Mrs Tar had been kind. She’d made garlic-polony sandwiches for Joyce. She’d even let her use her toilet, which she knew from her mother’s tales, was very rare. Joyce couldn’t believe it: a fair Muslim lady like Mrs Tar letting a poor black girl from the edge of the river put her bare bum down on a place where she did, or touch her lips on a glass tumbler that she’d used only yesterday!

  At first Joyce had felt uncomfortable. She’d worried that Mrs Tar would notice her blackness one day and recoil in horror. But that day never came. Every day when she made the journey from her mother’s one-bedroom home to Mrs Tar’s house, she was welcomed warmly by her madam. Often, when she left at 5 p.m., her bag was heavy with old ice-cream containers filled with chicken curry and rice or beans and roti, lovingly packed by Mrs Tar.

  Mrs Tar hadn’t let her husband’s passing make her bitter. Nor did she feel weak from missing her elder daughter, Haseena, who’d married a tycoon in India. Mrs Tar was sweet, like soft, milky burfee – the most wonderful thing Joyce had ever tasted.

  Ruksana, Mrs Tar’s younger daughter, who was eighteen when Joyce first met her, was more like chana magaj: she was sweet, but she had other bits in her that made her rough.

  Joyce’s madam had taught Joyce the ‘right’ way to wash herself after she’d used the toilet, to eat with her ‘right’ hand, to sleep on her ‘right’ side at night, and to shave her armpits and between her legs the ‘right’ way. Everything in this Islam needed to be ‘right’.

  From Mrs Tar, Joyce had learned how to clean a Muslim home and speak like an Indian, not to touch the Qur’aan, and how to cook halaal food. She’d learned the words ‘paak’ and ‘napaak’, and the difference between them. A Muslim home had to be paak, or pure; so pure that angels could visit it. You couldn’t just use the dirty napaak cloth from the bathroom to clean the kitchen or the bedroom.

  People were paak and napaak too, stained by the red dots that flowed out of their bodies, or the pork or alcohol they consumed. Joyce learned to keep herself paak, for the most part.

  There was an art to being a suitable maid in a Muslim home. And in the space of a year, at only sixteen, Joyce had learned it well.

  One day, she arrived at the usually pleasant Tar home and sensed darkness around it. Her heartbeat had quickened. There was a long ominous-looking car outside in the driveway. It was green and it had Muslim words on it that she couldn’t understand, but which she’d seen before in the area when Death was visiting.

  Then she saw the row of shoes outside the front door. She’d learned that this wasn’t a good sign. When there are rows of shoes and sandals outside a Muslim home when it wasn’t prayer time or a khatham, it meant a bad thing had happened.

  Joyce had hesitated for a moment, battling between walking away and facing the sadness. Then she’d carefully placed her sandals next to a pair of grey high heels and walked in. A whiff of camphor hung in the air, like the perfume of an uninvited guest. This, she’d learned, was the scent of the Angel of Death.

  Amid the trickle of whispering women in black, she’d seen Mrs Tar. Lying on the ground, shrouded in white, she’d looked peaceful, as if she was taking her daily afternoon nap. But Joyce knew, by the fact that it wasn’t the afternoon and by the faint purpling around her lips, that Mrs Tar was in the faraway place she used to talk about. It had rivers of honey.

  Mrs Tar couldn’t hear Ruksana’s crying or the gossip of the women in the room. Or the thud of Joyce’s heart when it hit the floor.

  Joyce remembered the women hurrying her into the kitchen, and instructing her to make tea and set the table for the customary meal after the funeral. Nobody had offered her any consolation or thought she’d feel the loss of a woman who’d become like a mother to her.

  That was the first time she’d realised it – that she wasn’t really part of the family. She just worked there. She wasn’t paid to feel.

  ‘Joyce,’ Ruki had said, a few days after the funeral, while they were packing away Mrs Tar’s clothes. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Sad, medem. I am very sad. For you.’ She’d been sitting on the floor, taping up a brown box labelled ‘clothes to give away’ in black permanent ink. Ruki held the edges of the box together so Joyce could seal it closed.

  A tear had meandered down Ruki’s pale cheek. She hadn’t bothered to wipe it away. ‘There’s a man who wants to marry me. Will you come and stay with me?’

  Ruki had been married the following week to a man who looked like a boy. The wedding had been quick, but the image of the sad, small bride in her mother’s red dress that was too big for her, holding her mother’s dusky-pink Qur’aan, still appeared now and then in Joyce’s mind when she looked at Ruki. The wedding had had none of the colourful joy that often accompanied Indian weddings. A fine mist of grief had seemed to settle on every joyous thought. It had muted all the red, purples and greens into a discouraging grey.

  Solly, the boy groom, had decided he would marry Ruki when he’d heard of her grief. He was tall and dark, with a timid gangliness about him that undermined his height. He had kind eyes and a nervous smile. He was immediately likeable.

  After the wedding, Mr Solly’s family had passed kunchas full of jewellery and chocolates down to Ruki’s aunts and cousins, who’d packed them into their cars. Joyce, carrying her small suitcase and dressed in a long printed brown dress and with a scarf tied tightly around her head, had watched the scene from the edge of the long driveway. It had dawned on her that she was being passed down too. She was being inherited.

  Over the years, though, Joyce had come to feel as if she were the one who’d inherited a child. She and Ruki had grown up together, leaning on each other in times of loneliness. Joyce was the one with the strict routines and organised cleanliness; Ruki was more relaxed and unperturbed. Joyce had grown tall and sturdy, while Ruki had expanded horizontally after having two children.

  Finally, Joyce had left her mother’s home for good, and became a mother in this home – a mother who called her daughter ‘medem’. She’d taught the children to read their duaas before eating, and make istinja, and she’d cuddled them when they were sick.

  In the middle of it all, Joyce had had two children herself, who’d grown up under the watchful eye of their grandmother. Joyce had visited them now and then, but she was always drawn back to Ruki. Ruki had paid her children’s school fees. Ruki also paid Joyce well, and she’d also paid Joyce all the credit and gratefulness she was due.

  The two women stifled the awkwardness of this paid relationship with their humour and dramatic role plays; and they fought with each other often, too. But they were the first to protect each other when an ally was needed.

  Joyce did have to draw some lines between them. After all, she was a maid – she was a paid employee. She couldn’t give her heart to this woman, or her religion, or her real name. So she was the stricter of the two. She preferred it that way.

  At some point, though, Joyce’s heart had become attached.

  Pulling herself out of her memories, Joyce heard the sewing machine going at full speed again. She remembered the girl Ruki used to be, and thought about the woman she was now. Ruki had succumbed to the abrasive side of her personality, especially after her children had moved to Johannesburg. But now and then, such as when Mr Solly came home from one of his trips, she would be sweet again.

  Joyce could easily have walked the twenty steps that separated them, and told Ruki about Zaina, but she wasn’t sure how to deal with this. She imagined the exchange would go something like this:

  ‘Um, medem, Ruki, I have something to tell you.’

  ‘Yes, Joyce, what is it? I’m busy now, so be quick.’ Ruki would be focused on her sewing machine.

  Joyce would say, ‘It’s Zaina. She is not gone to the library. She is with a boy. On the beach.’

  Ruki would turn around and stare, not believing her for a few seconds, thinking it was a joke. Then she would imagine some boy eating her Wonder Bars. Then she would criticise Zaina’s mother for her not-so-traditional mothering skills. Then the whole thing would blow up.

  Zaina would cry and blame Joyce. Ruki would be red-faced and horrified that people had seen a Muslim girl sin, and the saga would end with three and a half words: ‘Joyce, you’re fired.’

  No, she simply could not do this. To herself. Or to Ruki.

  CHANA MAGAJ

  2½ cups chana (gram) flour, sifted

  ¼ cup full-cream milk

  2 cups melted butter or ghee

  1 cup milk powder

  1½ cups icing sugar

  pinch cardamom powder

  ½ cup chopped almonds

  ½ cup chopped pistachios or cashews

  handful flaked almonds and edible gold or bronze glitter to decorate

  • Sift the chana flour into a large mixing bowl. Set aside.

  • In a pot, boil the milk with 2 tablespoons of the butter/ghee. Add this to the chana flour and mix until fine and grainy, or process in a food processor until mixture resembles fine breadcrumbs.

  • Melt the remaining butter or ghee in a pot on the stove over medium heat, then add the chana flour mixture, stirring to avoid lumps or burning. Simmer for 25–30 minutes, until the mixture takes on a golden caramel colour.

  • Add milk powder, icing sugar, cardamom and nuts. Mix well and allow to simmer for 3–4 minutes. Remove from heat.

  • Pour into a 22×22cm tray. Sprinkle over the flaked almonds and dust with glitter. Refrigerate until set, 3–4 hours.

  • Cut into small squares.

  Makes 24 pieces

  4

  ZAINA WALKED BRISKLY back from the beach towards Summer Terrace. It was only two streets, but the mix of emotions in her belly and the risk of getting caught made the walk feel unbearably long.

  She passed the mosque on the last turn towards home. She usually enjoyed peering inside at the plush maroon carpets outlined with gold embroidery. Her feet would tingle at the thought of the luxurious cushion of those carpets, and she often would float all the way home, excited to pray. Her prayer mat was a soft pink with silver edges that Rabia had bought her a few years ago during Ramadaan. There, her feet and her heart felt a peace that was unlike any other.

  Today, though, she couldn’t bring herself to look at the mosque as she passed. She was afraid that if she looked up, its minarets would point at her accusingly. She was, after all, a sinner now. She had touched him. The Almighty made it very clear in the Qur’aan that any inkling of lust was a punishable offence. This had been drilled into her during high school whenever a boy and girl had been caught in a compromising position, and the principal had reminded everyone of the ‘consequences of fraternisation in the fiery Hereafter’ during morning assemblies.

  Her heart racing, she reached home. Their flat was a reflection of herself and her mother. Rabia was in the floral patterns in the wood of their settee and the curls in their Persian carpet. And Zaina was in the whites of the walls and the clean lines of the newly refurbished kitchen. People always said their place was cosy. It was a place where people felt welcome – sometimes too welcome because they overstayed their visits.

  Today, though, Zaina walked straight to her room and closed the door. She heard the first notes of the Asr azaan and the abrupt halt of the sewing machine in the flat above.

  Her mother, Rabia, would be home soon. She changed out of her blue jeans and white shirt into a black kaftan. The caramel grains of beach sand innocently disappeared into the beige bedroom carpet.

  Zaina felt the familiar nagging whispers of her conscience tug at her. She silenced them with louder thoughts of trivial things like what television shows were on that night.

  She knew the consequences of her actions and the shame they might bring to her mother. Most of all, she knew the way people would scavenge this meaty bit of gossip and attribute her indecency to having been raised by a single parent. And then there would be her mother’s scathing anger and disappointment. It was why she’d kept Imraan to herself, like a tiny box she opened in secret, relishing its kryptonite existence.

  She tried to reason with herself that perhaps this was all part of some huge fateful event, that she was meant to pursue this. Perhaps she was meant to be with Imraan. If she let her conscience stop her now, she would never know what treasure lay in this new find.

  She knew, though, that the Maker wasn’t pleased. Her mind was with Imraan’s words, but her heart sank and soared between guilt and gusto. Her mind was wrapped around his fingers, brushing against his wayward locks and getting caught up in his soft laughter. Her skin tingled with excitement over keeping this secret as adrenalin shot through her veins. But her heart: deep down, she knew that if it fell from this height, it might never recover.

  She hurriedly made wudhu, scrubbing her hands, face and feet in the icy water that was supposed to purify her before praying. She slipped on her black burqa and prayed four rakaats of her salaah in her room. Her musallah felt hard and unforgiving.

  She was jittery, ashamed of having offered half a prayer. She paced around the flat. Not even the sound of the fish tank in the corner of the dining room calmed her nerves.

  When words weren’t enough, her only solace was cooking something from scratch, while her thoughts floated above her, twisting in a thousand directions. Cooking always seemed to calm her down.

  She busied herself in the black-and-white kitchen, mixing spices and concocting a soothing coconut-milk broth for the spicy chicken. With the addition of the bittersweet green, yellow and red pepper cubes, the jalfrezi exuded an exotic smell, interlaced with regular whiffs of chilli and garlic. She added the tiny black mustard seeds to the pot and watched them cling to the peppery mix and then explode. She could almost taste them popping on her tongue.

  She stirred the pot in time with her emotions, round and round. She felt almost dizzy, as if she would fall. No, this wouldn’t do. She needed to cook something calming.

  In another pot, she threw together the beginning of a haleem, as her mother had taught her. Zaina had loved haleem since she was four years old. It was comforting and nourished empty bellies after a day of fasting: oats, barley and spices, all lifted up by the innocence of dhania, shallot and mint, and tied together in a final flourish of lemon juice. Perfect. But haleem required constant attention or its anger would flare up and scar your home for a week with its burned stench; you had to be careful with it.

  While the oats and barley bubbled away, Zaina couldn’t help wondering if she’d be punished for her ‘intermingling’ with the boy, as her high-school principal used to put it during his ‘fraternisation’ speeches, as if the word created a poisonous taste in his mouth. She’d heard of the stories of relationships before marriage in madressah, and they’d all ended up in a fiery pit in the Hereafter.

  Her knees weakened at the thought, and she sat down in the lounge to wait for Rabia while the pots simmered on the stove.

  Above her, she heard the Singer start up again, shooing her out of her thoughts. She pictured Ruki and wondered if the pitiful old woman had ever done anything sinful in her life. It occurred to Zaina that despite Ruki’s often claustrophobic grasp of tradition and her annoying inquisitiveness, her faith in the Almighty was resilient and was something to be admired.

  One day, Zaina thought, she’ll be covered in plain white calico sheets and put into the ground. People would say, ‘What will we take when we die?’ and expect the rhetorical ‘nothing’.

  But Ruki: she would take the thing she loved.

  Fabric.

  In the centre of town, the afternoon sun drew tall shadows on the pavements like a painter with a long wooden brush. Zaina’s mother Rabia was lost in thought, stabbing the baby’s breath into the oasis.

  This was a strange, dark business. Stabbing and pruning and cutting. Then, suddenly, a wondrous arrangement of petals and leaves would emerge – a snapshot of life, frozen in time, before it all withered. A sacrifice for a smile, she thought. But she loved it. Rabia relished the act of peeling away thorns and sticking things into place just so. It was her own world, and flowers never spoke back. They poked back now and then, but eventually they succumbed.

  Rabia was a simple woman. She was the last of four children, and by the time she’d come into the world, her mother had had enough of naming children, so she’d just named the baby the Arabic equivalent of ‘fourth’. And, true to her name, Rabia called everything as she saw it. She wasn’t going to waste time being polite for the sake of it. She’d learned that that didn’t get you anywhere in life. No, you had to live your life for yourself, mould it to your liking, no matter what other people thought of it.

  Despite her razor-sharp disposition, people were drawn to her and her fragrant, cosy shop in the centre of town. Perhaps they were tired of manufactured smiles and candyfloss conversations about the weather, and required a dose of reality now and then. When Rabia laughed, it was real. She often served up a few painful truths as well.

  Angular and petite, she’d worked hard her entire life – from managing her father’s fabric shop to making a name for herself in the ruthless legal world, and finally to owning her own store, Faith and Flowers.

  Rabia was always moving. She rarely sat down to watch a movie or lingered at the dinner table. If she allowed herself to be still, she always ended up falling asleep, so she’d made it her mission to keep her eyes open and see the world with Zaina. They were always off somewhere; even if it was just a day trip on the bus down the South Coast or a weekend in the Drakensberg, Rabia was determined that Zaina would receive an education in travel as much as a secular one.

  Rabia’s zest for life was unmatched, and at times a little tiring for Zaina, who preferred to read and draw. But that’s probably why Rabia managed to look younger than most women her age. This foray into flowers was her rebirth. Now, flowers were teaching her patience: that it takes time to bloom; that perhaps she could allow herself to find joy in the little things and fully experience her emotions.