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Young Malayalee Mohammad and his particular ways continue to charm. The Dravidian Malayalee hail from the South-Western Indian state of Kerala, a significant proportion of the Indian diaspora here. An old heavily leathered and pouched auntie joining the table on the weekend was second generation Singaporean, with good English and very proud of the homeland of her father and possibly her mother too. She had visited in the 80s, reporting many mosques to be found in Kerala. Aged as she was, the woman beamed brightly beneath her scarf and gold jewelry, holding a great store of feeling for her ancestral home that she could not convey to a foreigner. All her bright outflow from her chair carried fullest conviction—Kerala was a glory, true. Mohammad at the Al Wadi drinks counter occasionally got to escape his confine, clearing plates and glasses at the tables outdoors, where he took every opportunity for some kind of exchange, no matter how limited. What news today, John? (Following the practice of his Boss who should have known better, Mohammad certainly did not mean his address disrespectfully.) The gulf was exceedingly difficult to bridge, there was little scope on any side and smiles and gestures provided the best means. Earlier in the week Mohammad had returned from ten days back home on the Malabar Coast in Kerala, his first return to family in over a year. A month before he had missed an older cousin’s wedding, the loss there strongly conveyed by Mohammad with briefest words from the other side of the drinks counter. This morning when the question of the news was quickly answered and the young man asked once more about his trip, as expected Mohammad’s challenge proved daunting. Mohammad stood off from the table to one side, swallowed first, then could only stand smiling in his predicament. What was there to reply? “Good” came as the whole extent of his utterance. The fullness of smile, however, the horsey swivel of the head and touch to the heart, conveyed what words could not—in fact not even refined, sophisticated words. The gestures sufficed. No more was possible. Home for Mohammad meant more than a place where they have to take you in. Far more, that much was clear. There was work to do, no time to chat either. All the workers at Wadi made themselves look lively, boss Hussein had seen to that. Did Mohammad believe a Westerner could possibly understand anything of his feelings for home, for his family, the plantations he had once mentioned over his hills and the wider Malabar community?