian hein na?” But isn’t he Canadian.

“Wo to hein…” Samen wondered if he had gone too far.

“Sameer, aur aap? Canadian?” And you, Canadian?

“Nahin ji, mein Pakistani-” No, I’m Pakistani.

“Arey, ye to fraud hain. Ek scarf wala, ek Malları Kerala mein, aur ek Pakistani Dubai mein.”

“No, it’s not like that sir,” Sameer remonstrated.

“Have you even gone to Canada?”

“I tried,” Sameer sighed again, looking down. “My visa got denied.”

He right away realized his mistake.

“You want to bring students from here and you can’t even get your own visa?” Dr. Akhtar was incredulous.

“No but they knew I think, I was planning to run away,” Sameer was sweating buckets.

“Dirty bugger! You’re the reason why so many visas are being denied!” Dr. Akhtar moved so close to the phone, only his nose and one cheek was visible. “My son-in-law tried to go for a holiday, and got denied. Because of people like you!”

“No sir, no-“

“Anyway, what would you do in Canada?”

“Oh my god,” Sameer was hit with a beautiful memory that made him close his eyes. “Mujko ekh sapno tha bachpan se, ke udhar jao aur heroin-fentanyl sabh kuch lekhar esein karo.” I’ve had a dream since I was a child to go there, take drugs and do this.

Here Sameer peeled himself off the armchair he was in, moved away from the green corner table, and bent his knees with his arms akimbo, bending over. He looked like people in the drug-stricken parts of inner cities in America and Canada.

However, no one in those videos of the inner cities had the bulk and also privilege of Sameer (but then again, some may have before their downfall).

He looked unusual, bent over, holding a phone in one hand, the other arm swinging. His knees faced inward, like some kind of elderly cowboy.

“Oh my god,” Dr. Akhtar said, moving away from the phone, his eyes looking downward at Sameer’s tits hanging loose behind his button-up shirt. “Sameer, tell me more.”

Sameer did not hear the sound of the zipper.

“Always wanted something like this,” Sameer said. “Good feeling, no wife bothering me, no kids to drop at school.”

“Oh me too,” Dr. Akhtar said, his one arm reaching down.

“What this?” the familiar voice insisted behind Sameer.

He slowly and painfully bent back up, feeling a bit of vertigo.

“Sorry, just explaining,” he said, turning off the call to a shout of protest from the other side.

“You not explain and make this obscene scene,” the waiter said. “You sit.”

“Okay, okay,” Sameer said, sitting back in the chair and putting one hand around his glass of mint tea.

As the waiter walked away in a huff, Sameer saw a man of similar heft but shorter than himself, dancing by himself in front of the speakers at the far side of the cafe.

Who was the man? Read on in Part II.

The Warmth of Other Assholes

“Look at the video; look at it,” Donald kept repeating over speakerphone.

DM found it hard to concentrate on both his elder brother’s voice and also the narration from the YouTuber about the video, which really was unnecessary. The visuals did more than enough, showing the zombie-like state of people – if you could call them that – in the Downtown East Side of Vancouver.

Some people doubled over while standing, moving in place like NPCs in Grand Theft Auto V. There were people vomiting and walking around in really odd ways – double-stepping, pulling one leg along. It was like a zombie apocalypse film come to life, with somewhat apathetic zombies.

“I hope Kayo is okay there,” Donald noted.

“Ah, Kayo is motorbiking around Kerala wearing a lungi and eating triangle veggie samosas,” DM reminded Donald.

“Oh,” Donald said, trying to recollect the faint memory of having heard this somewhere sometime before. “Why?”

It was a question that had been asked by more than a few people that knew Kayo. The man had pulled off the dare double-migration of going to Canada and then coming back to his native land. From LA to London to Melbourne the question had been asked by many acquaintances.

DM had replied to the question several times, and was not in the mood to do so again.

“Simpler life, I guess.”

“How simple can it get?” Donald asked. “My life is so simple. So simple.”

There was silence as both brothers thought about the fact that Donald was on a holiday without his wife and kids in Sydney, while mounting dishes and loan repayment emails awaited him in Melbourne.

“I think I have a call coming, DM said, not lying as the phone buzzed.

The brothers said goodbye as DM walked onto his second floor balcony and stared at the setting sun over Dubai Sport City.

“OMGee did you see that video?” Cher, his cousin screeched into the phone.

“I think with all the videos on the Internet, it’s hard to know exactly which one-“

“Don’t be smart,” Cher retorted. “Every migrant on earth is talking about it. The one from Vancouver.”

“Oh yeah,” DM said, sitting in his wicker couch cushions.

“You know, that’s exactly where Kayo lives.”

“Lived.”

“What?”

“Lived. He doesn’t live there anymore.”

“Did he move to Toronto?” Cher asked.

“No he moved back to Kerala.”

“What?” Cher reacted as if she’d been slapped.

“He wanted to simple life.”

“What do you mean? Like the reality show with Paris Hilton?”

“I don’t think he has a farm but something like that.”

“He’s such a strange one. Probably went mental around all those people in the video. Richmond isn’t like that though. It’s nice and neat; just lots of Chinese people. You and the family really owe us a vis-“

Cher was cut off by the sound of screaming. It was early morning in Vancouver and her unemployed husband had begun his morning by screaming from the balcony.

“I, er, have to go,” Cher said and hung up before DM could properly say bye.

Just as he put his phone on the glass-topped wicker table, it rang. It was his brother, the middle one.

“Hey.”

“Hi. Did you see the video?”

“Yeah, just finished talking to Donald and Cher about it.”

“Weird shit no? It’s similar here in the downtown Sydney area. All just walking and clawing at the air.”

“You should take Donald for sight-seeing there.”

Both brothers laughed, thinking of how Donald would react.

“So, the mortgage just went up by fifteen hundred dollar a month,” Mervin said, completely changing the subject.

“That’s one hell of a bump,” DM said, having a hard time believing the number.

“Damn banks have completely changed their tune this year.”

“What’re you gonna do?”

“I lined up a couple interviews. Just have to get a job that pays more.”

“Did you tell your current job?”

“Fuck no. I go do my interviews and come back and change in the bathroom before I start work.”

Both brothers knew that Mervin did not handle confrontation well.

“Like a fat Superman, changing in a booth?”

“Fuck off. But yeah I guess I should go back to the gym.”

“Listen, Kayo is calling.”

“Okay bye. Try to watch the other video about Philadelphia. That one is worse. Tell Kayo good luck in Vancouver.”

DM did not bother telling him what he’d told Donald and Cher before.

“Yo, this is the time for our scheduled call, right?” Kayo asked.

Some things never changed. A man could be eating vada and chamanthi in the backwaters of Allepey; but Kayo was always on his schedule. It was like the British had implanted some kind of clock inside him during prep school.

“Yep. I was just talking to Donald about this video about Vancouver.”

“Oh shit yeah man. I used to work in that area. People selling painkiller on the street, susu smell everywhere.”

“That’s the one.”

“You know the weird this is they keep opening all these high end restaurants there. How can you eat foie gras while you see a homeless guy taking a shit outside the cafe window?”

“Yuck!”

“I can’t man. You know my sense of smell especially won’t allow that.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Man why do that when I can have my chai and masala dosa with a view of the hills?”

“You heading back there though?”

“Have to for summer man. But till then just here and Philippines. How’s the place in Manila coming along?”

“Just handed over the keys; things are good.”

“Man, can you imagine if you’d instead migrated to Canada or Australia?”

DM looked at the last of the red setting sun in front of him.

“Fuck that shit.”

A Dubai Fetish in Toronto

John, better known as Johnny-Boy or JB, was standing on his usual corner of Spadina in the spring sun, feeling that he may have started the day too early.

He was feeling a bit hung over from the party last night, and especially the cocktail of rum, Sprite and qualudes he had taken in quick succession. His mouth felt like it was made of gummy worms, and he could still taste spunk.

It was more than one flavour of spunk.

Luckily, JB had that asset that many gay men in Toronto dreamed – the ability to bounce back from a night of hard drinking with the gusto of a new mattress spring – with very little result to his outward appearance.

No matter how many Big Macs he threw back at the end of a wild night or substances he mixed, he looked like a fresh daisy the next day.

His ass hurt though.

However, he needed to get money for rent, and so was on Spadina hoping for a quick score or two before he headed out for Saturday night drinks with the boys.

“Hey hoho.”

“The fuck you calling ho,” JB asked as he spun around to face the voice.

It was a portly man – one as wide as a door frame with a large belly and developing hunch. He was bald and kept pulling his t-shirt with one hand where it kept outlining his man-breast.

“No no, hoho. I said hello hoho.”

“What are you, Santa?”

JB had fucked worse. Far worse. And a Santa fantasy was not on his definite no list.

“No, I…”

“Speak up.”

The man hmmed and cleared his throat, which led to an even fainter voice that seemed to come from the back of his throat somewhere.

“So what do you wanna do, handsome?”

The man blushed and almost moved his shoulders inward in shyness. Poor idiot, JB thought. He was going to fleece this kind of chump.

“Hoho, hmm, fantasy houseboy.”

“Oooh naughty stuff big man. You want me to be your little house boy? Clean your room wearing my thong?”

The man’s eyes widened.

“No-“

_________________

The basement unit had a smell like mouldy cheese meeting wet socks. JB was quite sure that Kamal – that was the fat fellow’s name – was the sort that hired someone once a month when the loneliness got crippling.

Shy bears was what they called Kamal’s type in the Village.

“No don’t take off your shirt.”

“What do you mean? You want to fuck with clothes on?”

“No fuck…”

The voice seemed to go further back in Kamal’s throat whenever JB looked at him. For this reason, JB tried to look away from him while keeping him in his peripheral vision, in case he tried anything funny. Just a month ago one of the lads woke up dead in a hotel alley bin with a knife in his stomach.

“My fantasy…”

_________

Standing at the airport, JB could barely believe what was happening. The Uber ride there had not removed any of the strangeness of the situation.

“So I just get on the plane and go to the Bahamas?” JB said each word slowly like he was talking to an imbecile.

“Yes, hoho.” Kamal had his hands together like a woman in the 1950s who had just finished her housework for the day.

“Okay then,” he said as he hesitantly began walking.

At the unit, JB had done some light cleaning as Kamal watched. He was asked to do the cleaning badly, which was a treat since usually clean freaks required a good clean and a hard fuck. The fat man required neither. Instead, Kamal walked over with a cologne bottle and spoke to JB once he finished the few minutes of cleaning.

Though he could not hear much of what was being said, JB knew it was something about breaking the bottle.

They then got in the Uber to come to the airport. As he had said, Kamal before leaving booked JB a round-trip ticket to the Bahamas for two days.

“Fucken show you,” Kamal had said as he handed JB the printed ticket.

As JB walked, he remembered the instruction and stopped to turn around. Kamal slowly put his sweaty hands on his hips and said something with his small mouth that JB could not hear.

However, he had heard Kamal practice the line several lines in the Uber. It was the line he always wished he had been able to deliver in Dubai when his family had deported their houseboy, only to have him come back in a few months.

“That’s right bitch, I canceled your visa. I’m a big man.”

JB tried not to laugh as he turned and began walking away, having followed all the instructions.

New Restauranteur on the Block

Kamal was delighted as he rubbed his chubby fingers together. He had taken a restaurant program and was now in charge of his own restaurant in Toronto. Not just one that he managed, but owned.

Standing at the opening where kitchen staff handed out dishes to wait staff, he surveyed both parts of the enterprise – from the chef and sous chef working away on beef bourguignon to the waitresses that walked around in their black mini dresses that he had himself chosen.

Kamal thought of pinching all the three waitresses bums at once, and chuckled, knowing deep down that he would never have the courage to do this. He did not have enough hands, for one.

This was the dream he had always had, in a sense. There was the dream to be a gym trainer, and then the one to train company managers, and also the one to run his own project management consultancy. Really what those all boiled down to was Kamal owning his own business where he told people what to do, like a slightly taller but more portly Napoleon.

Putting his hands in his suit pocket, Kamal walked forward into the dining hall to do what really was his favourite part of his role – speaking to guests.

“Hoho, how is the meal?” he asked a family of four who were having salmon.

“Bit cold still hoho,” he commented to an old couple who were finishing their tiramisu.

For a man who spoke from deep within his throat without enunciating properly, he was doing well since he made sure to stand close to diners as he spoke to them, particularly now that mask mandates had been relaxed.

His one mistake took place on a cold January day when he walked up to a party of 8 to ask about their meal. Pushing his large girth forward, he hovered above one of the eight diners, who, unbeknownst to Kamal, happened to have a sever care of OCD and mild autism.

“How is the risotto hoho?” Kamal asked, trying not to eye the leftover risotto on the plate as well as the bosom of the curvaceous blonde across from him.

As he said this, Kamal’s hanging moob touched the shoulder of the man with the OCD, who had already tensed up as the former pulled up. Kamal, not being that sensitive to others’ discomfort, had not realized this.

“WHATTTHAAAFAACKKK” was the exclamation from the man with OCD, who both pulled away from Kamal’s large nipple that could be felt (and seen) through the formal white shirt, and also shot up into the air.

In doing so, the man hit Kamal in his ample chin, pushing him backward.

Like a sort of overweight hip hop dance artist, Kamal half-fell, half-walked backward as his lean changed from forward to backward. Everyone in the restaurant drew a breath as he petered close to the ice sculpture in the corner of the room.

Other than choosing the waitresses uniforms and counting cash, the only real work Kamal did was personally making the ice sculpture once a week. He insisted on it. A local ice vendor brought in a block of ice for him to work on. Kamal painstakingly spent a couple hours carving this block of ice into a naked man. In his mind, the naked man represented himself, but with abs and far less heft.

Kamal crashed into the sculpture, grabbing and breaking the penis as he did so. The table on which the sculpture sat collapsed, of course.

Becoming known as the restaurant with the big boobed owner that grabbed an ice penis as he fell did not help the establishment’s reputation.

Meta Greek Restaurant

Like any other day in Dubai, it was a tumultuous one. The Israelis had just broken their own ceasefire agreement by attacking worshippers in Al Aqsa. The UAE’s Mars probe had returned data that there was no oil on the planet. Another sheikh’s wife had been diagnosed with AIDS, given to her by her husband after a far too passionate night in St. Petersburg.

DM sat at a Greek restaurant in Dubai Downtown – the sort of place that had become his cheat day spot instead of McDonald’s or other such traps. Here, he could have some grilled meat, nicely made rice (not too much), maybe a potato for a treat and tzaziki on the side (come on – it’s basically yoghurt). Of course, lots of salad or grilled vegetables.

None of that stuff that made Greeks fat of course – whatever the hell it was that had led to My Big Fat Greek Wedding. MD’s friend Kayo had mentioned something about Greek pizzas dripping with cheese.

MD shuddered. Perhaps it was from having done such a lengthy Body Pump class that day.

He waited patiently for Ahmed, his high school friend and one of the few people he could tolerate from that time.

Of course DM knew Ahmed had arrived because he heard him before he saw him.

“What the fuck man, are you a q-tip?” Ahmed was asking a Saudi teenager who had dared to grow an Afro who happened to be passing by the restaurant entrance.

“My q-tip was in your mother,” the teenager replied defiantly in Arabic.

Ahmed paused at the restaurant entrance, fuming for a moment before walking in. A tall Egyptian, he had a camel-like face and thin frame that had gotten into way too many traffic disputes.

“Hey man how goes?” DM asked as Ahmed walked up to the table finally.

“Man it’s shit,” Ahmed said, shaking his head. “These women I don’t even know DM.”

“Shit, what happened?” DM asked as he signalled the waiter to bring the salads.

Ahmed sat down and kept shaking his head.

“Every woman I go to meet keeps asking me where I’m going to take them for holiday after we get married. What the hell.”

“Every one?”

“Yeah. Or they ask me what I’ll buy them. Y’ani purses, car. Fuck man.”

“How many has it been?”

“I’ve met 12 women now man. Every one same shit.”

“Fuck,” DM said, taking his first bite.

Ahmed dropped his fork.

“What about my personality man?!! Isn’t that enough??”

DM also put down his fork.

“Yeah definitely that should be enough. Just keep looking man, it’ll wor-“

“Brrroooooo!!!!”

DM froze. He’d heard the screech too many times before.

Ahmed and DM both looked at the kitchen entrance, which was now filled with the short, fat, squat body of Amrit, wearing what would for anyone else be a miniature cook’s uniform.

“Oh fuck, I can’t go to any restaurant.”

“Haaamaaaa, aaaabriiing mesaplaaaa!!!”

Amrit picked up a serving tray and waddled over like a puppy that just taken its first shit. On the table that had so far just had salad and a few pieces of grilled meat, Amrit began to pile moussaka, pizza and pasta.

“Aaaaputtaa extra cheese broooo” Amrit sang.

DM tried to count to ten, but the testosterone from his workout surged through him. He sprang up and delivered a sudden and deadly diamond cutter to Amrit right on the table, breaking it in half.

Walking away from the mess of body soaking in grease, DM felt years of stress melt away.

But the scene was not over. Ahmed, already in a state of agitation, began waving his arms.

“Who the fuck are you man?” he asked a groaning Amrit.

“Amrit, hello,” was the reply.

“Whoever the fuck you are, you interrupted me airing my gold digger problems.”

“Oh yes, I am somewhat of a gold digger myself,” replied Amrit, his eyes glazing over, “But made a small mistake and now I’m with a fat water buffalo who has a social media addiction.”

“You?” Ahmed was both curious and incensed. “You’re like those Egyptian and Palestinian women I’ve been seeing?”

Amrit, though lying with a fractured sternum in a pile of noodles, replied, almost like Satan lying on the floor of Hell in Paradise Lost (though far less majestic due to his Sindhi shopkeeper shape).

“Maaa if they’re a lot of gold diggers coming to you, maybe the problem is the common denominator.”

Ahmed hrumphed through his flared nostrils.

“I mean you are the problem maaa,” Amrit did not know when to stop.

“Shut the fuck up!” Ahmed screamed. “WHAT ABOUT MY PERSONALITY!!!!”

As he bellowed out the last part, Ahmed grabbed a nearby serving platter and smashed it on Amrit’s chest, further rupturing the sternum.

This was of course a Greek restaurant and so this action led to further ones. First waiters and kitchen staff as well as soon other diners all rushed up to throw plates on the floor in the fashion that made Greek restaurants so particular. Most of the plates were aimed at Amrit’s head.

As DM sighed in his car while watching men throw saucers at Amrit’s orbital bone while jumping and shouting “Opa!,” he crossed off his list one more restaurant he could no longer go to.

Memories on Xmas

“You bitch,” Amrit muttered, scratching his belly under his dirty t-shirt with one hand as he peered through the toy binoculars.

“Yew leeking for Dee-Eeem?” his wife Priya asked, her large black toad-like mass unomoving on the pale blue sofa. “He’s geeen vaaaaibve. Geen ferevaaa.”

Amrit put down the pink plastic binoculars that he had picked up in a garbage can outside a nursery. As fat as his wife was and thick, she was right.

He sighed.

The truth was that he had no idea where his former friend DM was. He had moved, Amrit knew. But there was no indication as to where.

Amrit had briefly spoken to DM’s wife on the phone a week ago. Having just eaten lunch, he had made a mistake in telling her a bit too much about their sad recent days.

“Heyyyy,” he had started on the phone, trying to form words in his drug-pockmarked brain, “Me an Priya we bought a dog, but dog bit the neighbour, now dog gone and Priya and me depressed maaa.”

He winced, remembering how DM’s wife had tried to not laugh at his obvious mental decline. DM would not be calling to wish him Xmas for sure.

Amrit turned from the balcony of the studio to stare at his wife. She was like a warthog wearing a dress. An inappropriate floral blue dress.

As grotesque as she was, he would have stuck his little lulleee in her at the drop of a hat. His depression had made him horny. Hers unfortunately made her want to do little except devour everything on the McDonalds menu except the salads, while pretending on Facebook that she ate healthy.

“Fat bitch,” Amrit said under his breath.

“Vaaaaaibve he went ceme beck,” Priya said from the couch, shifting her considerable weight. “Remember hew you ren from the delivery boy when he reng the doorbell because you’re poor? Dee-Eeem remembers. Hew you mede Rem pay fer the expensive coals yew ordered.”

Of course he remembered. Priya was right.

“And remember hew you shewed up drenk at Xmes and shouted on his belcony?” She actually laughed, a sort of jelly roll giggle.

Amrit remembered this too. What Priya was not mentioning was that the final straw that broke the camel’s back was her. DM had made it plain – he did not want her showing up at his house and sitting in a slump, scrolling FB as Amrit shouted into the oblivion.

But Amrit could not say this since he did not want another fight on his hands. Another was coming soon no matter what.

“Okay vaaibve enough belcony time,” Priya said. “Time to clean the bethroom. Especially the toilet.”

Amrit grimaced. “I don’t want to.”

“Yew went your 50 dirhems right you umepleyed tweet?”

He grumbled and walked into the bathroom. The toilet looked like someone had sprayed shit all over the bowl. Priya only shat once a week, but when she did it pepper-sprayed the toilet another colour.

Amrit vomited, and then began cleaning.