Precious was so much more than a maid: she was someone’s mother. That thought had stirred Zaina’s emotions so much that she’d insisted she stay home with Precious that day.

  Together, they’d sat on the couch, watching TV, the morning errand long forgotten. It turned out Precious had a thing for Maher Zain. After Mrs Hassim had WhatsApped some Islamic songs and his popular YouTube videos to her, she’d quite liked the look of him. Zaina couldn’t disagree.

  Zaina had made some popcorn for Precious, together with a weird sandwich of banana slices and peanut butter that Precious had been craving. Precious’s mother used to make those sandwiches for her when she was little, Precious told her. It was the best part of her school day – opening up her lunchbox and biting into the soft banana and lashings of peanut butter between the thick slices of brown bread. It kept her tummy full until the final bell, when she would make the long, dusty walk home.

  Before she died, Precious’s mother had made her promise to finish school and ‘become someone’. If only life turned out the way everyone’s mothers wished it would for their children. Helping her elderly father to raise her brothers, with every obstacle Precious had felt further and further away from her mother.

  For a while, she’d felt she’d let her mother down by falling pregnant. But now she realised what her mother must have felt like, carrying her in her womb. Since her death, this was the first time Precious had craved those sandwiches. It was as if her mother was nourishing her unborn child.

  The next week, the Ramadaan moon began to wane – a little too quickly, as it always does. These were sacred days, filled with more prayer and blessings. Shirin read her Qur’aan religiously at night.

  One Thursday evening, the home phone rang. Ismail and she shared a look, and Ismail answered it. It was Solly. Excited to receive a call from the Holy Land, Ismail fired questions at him. ‘How’s the weather? How’s the iftaar there? How’s the—’

  Suddenly, Ismail went silent. The colour drained from his face. After a few quiet words, he gingerly replaced the receiver. He looked up at Shirin’s questioning face.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she asked, dreading the answer.

  ‘It’s Ruki. She’s passed away.’

  The entire building seemed to suddenly be still. Shirin had to sit down.

  Ismail rushed to the kitchen to bring her some water. He sat next to her, rubbing her back instinctively.

  ‘Solly said she had cancer. Did you know this?’

  Shirin shook her head in shock. ‘Cancer?’ she said, as if the word was some kind of new language. ‘Are you sure?’

  Ismail nodded. ‘I suppose she didn’t tell anyone.’ Ismail thought for a while, trying to recall the details of Solly’s choked-up words. ‘Solly said she just didn’t wake up for Fajr.’

  The realisation seemed to shock Ismail into activity. ‘He didn’t want to send a message on the building’s WhatsApp group. It was too impersonal, and he wasn’t sure Aunty Banu would manage the shock. He asked us to tell people.’

  Putting on his kurtha, he went downstairs to fetch Robert, then the two men buzzed each flat, gently breaking the news. Slowly, everyone emerged in a state of shock.

  Rabia and Zaina couldn’t believe what they were hearing. It was almost offensive to Zaina that the building was still standing, as her mother wept quietly. Zaina’s heart had crumbled, and now that the plug of Summer Terrace had been pulled out so suddenly, without warning, it felt as if the earth should have swallowed it whole.

  Ismail left Joyce for last. He and Shirin made their way to the door of number 10 and knocked quietly.

  Joyce, looking tired, opened it carefully. Shirin and Ismail stood there, holding hands. Shirin’s eyes were red and her burqa hung on her limply.

  ‘And now?’ Joyce said.

  ‘Solly called,’ Shirin said. ‘We have some news.’

  Joyce had wondered about this moment – the moment she would hear that her sister, her best friend, her madam had passed away. She’d made Ruki promise not to leave her alone. Ruki used to chuckle at Joyce’s paranoia, saying, ‘Oh, you’ll enjoy it when I’m gone, no more cotton for you to clean up.’

  Ruki had talked about death a lot. She’d wanted to die in Madina. Joyce had always told her she was mad. If anyone was going to die first, it would be her, Joyce.

  Joyce thanked Ismail and Shirin for telling her, and gently closed the door. She went into Ruki’s room. She looked at her clothes, at her musallah, at her perfume.

  With a low groan, Joyce yanked Ruki’s pillow off the bed and threw it on the floor. Next, she went to the sewing machine and pulled out all the thread, yanking recklessly, ignoring how it burned her palms. She ripped the emergency numbers off the fridge. Eventually, she screamed – one long, loud shout of pain.

  Then she went back into Ruki’s room and picked up the pillow gently. Holding it, she cried. She cried in anger at God, who’d never granted her wishes, but who’d granted Ruki’s wish to die in Madina. She cried in shock, her feet turning cold and her stomach churning. She cried for herself. She didn’t know who she was without Ruki.

  When her phone rang, she stared at it in astonishment. ‘Ruki calling,’ she said, reading the name off the screen. What kind of trick was this? If Ruki was playing games with her, she wouldn’t talk to her for days. At the same time, Joyce sincerely hoped it was Ruki, and that Ismail had heard wrong. Wiping her face with her gown, she answered.

  ‘Joyce,’ came Solly’s voice. ‘I’m sorry to call from this phone but my phone ran out of battery. Listen, I’m calling to see if you’re okay. Did Ismail come tell you what happened?’

  ‘Yes,’ Joyce said, crying anew.

  ‘Joyce, don’t cry. You are not well. Just let the ladies come in and pray. You don’t do anything. I will come with Dilshad in a few days. Promise me you will take care of yourself, Joyce.’

  ‘Yes, I will,’ Joyce said.

  She pulled herself together and took a shower. She soaped and rinsed herself mechanically, wondering how a maid should act in this situation. She imagined how awful it must be for Dilshad, for a daughter to see her mother die. More than that, she was touched by Solly’s kindness; that in his incomprehensible grief, he’d called to check on her. Her heart couldn’t contain all these emotions.

  She emerged and dressed modestly in a black cloak and a black-and-purple scarf that Ruki had given her.

  The women gathered in Ruki’s flat. They trickled in slowly, as if the news had physically injured them. They shook their heads in disbelief.

  The sight of them made Joyce angry. It reminded her of Ruki’s mother’s funeral, when she’d still been expected to clean and serve people. No. She sat there in the middle of the room stubbornly and prayed.

  She was surprised that many madams hugged her and sympathised with her. Many madams made tea for her and offered to help her. The younger maids streamed in and out, cleaning where they could, even though Ruki’s home was spotless.

  The next day Solly arrived. The 1 without the 0. Ismail brought him home from the airport, guiding him through the large glass doors as if he was fragile. Robert brought in his bags, Dilshad following silently.

  Joyce made sure she wasn’t in the flat when Solly returned. She wouldn’t have been able to bear it. She didn’t want him to walk in and feel like he had to be polite to her. She didn’t want to be a living, breathing reminder of Ruki. Now, when she looked back on her life, that was all she could remember. Ruki and her. Why had she let herself become so attached to this woman who was only meant to be her madam?

  Joyce felt nauseous. She threw up in the rusty sink in the maids’ bathroom.

  Solly walked into the flat gingerly. He took in his wife’s sewing machine on the dining table, a piece of fabric she’d placed there, the faint fragrance of the agarbathi she liked.

  Feeling immensely tired, he went to their room. Standing in the doorway, he broke down, falling into sajdah.

  Ismail helped him up. For a thin man with a wispy beard, he was heavy with grief. ‘She was my life. I didn’t spend enough time with her. She was my life,’ he kept saying between broken sobs.

  Dilshad came to her father. ‘Abba, please, you have to be strong. Come now, let’s go into the lounge, you will feel better,’ she said gently, her face as white as a sheet.

  The next two days passed in a blur. Stories of Ruki floated around the building. Even the maids had their own recollections of her. It turned out, she’d sewn them skirts and sent them food. She’d helped one’s son with school fees and another with transport to the clinic.

  Of course, there was also gossip, about how guilty Shirin must feel after all her fights with Ruki.

  In Shirin’s flat, Ismail wasn’t in his chair and the TV was off. He read the Qur’aan during the day and smoked on the balcony with Solly in the evenings. Those words, ‘She was my life, I should have spent more time with her,’ replayed in Ismail’s mind, even when he slept.

  Mrs Hassim’s faatihas were in full swing. She prayed loudly, and sent prayers on voicenotes via the WhatsApp group chat. Sometimes, when death leaves one speechless, people pray to avoid talking about their feelings. Mrs Hassim was one of those people.

  Rabia and Zaina prayed in their home, not wanting to believe they would never hear that sewing machine again.

  It was soon decided that Solly would move to Johannesburg to live with Dilshad. Madams and maids volunteered to help pack up Ruki’s belongings. For someone who’d sewed so much, Ruki didn’t have many dresses, and her patterns and rolls of cotton were neatly ordered. Solly insisted Joyce keep all Ruki’s jewellery. It was still neatly placed in a red box that Ruki had kept since her wedding day. ‘She would want you to have this,’ Solly said quietly. Joyce accepted it, not knowing where to look. ‘Please, if there is anything else you want of hers, it’s yours.’

  Eventually, Joyce decided to take a roll of pink cotton.

  Shirin picked up the shiny pin with the pearl tip and poked it into the scarf. She felt it prick her scalp and winced. Frustration brimmed in her eyes and spilled out. Surely wearing a scarf couldn’t be this hard.

  She’d dreamed of this moment, when she would have the courage to wear one, carrying her beauty underneath it like a diamond whose shimmer was only for herself and Ismail. While she’d confidently flaunted her beauty, it had made her weak. She’d relied on it. Now, it resisted.

  Shirin secretly admired women who could go out to work, or shopping malls, beautifully covered. She’d come across as scathing, critical of those who wore their scarves, calling them old fashioned. She couldn’t believe that some women went out without their war paint on: a woman had to look and feel powerful. Yet she had to admit that she’d felt naked at times, ‘showing off her wares’, as Ruki would say, between the times when she’d revelled in the attention. In fact, she was rather afraid of going out with her hair covered and without make-up on, afraid to be seen as average. But she had to at least try.

  She imagined what Ruki would say, seeing her in a scarf. And what the other women would think. She wondered if people would recognise her or still give her the respect she commanded when she was fully made up.

  Shirin tried tying the scarf again. It was black, like the cloak that came with it, with a pink flower embroidered on the edge. She wrapped it around her head twice, covering the glints of her sun-drenched hair. The pink flower sat on the side of her head, in line with her sharp eyebrows. Carefully, she pinned it in place. Then she applied some eyeliner and lip gloss.

  Ismail was waiting for Shirin in the dining room. ‘Come sit next to me,’ he said, pulling out the chair next to him and waiting until she was comfortable. Then, looking at her seriously, he stammered, ‘I just … Seeing Solly like that … You and I are together in this flat. But we are not together, you know?’

  Shirin nodded and her eyes filled with tears. She didn’t know why she was crying. It was the pain of losing him, losing their baby, losing Ruki.

  ‘Shirin, I don’t want to have any regrets. I don’t want to regret not spending time with you.’

  Shirin smiled. ‘I know, Miles.’ It had been years since she’d called him that. ‘I lost you,’ she said softly.

  ‘I let go,’ Ismail said, shaking his head. ‘All these years I was stuck in the past, I blamed you. But all that doesn’t matter. I don’t want to exist next to you, I want to enjoy life with you.’

  Shirin smiled. ‘Me too.’

  ‘Do you still love me?’ Ismail asked. ‘Or is it too late?’

  ‘Miles, I do love you. We just need to find each other again.’

  ‘I’m willing to try. Can I take my wife out for iftaar?’ Ismail asked, blushing a little.

  ‘I’ll check my diary,’ Shirin laughed, wiping away her tears.

  RABIA AND ZAINA’S GULAAB JAMUNS

  3 cups sugar

  1½ cups water

  2½ cups flour, sifted

  2 teaspoons baking powder

  ½ teaspoon elaichi powder (ground cardamom)

  2 tablespoons ghee, melted

  1 pinch bicarbonate of soda

  1 tin condensed milk

  oil for frying

  desiccated coconut for rolling

  • To make the syrup, melt the sugar and water gradually in a pot over medium heat, stirring. When it reaches a sticky yet runny consistency, turn off the heat.

  • In a large bowl, combine the flour, baking powder, elaichi, ghee, bicarbonate of soda and condensed milk. Mix together to make a soft dough. Set aside for 30 minutes.

  • Fill a deep pan with oil and bring to a simmer over medium heat.

  • In the meantime, mould the dough into small balls, then taper the edges with your fingers so that the jamuns look long and elegant. Fry them in the oil, turning them with a fork until they are golden and crispy, 15–20 minutes.

  • Remove from the oil, dip in the syrup and roll in the coconut.

  Makes 24

  23

  DR TANNEN WAS BECOMING INCREASINGLY IMPATIENT and worried that Zaina would miss her deadlines, but Zaina’s anxiety crept into her legs every time she set foot on campus. She felt like throwing up. Finally, however, she summoned the courage to present herself at her supervisor’s door, and she did so without encountering Imraan or the sparkly girls.

  ‘I was beginning to worry there, Zee,’ Dr Tannen said, marvelling at Zaina’s designs, and the intricate models that sat delicately on the masonite board, ‘but this is amazing! I’m so proud of you. At this rate, you’ll graduate in a few months and be able to start your internship.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be happy to be out of here,’ Zaina said, smiling.

  ‘Not too happy, I hope? You should lecture here some time.’

  Zaina felt like she’d entrusted her broken heart to Allah and her mother’s words, and had managed to accomplish something. She left campus feeling much better.

  She took the long way home, through town and along the beach road, listening to some Maher Zain. But as she took the turn into Summer Terrace, she saw Imraan’s car parked alongside the beach. She willed herself not to look around but she couldn’t help it. In the spot where she and he had regularly met, he sat. Next to Naaz.

  Her chest felt like it might explode. Instinctively, she ripped off the bracelet he’d given her. It had turned completely black now. She threw it out the window.

  Parking the car at the base of Summer Terrace, she bent forward over the steering wheel and cried.

  Across the way, Joyce sat in Thandi’s small room. It was a hot day, a sign of the summer to come. She was resting on the bed, the door left open to let in the breeze.

  She and Thandi had both noticed the small car pull up, and waited expectantly for Zaina to get out. But no one had emerged.

  Worried that Zaina was ill, Joyce walked over to the driver’s side and knocked on the window. ‘Zaina?’ she called sharply. ‘Are you okay?’

  Zaina looked up. Joyce could see she was crying.

  ‘Open the door,’ Joyce commanded, pointing to the passenger side, then she walked around and let herself in. Sitting next to Zaina, she asked gently, ‘What is it, my child? I have never seen you cry like this. Tell me.’

  ‘Everything is messed up, Aunty Joyce. It’s all screwed up. And Ruki had to go and die.’

  ‘My girl, I know this is not about an old aunty. This must be about that stupid boy.’

  Zaina nodded. ‘I loved him. I still love him. And it’s like I was nothing to him,’ she cried. ‘My heart is completely broken. He doesn’t even care.’

  There, between the worlds of madam and maid, they sat in the little car in the parking lot. Zaina told Joyce everything. Joyce in her infinite wisdom reminded her that a mother would never let her child into a lion’s den; that Rabia could tell that Imraan would hurt Zaina; that a heart may break, but it would heal with time, even though you may remember that person often. ‘Trust in His plan,’ Joyce said, remembering Ruki’s mantra. ‘There is better to come.’

  That evening, when Rabia arrived home, she was happy to see that Zaina had regained some of her passion for cooking. A shepherd’s pie bubbled in the oven, cheese melting across the top.

  ‘Oh, my goodness, my tummy has been rumbling all day. I can’t wait for iftaar!’ Rabia said. She knew it wasn’t the best thing for a believer to complain of hunger, but she could confide in Zaina.

  At the iftaar table, laden with cold water, dates and grapes, and crispy golden samoosas from the filling-and-folding Friday, mother and daughter waited for the azaan.

  ‘Mom,’ Zaina said seriously. ‘There’s one more thing I have to tell you.’

  ‘Oh, Zaina, I can’t handle another shock,’ Rabia said, clutching her chest. ‘Okay, just tell me.’

  ‘You were right. The all-white room is too much! I can’t even open my eyes in the morning. I swear I won’t make it through December!’

  Rabia laughed. ‘Say that first part again!’

  Zaina rolled her eyes. ‘You were right.’ Then she said, ‘I want it to be Moroccan blue, and I need blockout curtains. Will you help me shop? And will you help me paint?’

  Eid hung sadly over Summer Terrace. The residents didn’t know how to celebrate the end of Ramadaan when Ruki’s life had also ended in that month. Shirin suggested an Eid breakfast in the park. Let’s do something together, she typed on the WhatsApp group. It was surreal to see Ruki’s name still there on the group chat, as if she would respond at any moment.