The Imam's Serenade

One Friday, while looking for a lunch place at the wet Quiapo market in Manila,I heard a wail.It sounded masculine,was terrifying in its undulations but mystifying,too,in its length and fullness.It came from somewhere beyond the carts of pirated DVDs,bottled amulets and peeling noodle houses that lined the busy district.The wailing spoke to me like I was a child or rat stunned by a piper and so I followed the sound till it led me past tents shading pungent bouquets of spices and spring onions,a streetside wardrobe of long waistless dresses that looked vaguely familiar,and converging men in embroidered caps and flowing robes--wait,men in robes!
It was then that I realized in shame that I was wearing a short denim skirt,and indeed when I looked up,an arc said,"Muslim Town." But before I darted off for a batik to cover up my irreverent outfit,I was so taken by how a shift in culture and colors could happen nearby.Spanish tiles lined the arc and sidewalk reminiscent of the moorish Cordoba.In the distance stood a golden mosque,the source of my enchantment.The wail was a call that seemed to gently beat stalls,stores,houses,these human hives,empty for prayer time.They were all at their best: men like dashing dervishes,women veiled,beaded,mysterious.
I took refuge in a halal eatery,the one closest to the mosque so as not to lose the Imam's song.It was time,too,to celebrate this newness with a good lunch.
The waiter set before me my plate,the thick saucy chicken viand I chose,and three bursting cups of rice.I looked at the heaps of rice,and he told me that I would only pay for what I finished.I ate the meal with my bare hands,the sauce and grains coating and dripping from my fingers.It was the spiciest meal I had and all the three cups of rice had been serviceable.While there was a crackle of incendiary sensations in my tongue,I had the most liberating thoughts,the ones you normally savor upon a discovery.
Since then,I came back regularly for lunch and for the imam's serenade.