This time, they were talking about a cousin’s botched proposal. Zaina, then twelve years old, didn’t know why being Memon mattered so much any more, when hardly anyone spoke the language.

  ‘Haa,’ Maimoona, Rabia’s cousin, had agreed, ‘especially one where the mother is working all the time. Who knows what that girl must be getting up to.’

  They’d all nodded in agreement. They were familiar with this conversation and the post-biryani fatigue of Eid day.

  They’d rummaged through other, tastier topics, each one adding her own mix of spices to each story, until they’d stuffed themselves full of savouries and saddled everyone’s brains with more gossip than they would’ve cared to consume.

  Slowly, the sisters’ creaking legs had reluctantly taken their weight as they’d made their way to the door. And as they’d scuttled off home in their blue bite-sized Mini, Rabia had let out a sigh of relief and also returned home. Zaina and Rabia had quietly congratulated each other on surviving yet another gossip session without the subject of the divorce cropping up.

  But their words had weighed on Zaina’s young shoulders for longer than they should have. She was that girl, the girl nobody would want to marry.

  In the minibus, travelling quickly through Durban’s silent streets, Zaina started to cry quietly.

  Rabia rolled her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ma,’ she whispered to her mother.

  ‘You hurt me,’ Rabia said, shaking her head. ‘I don’t know why you’re the one crying.’

  ‘I’m going to end it.’

  ‘Hmph. Don’t do it because of me. You disrespected me. You allowed someone else to disrespect me. After everything I’ve fought so hard for. How could you do that to me? How could you be so selfish?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just love him so much. You don’t know what he’s been through in his life.’

  ‘Zaina, trust me. This boy is not good for you.’

  Somewhere deep inside, Zaina knew this was true. After their meeting at the market, she regretted ever having set eyes on Imraan. But part of her still wanted it to work. She didn’t know if she could survive seeing him being with anyone else.

  Rabia went on, ‘A girl’s reputation can be broken in a matter of seconds. If he really cares for you, he will do this the right way. He will come home and talk to me, face to face.’

  Home at last, Zaina escaped into her room. She flung her high heels into a corner, put on her sleepshirt and read Jojo Moyes’ After You. Finally, when she was sure her mother was asleep, she allowed herself to grieve. She tried to stifle her sobs until her throat was sore.

  She was still in love with him.

  Finally, around 2 a.m., she texted him. My mother knows everything. If you care about me, you will come and meet her. Will you?

  AUNTY JULIE’S CHICKEN-AND-CORN SOUP

  ½ onion, sliced

  oil for frying

  1 cup cubed chicken fillet

  salt and pepper to taste

  chilli powder to taste

  1 packet white onion soup

  1 packet thick vegetable soup

  1 packet cream of mushroom soup

  1 tablespoon butter

  3 cups water

  1 tin cream-style sweetcorn

  1 cup noodles (optional)

  1 cup cream

  chopped spring onion and chilli flakes or ground black pepper to garnish

  • Braise the onion in a little oil.

  • Add the chicken. Season with salt, pepper and a little chilli powder.

  • In a bowl, mix together 1 tablespoon of each instant soup and the butter. Add it to the chicken, along with the water. Cook for 10 minutes, stirring to ensure there are no lumps.

  • Add the sweetcorn and the noodles, plus enough additional water to make a runny consistency.

  • Add the cream.

  • Bring to the boil and simmer for 5 minutes, then reduce the heat and simmer gently until the noodles are soft and the soup thickens, about 15 minutes.

  • Garnish with spring onion and chilli flakes or pepper. Serve with garlic bread.

  Serves 6

  20

  SINCE THE WEDDING, Zaina had agreed to spend her afternoons in Rabia’s flower shop. Rabia needed to keep an eye on her daughter and Zaina needed to earn her mother’s trust.

  They took the bus together in the evenings, and Zaina got to know this other side of her mother – the realm of her bus friends and their journeys home.

  Rabia loved her shop, which reminded her of her father’s tailor shop. It had sat proudly in the middle of Prince Edward Street, surrounded by sari outlets and fabric stores. The family name was engraved across its brow: Moosa & Son.

  Sometimes, her mother would join her father in the shop, and she would hear them talking in Memon. It was a language she’d never fully absorbed. She’d tried learning it, writing it phonetically, sometimes, in English. But it was like a fragrance that floated in the air between people, and she could never quite grasp it. Maybe that was why Memon people were said to have notoriously long noses: maybe you had to breathe in the entire language, have it traverse your entire body, and then spill out through your mouth as if you’d simply always known it.

  Across the road from her father’s shop was Dr Kamaldien’s surgery. She was a strange woman, with her hair piled high on her head, her white jacket reaching to her knees and her white takkies fastened tightly to her little feet as if she would have to sprint if there was an emergency. Towards the end of the afternoons, Dr Kamaldien’s towering hairstyle would lean precariously to one side, as if it were a melting ice cream. She and her faithful assistant Abdul Kader, or AK, as he was known, knew almost everyone in town, as well as their most intimate stories. His gossiping irritated Rabia’s father no end.

  Rabia’s father’s back was always as straight as his measuring rod, his eyes as piercing as if he could see every stitch of skin on your face, and which to pick at to unravel you completely. He was stern, as most fathers were back then. Rabia and her siblings were afraid of him. It’s always better to be a little afraid of your parents, she thought, wondering if she was too much of a friend to Zaina and was thus partly to blame for this predicament.

  While he was frightening, he still gave them the best he could afford, including a sturdy education. Perhaps he knew it would be the rock they would hold on to when he’d been swept into another world.

  The young Rabia would do her homework behind the makeshift curtain that separated the wondrous dresses and suits of the shop from the space they used to eat, sleep and pray. The musky scent of the small wooden table where she ate her lunch, the feeling of the heavy glass Coke bottle in her hands on sticky summer afternoons, was still with her now, more than thirty years on. She would sit, in her white school uniform, plaits threatening to escape from their blue-ribboned constraints, and feel cocooned from the outside world behind the curtain. She could hear her father’s voice and, beyond that, the hooting of impatient drivers and the clicking of urgent heels on the pavement.

  Rabia’s flower shop had the same musky wood smell now and then, when someone ordered pinecones or twigs towards the beginning of October.

  Clouded in nostalgia, she ate the last bit of her sandwich. Suddenly she remembered a sign she’d read once, when she’d been on a taxi into town – it must have been during one of the bus strikes. Squashed between a woman thrice her size and two giddy schoolchildren, she’d glimpsed the crooked but gleaming red sign as the taxi operator had slid the door shut. It read ‘Nostalgia isn’t what it used to be’. She’d grinned at the irony.

  At times, Rabia resented the memories her parents had left her. The part of town that had been theirs, the cottony scent of her mother, the Sunday-afternoon drives to the beach – each place she’d grown to love had, in missing them, hurt her, making her sick with its sights and smells.

  But as she’d matured, Rabia had become grateful for the happy memories and the lessons only parents can impart. She hoped that in the same way, Zaina would remember her scent or her smile one day.

  While her daughter reminded her of herself when she was younger, she’d noticed a slight roughness in Zaina that she’d seen reflected in other young women. They seemed hurried, oblivious to their tone, rushed in shaping their lives through their cellphones and social networks. They didn’t seem to breathe in long enough to sense a scent or photograph a memory in their minds. What will they remember? Rabia thought. It was true: nostalgia wasn’t what it used to be.

  Zaina didn’t like dealing with customers, but arranging flowers wasn’t that bad, she thought; she wrote stories in her mind while clipping thorns or cutting oasis.

  She saw the way Rabia’s customers loved her, respected her art and sent her thank-you notes. But her transgressions sat awkwardly between her mother and her when the shop was empty.

  Imraan was preparing for an S4I Ramadaan retreat in a rural area and they’d only run into each other twice on campus. ‘After Ramadaan, okay?’ he’d promised, when she’d asked him about meeting her mother.

  She’d agreed, reluctantly.

  Rabia had nodded when Zaina told her this. Zaina couldn’t decide if it was a nod of approval or a ‘let’s see if this guy sticks to his promises’ nod.

  The few days before Ramadaan had a different feeling about them. Spiritually, there was a shifting of the soul, a humility that God had allowed you to experience this time of year.

  For those believers who cleansed themselves of all worldly distractions before they entered the blessed, sacred month, it was almost like purgatory. For others, it was a countdown, a decreasing number of days and hours in which to get all their shopping done and television series watched. In this way, in the few days before Ramadaan, life existed either on pause or in fast-forward. The pauses made you take stock of the year since Muharram, the first month of the lunar Islamic year, and decide how you wished to burn away your sins and bad habits through the beautiful hunger of fasting.

  For lovers, this time intensified their affection as each day hurtled them towards their month-long separation, like a smoker who would have to give up cigarettes. Many looked forward to the haleem and soft naan that were distributed freely at the mosques and parks. The men prepared themselves for the long night prayers, and the Islamic radio station regularly reminded listeners of the benefits of fasting.

  For the maids, it was as if day and night had changed places, with their duties revolving around preparing for sehri and iftaar. Fasting used up much of the madams’ energy and their time was devoted to prayers, so the maids felt that they had a larger purpose: they seamlessly took over cleaning and ironing in quiet flats as televisions were switched on only for the news.

  For Shirin, it was a time when her anger towards the world seemed to cool. She used less make-up, letting a little part of the real her come through. Ismail liked her like that – without the mask.

  Rabia enjoyed these days. She opened the shop earlier and closed earlier. She gave Reggie a little more money.

  For Ruki, her sewing classes were suspended for the month, like a needle in mid-air. She’d become more aware of the cancer and longed to be near her children, and keenly anticipated her beloved Solly’s return from Saudi Arabia in a couple of weeks.

  Joyce walked around Ruki’s green prayer mat, careful not to touch it, and began setting the table for supper. Ruki helped her silently, in their usual routine. As the purple sky swallowed the lemony disc of the sun, leaving fading crumbs of light suspended in the clouds for less than a second, Joyce sang along with a song on the Islamic radio station.

  She enjoyed the excitement of Uncle Solly’s impending return, and the handbags and cloaks he bought her from the blessed land, but the awkwardness that followed was uncomfortable. For most of the year, this place was her home. Their home. But when Ruki’s husband was here, she felt like the proverbial third wheel – an outsider on the inside, trying to make herself as invisible as possible.

  Then, finally, one Thursday, Ramadaan settled on the earth at dusk. It arrived like a season between spring and summer, when the earth took on a cool, balmy tone, and a breeze as soft as chiffon ribboned through the air. ‘Ramadaan mubarak’ messages floated on sound waves from radio stations and across cellular networks, signalling that the new moon had been sighted in Cape Town.

  This year, the days of fasting would be slightly longer than last year, as the sunsets and sunrises stretched apart from each other.

  The month brought with it the familiar clanks of pots and plates, echoing through the misty corridors of Summer Terrace at 3 a.m. Shirin would stare out of her kitchen window as the kettle boiled, watching the tiny lights in other buildings flicker awake. She would check the same ones every day, just to know that someone else in their own world was having sehri, like her.

  Waking Ismail was always a mission. She’d joked when they were first married that he must have been having an affair with the Bollywood actress Rekha in his dreams, and that was why he couldn’t seem to tear himself away from them. This morning was no different, and he rolled himself lethargically out of bed and into the kitchen, half awake. He couldn’t eat much this early, and a cup of tea and cereal would do for him. Shirin was grateful for this. She knew other wives had to wake up an hour earlier just to make fresh rotis and a curry for their demanding husbands. She’d begun to appreciate Ismail a little more, even if she hadn’t become aware of it yet.

  What she had become more aware of as the days of Ramadaan went by was that nobody had made any remarks about her wearing a scarf. She’d walked out that first morning with her hair covered, prepared for a barrage of opinions or surprised glances, even a few whispers, perhaps. The truth was that many women who didn’t usually wear the scarf donned it for Ramadaan, out of respect or merely to do the right thing. After the four weeks, they would uncover their hair, as if it had been in hibernation, and life would resume its usual course. So, when Shirin had walked through the building as if she were on a catwalk in Milan, the women had noticed, and had even exchanged a few raised eyebrows, but they hadn’t thought the scarf-wearing would be permanent.

  Shirin, on the other hand, was finding it a little difficult. She enjoyed choosing which colour would sit on her head for the day, or the style in which to tie it. But she missed the feeling of the wind through her hair. Wearing the scarf made her feel older, too. Someone even called her ‘aunty’ at the fabric store. She shivered at the memory.

  ‘Are you cold?’ Ismail asked her, groggily.

  ‘No. I’m fine.’

  The sehris that followed were the same. A few words, a few bites, and some profound thoughts that appeared in the mind only in the darkness of the very early morning. The sleep that followed sehri and Fajr was the most blissful.

  ‘Hellooo?’ A flamboyant voice rang out. ‘Rabs? Are you here?’

  Zaina blushed. ‘Er, Mom?’ she called.

  ‘Oh, you must be Rabia’s daughter, Zayyana!’ Mrs Rajkumar – Dolly – boomed, throwing herself towards Zaina for a hug.

  Rabia emerged from behind a bush of roses.

  ‘Rabs, sorry, darling, I’ve disturbed you! I can come back later,’ Dolly said, showing no inclination to move.

  ‘No, no, I’m done. How can I help?’

  Dolly set off on her usual rampage about life, love and the awful displeasure of maintaining her massive home. Her little rajah had strengthened his stance on his ‘French vanilla ice cream’, as Dolly now named her son’s paramour, and the wedding was fast approaching.

  Dolly stayed for the better part of the afternoon, describing her horror at becoming a mother-in-law and the possibility of being labelled ‘grandmother’ in the not-so-far-off future. ‘At least the children will be fair,’ she said, consoling herself.

  Despite Dolly’s tactless, unrestricted way of expressing herself – to which Rabia had become immune – she wasn’t alone in her concern. All mothers and grandmothers hoped, first, for healthy children. Many Indian ones followed this with dreams of milky-toned ones, growing even more excited if someone, no matter how distant a relation, had green eyes.

  ‘As long as they’re healthy, Dolly, God willing …’ Rabia said, almost automatically.

  ‘And not tea-coloured,’ Dolly added, winking up at the heavens beyond the ceiling.

  ‘And what deals are we making with Him now?’ AK asked, peering into the shop. He was still Dr Kamaldien’s assistant, and they’d aged together, along with the now dilapidated surgery. Balding and nearing 75, AK made the homeward trek on foot every day, from Prince Edward Street, six blocks away, down to the Esplanade, where he lived in an old apartment building overlooking the harbour. He was always cheerful, yet his ability to involve himself into others’ conversations and add his two cents’ worth (because that’s what his contribution really amounted to) unnerved Rabia. He always spoke about having watched her grow up and knowing she would be different from her family.

  AK wore his forty years of service to a medical professional as if it was a badge that meant he knew everything about the world, and more. Many men were like that when they got older; they became encyclopaedias of assumption.

  ‘I knew your son would marry that girl,’ he told Dolly. ‘And what about your daughter, Rabia?’ he asked, turning to Zaina. ‘When is she getting married? You know, she mustn’t study too much. Our girls become overqualified, and then they can’t find a job or a husband. You must tell her to settle down, start her life. Get into the real world.’

  ‘I’m letting her do what she loves, and that’s enough for me,’ Rabia said, treating AK to the chilly, polite smile that usually ended a conversation. ‘And whether she finds a husband or not is Allah’s will.’

  But AK was immune to subtlety, and completely missed the message Rabia’s face conveyed. ‘“Finds a husband or not”?’ he repeated, in disbelief. ‘Rabia, marriage is said to complete half your religion. She must find a husband one day.’ His judgement of her poor parenting was palpable.