Zaina had crept towards the bedroom door and watched her mother’s expression. Rabia had been visibly horrified at first but there was another emotion that Zaina had read in her face: relief. Finally, Rabia had legal leverage to leave – along with the large sum of money she’d been squirrelling away for over a decade, waiting for circumstances to be right. And that was when Rabia had yanked Zaina out of the darkness and into this bright apartment near the sea.

  At first, Zaina had shared Rabia’s bed and held onto Rabia as if she were her anchor in a tumultuous ocean. Rabia, too, had needed Zaina in a way a mother’s eyes and arms are comforted knowing her child is within her reach. But after some months, Zaina had relaxed into the thought of having her own space and had grown to love her own room.

  Rabia had taken it upon herself to have fun with her daughter. She hadn’t let a small thing like not knowing how to drive a manual car impede their adventures, relying on a taxi service or taking hotel shuttles to holiday resorts. She’d embraced life and it had seemed to embrace her back.

  The layers of her mother had slowly revealed themselves when Rabia and Zaina had gone on holiday together, away from the oppressive cloud of Yacoob, like the hidden rings within the bark of a sturdy tree. Rabia often told Zaina about her picture-perfect childhood, laughing when she spoke about the funny things she used to do as a child, like stealing litchis with her elder brother Waahid. She cried when she spoke about her parents dying.

  Most of all, Rabia spoke about her utter loneliness when Yacoob’s emotions had left her feeling isolated. People always told her to have sabr. But sabr is meant to be a beautiful patience, not a stifling one.

  But marriage came above all else, even happiness, so she’d stayed with Yacoob. A child was meant to have two parents.

  ‘You deserved much better,’ Rabia would tell her daughter, sadly.

  ‘But you got us out. Eventually,’ Zaina always replied.

  Her father’s monstrous rage had driven him and Rabia apart, but at the same time it had driven Rabia and her daughter together. Yet their increasing closeness also brought out a horrible fear in Zaina – that her mother would be taken away by death.

  As a Muslim, you were supposed to think about death often. Zaina was an overachiever in many respects, and this was no exception. She’d been at her grandmother’s funeral when she was three, and the experience of sitting next to her grandmother’s body while the women wailed had stayed in her mind. It had taught her that parents die, that one day her own mother would die. She felt at times as if this world was an airport, only she didn’t know whose flight was when and who she would have to say goodbye to next.

  Her mind would often travel to fatalistic scenes in which she imagined her mother being in an accident or Death claiming her before she got to apologise. She’d always worried about her mother crossing the road or being a passenger in one of the speeding taxis that hurtled down West Street like bullets.

  She’d become paranoid, asking God why he would allow such a final thing like death to exist, plummeting down an existential rabbit-hole. As she grew older, with the help of therapy, she’d learned to look at death as a reunion with loved ones lost, and a constant reminder to always leave people with good words.

  Now the festering uneasiness with Rabia due to her relationship with a boy was becoming a cloud of anxiety that loomed over Zaina. Perhaps this had all happened because she’d defied her mother and her salaah. After all, salaah was the key to Jannat, and Jannat lay under her mother’s feet. It was all connected.

  She had to do something about the uneasiness between her and her mother or it would consume her, but pride prevented her from speaking honestly to Rabia or wholly admitting that Rabia had been right about Imraan. Each day Zaina felt guiltier, especially after Joyce’s ominous warning. The cycle of anxiety and guilt had to stop.

  This August evening, she watched the clock fearfully as the rain slapped the windows and the wind punched the curtains, the sky succumbing to darkness. In a fleeting moment of panic, she considered calling Rabia, but she didn’t want to add to her mother’s inconvenience by making her a target of cellphone thieves, so instead she prayed.

  Like a perpetual sinner, she presented herself on her musallah for the afternoon salaah. She prayed sincerely for her heart and asked for forgiveness for veering off His path that had never betrayed her before. As she prayed, a calmness embraced her. She knew what she had to do. She had to tell her mother.

  It had been six days since the outburst when she’d refused to listen to Rabia about praying, and Zaina made sure to put the musallah where Rabia would see it when she got home, with its top corner folded over to show that she was between prayers. Older aunties always did this with their musallahs. Apparently the fold would ensure that Shaitaan didn’t come and pray on your mat. Zaina always wondered why a fold would repel the devil and why, in any case, the devil would pray. But she did it anyway.

  Then Zaina boiled the milk on the stove, the way Rabia liked it. Once the bubbles started making their way to the surface, she added two heaped tablespoons of cocoa and stirred, watching the brown disappear into the white and then envelop it all at once. Then she tore open a bar of Aero chocolate and plopped pieces into the steaming, swirling mix. A luxurious, deep, chocolatey scent filled the kitchen and steamed up the windows as droplets of rain collected on the outside. Hot chocolate was her and Rabia’s elixir for hard days.

  As the mixture simmered, Zaina felt her conscience begin to clear. Her soul felt connected to the Almighty again, as if it was a hungry orphan who’d finally been given a plate of biryani.

  Like a flustered pigeon, Rabia flew through the door a few minutes later, her teal umbrella ravaged by the wind and her scarf soaked with rain.

  Zaina hugged her. She loved the way her mother smelled. It was as if all the flowers in the world had popped into her shop and embraced her, each leaving its scent on her clothes and in her scarf. Every time she caught a whiff of this fragrance, it reminded Zaina of the dream she’d had after her grandmother, Rabia’s mother, had passed away.

  The dream had come to her when she was only four years old, but it had grown up with her and stayed alive in her mind. She’d seen her grandmother and grandfather wake up in a glass room. Their beds were adorned with the fancy maroon silk duvets they used especially for Eid day. They were happy. He held her hand and then stepped out onto a bed of flowers that stretched to the horizon. Zaina had learned in madressah that in Jannat there were millions of flowers in every shade imaginable.

  ‘Okay. Erm, you can let go now,’ Rabia teased, a little alarmed at the sudden affection from her daughter.

  Realising she was still holding on to her drenched mother in the doorway, Zaina dropped her arms.

  Looking at herself in the hallway mirror, Rabia unwrapped her scarf and handed Zaina the shredded umbrella.

  ‘I guess this one’s number is up,’ Zaina said, examining the battered umbrella and moving its exposed ribs around like broken limbs.

  ‘They all go that way – natural causes,’ sighed Rabia, smiling at Zaina in the mirror.

  Zaina tossed the sad umbrella into the bin. It reminded her of someone. ‘Mom, how’s Reggie?’

  ‘Fine, I think. I don’t know how he manages in this weather.’ In the kitchen, putting on her apron, Rabia surveyed the contents of the food cupboard. The instant macaroni and cheese stared back at her. ‘What about some pasta?’

  Zaina smiled. ‘Perfect. But can we chat first? Tonight we won’t get a chance. I made us hot chocolate.’

  ‘Sure,’ Rabia said, registering a glimmer of seriousness in Zaina’s eyes. ‘I’ll get the pasta on, then I’ll go and change. I’ll be right back.’

  Zaina set out two cups and quickly poured the hot chocolate, avoiding any thoughts of Imraan’s preference for the drink. Besides, he seemed to love cappuccinos now. Setting the steaming mugs down on the coffee table, while the cheeks of the shell-shaped pasta plumped up in the boiling pot, Zaina curled up on the couch.

  Rabia, dried and in a warm rustic jersey, came through to the lounge. They sat facing each other.

  ‘Mom, I chatted with Precious today, while she was hanging washing for Mrs Hassim.’

  Rabia didn’t like that Zaina went up onto the roof, even though the view helped with her sketches, but she didn’t say anything. Zaina was clearly trying to tell her something more important.

  ‘Did you know that her husband died in the harbour? It’s so sad.’

  ‘Yes. She told me about it when I first met her. Shame … But, you know, sometimes it’s easier to be a widow than a divorcée.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Oh, no. Zaina, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. You should be happy you have a father. Who knows, maybe things will change between you and him some day,’ Rabia said, wondering if it was Yacoob that Zaina wanted to talk about.

  ‘Mom, he walked out on us emotionally, and he beat you. I don’t want a father like that,’ Zaina said.

  ‘He wasn’t always bad, you know. We fell in love in college. It was that passion of both being lawyers and being competitive in the beginning. He gradually lost himself to his temper. But I drew the line when it came to you, Zaina.’

  Rabia recalled the relief she’d felt when Yacoob got cases out of town, when she and Zaina had had the house to themselves. Yacoob could never handle a child crying. It had pained Rabia to see him treat their child like an inconvenience, but the day he’d hit Zaina was the final straw.

  She’d brought home a report card that showed she’d achieved a C in Islamic history. History was a subject Zaina couldn’t get excited about. She mixed up the dates, names and events, and never did very well in her exams. But she hadn’t expected the rage of her father to be so utterly frightening when he saw her results. His anger had made him seem larger than life. She didn’t remember the slap itself, but the stinging in her cheeks and across her nose was a feeling she would never forget.

  The two women sat in silence for a moment, sipping their drinks. Then Zaina said, ‘Mom, I … I’m sorry. For everything. For all the things I said to you. I … I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  ‘Thank you, Zaina,’ Rabia said softly, her shoulders relaxing a little. ‘I’m so glad you realised this. And that you’re reading salaah again, and—’

  ‘And the boy I told you about. Imraan. He’s more than a friend. But I don’t know where it’s going. I don’t know but my heart is torn right now.’

  Rabia tried to hide her alarm. ‘Torn between what?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘I don’t know if I can trust him. I feel like I like him more than he likes me, and I’m scared.’

  ‘Zaina, you haven’t gone out alone with him, have you? Or done anything with him?’ Rabia looked worried. It was the same look she’d had when Yacoob was in a rage.

  ‘No. I wouldn’t do that,’ Zaina lied, resolving on the spot not to meet him again. She couldn’t bear to inflict any more pain on her mother.

  ‘Good. True love is simple, and it’s smart. It won’t ask you to sacrifice your morals. It will come to the door and present itself like a gift.’

  ‘Jee, Ma.’

  The pasta had started to stick to the bottom of the pan when Rabia eventually remembered it. She ran to switch off the stove and came back, laughing. ‘Well, your father was right about one thing – we talk so much we wouldn’t realise if the house was burning down! Should we have some pasta before we go? Or should we save ourselves for the akni upstairs?’

  Zaina smiled at the thought of akni, and Rabia understood. ‘Come, there’s a khatham and mehndi we need to go to,’ she said, gesturing to the evening’s attire hanging on the cupboard. The pasta in the pot would have to be dealt with another day. Rabia always forgot to stir it; Zaina always remembered. There were some things her daughter was better at than her.

  Zaina had all her henna-painting accessories in a large jewellery box, which Rabia had to help her carry.

  RABIA’S HOT CHOCOLATE

  1 stick cinnamon

  2 cups full-cream milk

  1 tablespoon cocoa (2 if you like it dark)

  pinch elaichi powder (ground cardamom)

  4–6 pieces milk chocolate

  • Heat a pot on high for about 3 minutes. Add the cinnamon stick and let it release some aroma.

  • Turn the heat down to medium and pour in the milk.

  • Add the cocoa and elaichi. Mix well and leave to simmer for about 10 minutes.

  • Add the chocolate pieces slowly and stir until bubbles appear on the top.

  Serves 2. Ideal for emergency tissue issues.

  17

  THE SCENT OF INCENSE FILLED THE DOUGHNUT HOLE as the women prepared to bless the impending marriage by praying verses from the Qur’aan for the couple at the khatam. Zaina identified the fragrance as ‘Evening in Kashmir’ – it was the only incense scent she could smell without feeling like she was going to keel over from a fit of coughing.

  The khatham was usually reserved for the Thursday night; the mehndi was usually on the Friday night before a Saturday wedding, with the walima, the marriage banquet, on the Sunday. But Zara hadn’t been able to bear the thought of four nights of festivities, so she’d combined the khatham and mehndi ceremonies, to be held in an intimate and informal setting in Aunty Julie’s flat.

  The mehndi party was all about having fun, and Aunty Julie had opened her home to all the neighbours and their children. Laila’s string of offspring, Aunty Shaida’s daughters and Zara’s cousins and their kids contributed to the joyful noise emanating from the flat. Eight of Zara’s friends had arrived, some from Cape Town, in their glittering dresses and out-of-town enthusiasm for a proper Durban Indian mehndi party.

  Rabia and Zaina arrived in their flowing black cloaks over their evening wear. Aunty Shaida arrived in her black cloak and a shiny niqaab. Laila had thrown a scarf around her neck. Shirin wore a black-and-gold cloak with a thin scarf draped loosely around her head with most of her hair showing.

  ‘You should invest in a scarf pin,’ Ruki said to Shirin, helpfully, between greeting guests.

  ‘Tsk,’ Shirin replied between her pursed lips, and haphazardly pulled her scarf forward over more of her hair, so that her hair stuck out in a circle like a satellite dish, making her look dishevelled. Mischievous Ruki chuckled.

  A hum of prayer wafted through Aunty Julie’s flat. Zaina couldn’t help but think of Imraan. What was he doing now? Who was he with? Would she ever celebrate their marriage in this way? She wished she could hate him.

  Aunty Julie brought Zara into the dining room. The bride-to-be wore a white flowing cloak with a simple band of pearls and crystals around the sleeves. Her scarf framed her face as if it were honoured to drape itself around such beauty. Zaina had never seen anyone so stunning.

  Mrs Hassim launched into a faatiha once all the women had finished their prayers. She regularly volunteered to read faatihas for any occasion, even at children’s birthday parties, where she was known to go on and on, beseeching God, while the birthday child salivated and the candle wax dripped into the icing.

  A resounding ‘Ameen’ filtered through the air as Mrs Hassim brought the duaa to a close.

  Joyce and Kadija were in the kitchen, making sure the samoosas were crispy and the mutton kalya and naan were served on time. This would be followed by kheer.

  The women ate quickly, praising the delicious food, then several of them returned to their homes to pray the Maghrib salaah before returning, and emerging out of their black cloaks to reveal their sparkling mehndi attire, like butterflies hatching out of their cocoons.

  Shirin was in her element, in a long black sari edged with decadent gold rhinestones and matching gold earrings. Her hair was pulled up elegantly into a French twist. People’s gazes gravitated to her. They couldn’t help it.

  Ruki proudly wore one of her creations, a long lilac dress with a matching scarf.

  Rabia’s maxi kurthi was a deep blue with flecks of gold, while Zaina’s cerise skirt received many compliments.

  Rabia, Ruki, Shirin and Zaina set out the kunchas, sweetmeats and fairy lights for the mehndi party. Zara had arranged some Moroccan lights, floor cushions and matching drapes, and bright pink rose petals scattered generously on the floor to give the place a relaxed Arabian feel.

  The older women fluttered around the dining table, ensuring each flower moulded out of burfee, mini peppermint tart and éclair stood at the perfect angle so that the groom’s family would be impressed, and that the kunchas stood proudly to one side, like professions of Zara’s love for her fiancé. Bollywood music filtered through the air, interspersed with the laughter of Aunty Shaida’s daughters running between the guests in matching fairy dresses, trying to catch little Isa.

  Zaina sat at the edge of the lounge, near the balcony. A breeze played with the ends of her hair as she laid out her henna cones and the mixture of lemon juice and sugar that would increase the intensity of the red colour. Towards the end of the evening, she would do Zara’s mehndi and paint the hands of the other women and children.

  Her vantage point gave her a chance to observe without having to commit her emotions to the effort of actively socialising. She watched Zara and her friends laughing animatedly, taking turns to share their stories of wedding nights and lingerie, all blushing like schoolgirls. Zara looked truly happy. In her grey-blue lehenga and encrusted veil, she radiated joy. She could have been on the cover of an Indian bridal magazine, Zaina thought.

  ‘You must cook for your husband. He will not say it, but he will love you more,’ Ruki told Zara. She presented the radiant bride with a gleaming red copy of Indian Delights. ‘I marked my favourite recipes for you.’

  Ruki then proceeded to share some unasked-for advice with the young bride, telling her that altering her dress was like sewing a Barbie-doll’s outfit and that men liked women with some meat on their bones. ‘You must eat, bheti! Otherwise people will think you are sick.’

  Shirin was sure each woman there had a copy of that cookbook in their kitchen that grew older with them, through sweet times and sour. She wondered about the noor on Zara’s face and the shimmer of the décor. Observing the fairy-lit fantasy Aunty Julie’s flat had been transformed into, she thought, Someday, not long from now, the illumination of this newly found wedded bliss will fade, as it always does. The reality of washing greasy dishes, ironing increasingly widening shirts, and dancing around his mother will drain the light from your eyes. It will seep down into your fingers and toes and make you tired.