Share (Mustafa)

 

Regular lad handling the front tables over for the trade and hello together. ‘Twas decided few moments before that he would be called Siva today. Let him see how. Not a beat missed. Money, he answers. Money... Yeah. Right. Sure. (Fumblin a bit.) What else?… Some two-step too rapid in the quick, before he explained his pal over there was Siva, back corner. Tag personally owned was Moni, matter of fact. (Presuming the transliteration.) The full was long, he warned; he’d had trouble with it before. Should’ve known he’d engaged a veteran wise guy. But no, OK, lay it on then, dude. Manikandan. (Spell checked). If he said so. Not any kinda put-on or anything now, but man here was gonna get a little tale from just up the street. Get it now. Well. Four women were eating at the Mustafa outdoor tables against the wall of the store back a bit other side o’ the street. It was a narrow aisle, tables either side, always busy; lunchtimes thick. He knew. Cheap simple good fare. In fact the group in question here were employees, sky blue Musta livery. Every indication whole and entire gotten by Mani straight. Foursome were of an age, size, colour. Chief among perhaps kinda pretty, without proper survey in the brief. On the aisle, facing. Each of the gals had their lunch spread before them, the greaseproof papers all x 4 it may have been. Chief was the actor: right hand raised. For anyone who knew these old cultures that fetched far, far back beyond the plumbed bathroom, the right was a certainty. On display. Then. Same moment, or one directly after, same hand appeared again, anew, afresh, this time with a clutch of noodles between thumb, fore and middle fingers...Where was it to go, then? Ah? Herself, lady was full. Where?… Passing stride being unbroken, the final recipient, one of the other three who could squeeze, would remain unknown. Not really any kinda anything for the Man listening patiently. So? Yeah? Unvoiced; the expression told. The only further here the polite question indicating he had heard it through. Indian? Yellah! You got it. That it was beautiful man agreed in a perfunctory way. Nothing like discounting though. Nice boy, father of one from Trichi. That was long too in its fullness. (Tiruchirappalli.) You gotta like how at Al Mubin the Hindu & Mussies chimed, superpower in the offing.