He served us our lunch though he was definitely not a waiter. Because he came by and pulled himself a chair as we dug into our tajine.
He said in a clear voice, “Can you find me an Indian wife?”
I put my fork down. No offense to the tajine. The tajine was very nicely done – for a tajine. We had been eating the tajines – vegetable, chicken, lamb etc for three days now, and frankly, I was done with it.
“Slow cooked stews braised at low temperature resulting in tender meat with aromatic vegetables and sauce” or other such descriptive variations are good for tourist handbooks that attract travelers to Morocco. Once you are here, you need sustenance. Being an Indian, I was looking for the spice and zing. And here he was. All six feet of him.
He was probably in his mid-twenties. He had the typical long Berber face and features. He sported a contemporary pair of denims and a smart stripped vest and he was seriously about what he was asking.
He did not look like the one who would quickly pinpoint India on an Atlas if I were to unfurl one for him. Or for that matter, given enough time. He nodded vigorously in negative to my query about the volume of Indians visiting Morocco.
“Movies”, he said. “I like Indian movies.”
I asked him about the last Indian movie he had seen.
“Murder”, he intoned. That completed the circuit in my head. So did he want to marry Mallika Sherawat?
“No!” he said hunched forward elbows resting on his knees. “I don’t mind anybody as long as she is rich.”
That was the best offer in a tough negotiation since “Your signature on the paper or your brains” that Puzzo managed in Godfather.
From then, our lunch was a blast.
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Our luncheon place with a dramatic view of the kasbah (Photo courtesy Vijay Aski)
Tajine :Chicken with preserved lemon
Rhea ear-sharing her shuffle with Ahmed, our driver. “Is this the iPhone?”, he asked innocently.
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