The tall lad meticulously lays out the lunch before us. Yet it is apparent he is not a regular waiter. Especially when he pulls a chair and joins the table, riding reverse, hugging the back of the chair with his long slim arms.
Then he proceeds to says in a calm voice, “Can you find me an Indian wife?”
I put down my fork that I had been pushing the tajine around with. No offense to the tajine. The tajine is very nicely done —for a tajine! We have been eating the vegetarian and chicken version for three days in a row now, and frankly, I am quite tired of it. “Slow cooked stews braised at low temperature resulting in tender meat with aromatic vegetables and sauce” and other such descriptive variations are good for tourist handbooks. A hardcore Indian that I am, I look for spice and zing.
And here he is, all six feet of him.
He is probably in his mid-twenties. He has the long Berber face and features. He sports a contemporary pair of denims and a smart stripped vest and he seems serious about finding an Indian spouse.
He does not look like someone capable of quickly pinpointing India on an Atlas. (Or for that matter, given plenty of time.) He nods vigorously in negative in response to my query about the volume of visiting Indians in Morocco.
“Movies.” He says. “I like Indian movies.”
I ask him about the last movie he has seen.
“Murder”, he intones.
That completes the circuit in my head. So does he want somebody Mallika Sherawat?
“Not necessarily.” He says, very matter-of-fact, tilting the chair dangerously towards the table, “I don’t mind anybody as long as she is rich.”
This is the best line I have heard across a table since Puzzo's “Your signature on the paper or your brains”.
From then, our lunch is a blast.
* * *
Our luncheon place with a dramatic view of the kasbah (Photo courtesy Vijay Aski)
