She’d seen this gradual fading in most brides after the wedding. They believed their lives were becoming complete, that their worries would wane, that they wouldn’t be like everyone else. But they woke up a month, two months later, when they found themselves crying in the shower.

  The salty tears, mixing with the soapy scent of shower gel under the snaky embrace of warm water: it became the wife’s place. She saw herself in the distorted reflection of the taps and in the steamy blur of the mirror. And she couldn’t see the girl she once was. She’d become entwined in a new web of problems she could never have predicted: sisters-in-law who craved attention, mothers-in-law who cried on cue, and a hundred aunties and cousins who assumed they knew what was best.

  Once, when a young Shirin had lamented her fate to her mother, she was told, ‘You are a daughter-in-law; an outsider, on the most intimate part of the inside. They will not make it easy. They won’t love you like we do. You are a lady. And don’t forget, people can have their opinions, but he comes home to your bed at night.’ Shirin wondered if Zara would understand the place of a wife in a man’s family.

  Soon enough, the women from the groom’s family arrived, laden with gifts. They were fair-skinned ladies with Cape Town accents, and came across as incredibly warm. Zaina liked them right away. Each one carried a kuncha for Zara, which they put on the dining-room server. Zaina spotted a chocolate tower, a floral arrangement that seemed to be made out of R100 notes, and some designer handbags and shoes. The women all oohed and aahed at the glittering sandals, designer perfumes and sweetmeats shaped like tiaras.

  Zara sat resplendent in the middle of the lounge as each woman sweetened the bride’s mouth with a pinch of burfee and wished her well. She looked positively horrified at the thought of the calories and the amount of sugar in the burfee attacking her teeth and the perfect line of her lipstick, but as soon as the groom’s mother approached, she seemed to relax into it. Her mother-in-law-to-be hugged her, calling her her daughter.

  Zaina disappeared onto the balcony for some air. Her heart felt heavy and sore. Imraan had texted her asking if she was okay and why she’d been so quiet. If Zaina looked at the messages, she knew she would cry. She decided not to look at them or reply, resolving to put on a smiling face for the party and draw beautiful henna patterns onto the guests’ hands. She was thankful she’d be occupied.

  After about an hour of cheerful socialising, the groom’s family left with the kunchas Zaina had got to know so well, and the mehndi party began. Ensuring all her emotions were carefully folded away in her aching heart, and reminding herself that a good relationship with her mother was far more important than any boy, she prepared herself for the henna application. Mehndi designs didn’t take long – about twenty minutes to decorate both sides of a hand.

  Using the tip of a henna cone, Zaina drew flowers across the palms of the guests. Calm and controlled, she intricately wove stories into flowers romancing vines, punctuated by bold paisley patterns and fragile dots.

  Laila brought her children to Zaina’s table and they held out their hands expectantly. Kids’ hands were always dangerous to do: you never knew whose dress they were going to touch, or whether they were going to rub their eyes and end up with orange patches on their faces. Besides, they always seemed to have sweaty palms, so even if you could get them to stand still long enough to draw a flower on their palms, it would slide off. Or they would giggle and close their hands tightly because the tip of the cone tickled them.

  This time, Zaina used a small floral stamp on the back of their little hands. It didn’t last too long, but it was quick and did allow for some colour to stay until the next day. Little Fatima, Aunty Shaida’s daughter, who’d attached herself to Laila’s children, looked at the henna flower on her hand in pure delight as Zaina gently applied the stamp.

  Zara’s friends turned their noses up at having henna on their palms. They preferred the more modern cuffs around their upper arms or a band of henna around their wrists like bracelets.

  Zaina was happy to do Ruki’s mehndi. Sometimes older women didn’t want henna applied, as they felt it made their hands cold. Ruki didn’t care about that. She was all for the full mehndi and wedding experience. She asked Zaina to write the names of her husband and children in Arabic on her palm. Her hands were warm, a little shaky, reminding Zaina of her age, and punctured by tiny holes made by the needles she wielded every day.

  ‘Mashallah, you are very talented,’ Ruki told Zaina, as the curves of the Arabic letters took shape.

  ‘Jazakallah, Ruki Masi. Are you okay? Your hands are a bit shaky. Maybe I should get you some creme soda?’

  ‘Oh, no, I’m fine. I am just tired,’ Ruki replied, a little embarrassed that Zaina had spotted a weakness that was beyond her control these days.

  ‘I’m next,’ a voice butted in. It was Shirin.

  ‘Wait in line,’ Ruki laughed. ‘I’ve told Zaina to write my entire family’s names.’

  ‘Does she have enough henna for that?’ Shirin smiled.

  Zaina laughed. She liked this side of the women, when they included her in their teasing.

  When her turn came, Shirin asked for a chain to be drawn on the back of her left hand. Holding the older woman’s elegant hand in hers, Zaina started from the bottom, near Shirin’s wrist. Shirin’s nails were well manicured, and her skin was fair and soft, with blue veins punctuating the milky white here and there. Zaina painted a floral chain along Shirin’s wrist and then up along the centre of the back of her hand, which would join a ring at the base of her middle finger.

  Shirin spoke about her favourite movies, asking Zaina about the actors she liked. It was a simple conversation that Zaina could manage in the ten minutes it took to do Shirin’s henna.

  After that, Zaina adorned many more of the women’s hands, including Laila’s and Aunty Shaida’s, and those of Aunty Julie, who kept moving to hug her guests and offer them air kisses.

  When it came to Rabia’s turn, her mother smiled. ‘Surprise me,’ she said, extending her hand.

  Smiling back, Zaina turned over her mother’s hand. It was bony; it had worked hard. A little guilt crept into Zaina’s chest and she pushed it down. She drew her mom’s favourite flower, a lily, across her palm, and wove leaves and hearts around it.

  ‘I love it,’ Rabia said, beaming.

  ‘And I love you,’ Zaina said quietly.

  Finally, with only a few neighbours and friends left at the party, Zara changed into her pyjamas. They were a soft pink, edged with lace. She sat across from Zaina on the couch and held out her hands.

  Bridal mehndi took over an hour to do, and while Zaina was busy, Aunty Julie fed Zara, and her friends took videos of the bride-to-be, making naughty jokes about her wedding night. Zara wanted mehndi only along the sides of her hands and her fingertips, and the sides of her feet, for which Zaina was grateful, although her back ached as she drew the tiny flowers and leaves.

  When the henna application was done, it was almost midnight. Ruki then roasted some cloves on a stove plate and instructed Zara to hold her hands over it for fifteen minutes. Zaina had thought this traditional idea of baking hennaed hands was hilarious until she’d tried it a few years ago and discovered that it actually worked, turning the henna a deep, delicious maroon that lasted about a month.

  As the Bollywood music got louder, everyone moved to the centre of the lounge. While Zara and her friends began dancing, imitating some moves from popular movies, the older women and guests started to leave, wishing the bride well between yawns. Mrs Hassim even stifled her urge to remind them that music was the devil’s whisperings.

  Zaina and Rabia stayed a little longer, clearing up the last of the food in the dining room and the henna cones on Zaina’s table.

  ‘Forget all that! Come dance with us,’ a flushed Zara urged, pulling them into the centre of the lounge with the tips of her fingers, careful not to smudge her henna. Zaina and Rabia found themselves holding hands and dancing with Zara and Aunty Julie. Mother and daughter spun around, rose petals at their feet, heads thrown back in laughter.

  Caught up in the moment, Zaina finally allowed herself some joy. It took her back to when she was four years old, dancing around the tiny living room with her mother until she couldn’t spin any more. It was as if time froze in that moment, and she even momentarily forgot about Imraan. Mother and daughter delighted in the music and the childish happiness of movement until one revolution blurred into the next and they resembled colourful whirling dervishes enticed by the moon.

  KADIJA’S MUTTON KALYA

  500g mutton pieces, cut into cubes

  1 onion, sliced

  oil for frying

  3 potatoes, peeled and cubed

  dhania for garnishing

  For the marinade:

  1 teaspoon salt

  1 teaspoon chilli powder

  ½ teaspoon turmeric

  1 teaspoon jeera powder

  3 strands saffron

  2 cloves

  3 peppercorns

  2 sticks cinnamon

  1 teaspoon ginger and garlic paste

  1 small sachet tomato paste

  • Make the marinade by combining all the ingredients. Coat the mutton pieces in the marinade and leave, covered, overnight.

  • In a large, heavy-bottomed pot, fry the onion in a little oil.

  • Add the meat and braise well, turning, until the spices start to cook, about 10 minutes.

  • Fill the pot with enough water to cover the meat and cook until the meat is tender, 60–90 minutes. Add more water if it becomes too dry.

  • Add the potato and cook until soft, about 30 minutes. The meat should be tender and the gravy thick.

  • Garnish with dhania and serve with fresh naan.

  Serves 4

  18

  IN THE MAIDS’ QUARTERS, a revolution of sorts was taking place.

  Joyce and Kadija, who’d stayed at the mehndi party long enough to ensure the dinner dishes were cleared and all the rubbish was taken to the large bins in the car park before the groom’s family arrived, now sat in Thandi’s room with Violet and Precious. Sibo and Hlengi were helping out at the mehndi ceremony and would ensure nobody ventured downstairs.

  ‘We need to find out who did this,’ Joyce said, looking even more stern than usual in the fluorescent light of the room.

  ‘But why? They can afford to buy another necklace,’ Violet said stubbornly. ‘I didn’t do anything wrong.’

  ‘It’s not about that,’ snapped Precious, who was staying over again, for this important meeting.

  ‘She’s right,’ Thandi said, standing up with an effort. ‘We look after their homes, their babies, their everything. They need to trust us. We are women. We must stick together.’

  ‘Fine,’ Violet said. To tell the truth, she too was intrigued by the mystery. If they found out who did it, the thrill of it would last for days. Like Shirin, Violet enjoyed a good plot twist.

  The maids racked their brains, wondering what could’ve happened, retracing their steps. Someone had been graciously let into the apartment building, into their homes; someone so innocent and invisible that they were overlooked in an instant.

  Violet sat down on the floor. She could always think better when she was connected to the earth. Who would know about the jewellery? Who could have access to Aunty Julie’s flat?

  With some effort, Kadija sat down on the bed. ‘Tsk, I don’t know. Someone who could see all of us. They knew when we were busy working and when Aunty Julie wasn’t in her room.’

  ‘Hmm I don’t like to judge … but Robert is always around, watching everything,’ Violet said thoughtfully.

  ‘Yaaaa, he was there that day, he can see everyone on the cameras,’ Thandi agreed, nodding.

  ‘Eish, but … he’s not a rogue,’ Hlengi said quietly, remembering all the times Robert was nice to her.

  ‘He’s a man,’ Violet shot back. ‘Men are always rogues and liars,’ she stated, rolling her eyes.

  ‘Well, let’s go find out then,’ Joyce decided.

  ‘N … now?’ Kadija asked. She hated going beyond the rooms at night.

  ‘Let us look in their storeroom. Robert and Jabu’s. We have to.’

  The women quietly made their way down the corridor along the storerooms to the room where Robert and Jabu kept their belongings. The cameras barely picked up the movement. Besides, the cameras were more interested in monitoring the residents’ cars than the rooms of cleaning ladies.

  Joyce prayed the old keys she had still worked.

  Click.

  They closed the door behind them gently, Violet shining her cellphone’s bright light around the little room. A bottle of Coke here, a chair there, an old radio covered in dust. A ladder. Jabu’s harness. Sponges. Telescopic handles. Glass and window cleaner. There, on the hook on the wall, hung Robert’s jacket and hat. Joyce touched the jacket gingerly. She could not tell what colour it was in the glare of the torch, but it was either black or dark blue. She gave it a nudge. Something heavy jingled in the pocket.

  ‘Oh Jesu, it’s in there!’ Violet squeaked. ‘That fuckin’ rat!’

  While the Bollywood music in Aunty Julie’s flat floated in the air and grew louder, it was Thandi who finally reached forward and touched the cold metal that lay in the depths of the pocket.

  Holding her breath, she pulled out a shiny chain.

  Keys.

  Just keys attached by a chain to a hook.

  Kadija let out a nervous sigh. ‘He is going to come find us! Let’s go! Please!’

  Agreeing this was too risky, Precious turned to leave with Kadija. As she turned to leave, she tripped over the Windex bottle. It clattered to the floor.

  ‘Hau. Did you hear that?’ asked Joyce. ‘There is something else in that bottle.’

  Suddenly a thought dawned on Violet. ‘He could see us! And he could see into the flats! Just one open window and it would have been so easy to get it! That skelm! Jabu!’ she shouted.

  ‘Hau! Yes, yes … It had to be him!’ Kadija realised.

  They turned to Thandi. A chill ran down her spine. Jabu was her nephew. She’d found him this job. She’d vouched for his trustworthiness. ‘Are you … sure?’ she asked quietly, aware of the consequences of such an accusation.

  ‘Let me see,’ said Thandi, filling up the small space with her large body. She twisted open the dark-blue lid and turned the bottle upside down. A line of silver glinted as it trickled out onto the floor.

  The necklace.

  The azaan that would officially signal the dawn of the wedding day was about to awaken the residents of Summer Terrace when it was pipped at the post by Aunty Julie’s screams.

  ‘Urgh, not again,’ moaned Zaina loudly, as Rabia jumped out of bed and ran into Zaina’s room, switching on the light. ‘I’m fine, Mom.’

  ‘I’m going to check,’ Rabia said, rushing out the door in her kaftan.

  She’d forgotten to switch the light off before she ran out, so Zaina burrowed further under her duvet. At Fajr time, when the azaan was called, she decided to get up and find out what had happened before giving her designs some attention.

  Rabia told her that by some miracle, the wedding jewellery had returned. Aunty Julie had found it in its velvet box, as if it had never been stolen. The only odd thing about it was that it carried a faint detergent smell. On seeing it, Aunty Julie, thinking she was losing her mind, had screamed.

  There was no trace of who had returned it or when, but Mrs Hassim told her to pray a little extra as this was a true miracle from above that had saved Zara from the wrath of her in-laws. ‘One does not question a miracle,’ Mrs Hassim had said. So the conversation about the restored jewellery had stopped there.

  Zaina sat in her pyjamas at the dining table, eating the combination of Rice Krispies and chocolate Oatees she liked. Her phone alerted her to another seven messages and four missed calls from Imraan. She sighed and deleted the notifications.

  Today she was going to simplify some of her writers’ haven designs, as Dr Tannen had suggested. Sometimes, simplicity made something beautiful. Zaina realised she didn’t need so many recesses in Seth’s home or glass panels in Shafak’s studio. Refining the designs, she began to feel contented – so contented, in fact, that for a few hours, she didn’t even look at her phone.

  As the sun rose in the sky, Rabia filled the lounge with rose-and-lily arrangements for each table at the wedding, twenty in total. She’d shut the shop today, usually the busiest day of the week, to dedicate herself to ensuring the flowers for the wedding were perfect. Precious’s usual Saturday chores now included sweeping away stray petals or oasis offcuts and mopping up water that seeped through any of the arrangements.

  Rabia sneezed as the pollen floated up her long nose. Her cheeks took on the colour of blushing peonies. Once she was done with these, she would go to Hollingworth Hall, the famous glass-walled hall in the leafy Botanical Gardens, and line the aisle with bouquets of ivy and roses, and make sure the wedding planner’s assistants hung flowers from the ceiling above the stage.

  Around midday, rolling away her designs and hanging them in the cylindrical holder behind her door, Zaina got back into bed to laze in the sun. As on most Saturdays, she found herself listening to the hum of five sewing machines above her and the rhythm of Precious sweeping the lounge. Her eyes rested on her peach sari, hanging on her cupboard door, ready to be worn at the wedding tonight. Her mother had taken a painstaking hour to iron the yards of translucent fabric.

  Zaina sighed and rolled over.

  Another message from Imraan beeped her phone to life. He was asking the same question, Are you ok?, pleading pathetically for a reply.