The shortest meal and the longest stare

Dear reader

i think i just played a bit part in a low budget Bollywood. Admittedly it was more drama than romantic comedy and there were no scheming ugly chicks or pinning, perfectly coiffed heroes but there was plenty of ham acting so I'll let you be the judge...

it all started one hot and humid Indian night with a grumble in my stomach. (a common theme these days but then who said i was of a different caste anyway). the grumble led to a stumble upon my friendly Indian guest house owner pitching a local restaurant which served good tandoori chicken to a couple of linen clad Brits. well i can tell you, he had me at tandoori. with his wiggles all deciphered ( yes we go now? yes we wait more?) i was soon zigzagged through the streets on his motorbike, the grease and humid air exactly what my hair needed for an authentic Bollywood blow. so i wasn't complaining. if you could see some of my styles of late (from Curly Sue to Tina Turner and Seinfeld Kramer ) you would have encouraged me to hire a motorbike a few curries back. anyway i swing my long cotton camo legs from my steady steed, turn on my flip flops, wave my hunk into the night and prepare to make my entrance...follywood style

except that i must have got the location wrong. why else would the bustling restaurant set suddenly stop mid-musical (i could hear the sing song laughter chatter along the hallway) to look so silently in my direction? i had to ask myself...was i wrongly cast/of the wrong caste? did my travel agent get it wrong? perhaps. so i did what any self respecting thespian would do in this situation...i did up another button on my conservative linen shirt and found a table tucked far away in the shady corner...presumably where all the extras/to be cast section would be. and waited. but not so patiently. i had a hunger that needed to be fulfilled you understand.

The set looked authentic, if not a bit drab, or so i gathered in the minutes i waited for my waiter. the white plastic tables beamed in the florescent lighting (not my best lighting) while the women bunched tightly together like a bridal bouquet and the men stared thoughtfully at me over their right hand shovels.

A few added details ...the "no liquor served" signs on every wall and the waiters all capped in Muslim Taqiyah changed the story line somewhat. How was i to be cast now? (cast aside it perhaps). so when the waiter, wearing a checkered country and western styled shirt (who dressed this set anyway??) eventually John Wayned himself to my table, i wasn't quite prepared to sit idly by as he asked the wall for my "drink and food" order.

it's quite a strange thing to have the dank restaurant wall serve as your mediator/medium/chaperone. quite an interesting Shirley Valentine impression i admit. i am just confuse as to my offence. was it the slight stench of beer on my breath? perhaps it was all he could do to not laugh at my motorbike styled hair?

of course i did a quick check about me. legs, elbows knees and toes covered? check. so, dear reader, as confused as i was, dissuaded from the promise of good tandoori, i was not. i sent him off with a tall order and watched him make his way to the open kitchen about 20 meters straight ahead of me.

it was then that the game changed because as soon as he was behind the kitchen counter, he joined the rank and file in their very open, very glaring (did i mention the lighting?) staring down of me from the safety of their barracks. if i was the pariah, he was the piranha.

it was war. no more miss apologetically sitting in the quiet corner while country and western stares me and my western (I'm from crazy Africa fool)morality down. no sireeeeeeee. i come from a country that knows how to bring about bullies with peaceful protest. dang, I'll even take a Bay leaf out of Gandhi's book if i have to.

I knew the food would come quicker than I could say "game on", but i had a plan to eat every grain and mouth at every morsel like a mime artist in freeze frame, a tableau on a "go slow". and if you want a staring competition, i have my third eye all primed and ready. i am not your worthy opponent, i am your commander in (mis)chief.

And so it came to pass that every stare was met with even longer stalling and stuttering of limbs. He brings my wall the bill before the steam even cools on my chicken and i, in turn, choose to not know my right from my left. So that, with every slight of my right hand in favour of my harem left, his stares are shot down with shame. ag shame, see the worry in my eye.

Gradually i tire of the tedious combat, but never the war. I use my gravy-stained fingers to fish out the money I owe and leave the change " i wish to see in the world " lying in the bill folder. And with my eyes firmly fixed to the wall as i march past him, i direct one final thought his way...."Yes, Mustafah, my money is dirty but then so are your eyes. And by the way, Kenny Rogers called and he wants his shirt back".

And that my friends is why you should never pick a fight with a cat when her hair is up.