In some ways I carried the pain for no reason. It was a sick understanding of what it mean to care for someone. When all the gates are down and there is no ego left, it was her pain which was mine and I martyred myself on an imaginary cross. The kebabs I made were very salty to say the least.
We didn’t have much money back then, Umar and I. So we saved the little we had to eat at the at the Indian restaurant once a week. It was grand. Umar always got the chicken tikka masala (extra cilantro) and I the vegetarian bryani (extra rita). It was just us and we had our own table. 11 am every Friday, praise be to Allah.
As we walked up Thayer Street past the carpark where the kebab trailer used to stand, then past our old residence of Littlefield hall and our window where i used to call Umar’s name on drunken Saturday nights when I misplaced my keys then past the cafeteria with the thousands of tomatoes, I asked Umar if we could have dinner at the Indian restaurant and have chicken tikka masala and vegetable bryani. Umar was quiet for once and he said it’s probably a bad idea.