‘Oh, yes, I wished her from us. She was annoyed she had to work today,’ Rabia said. ‘But when she got off at her stop, her kids were waiting for her with a cake. It was so sweet.’

  They laughed, talking animatedly about their days, savouring the deliciously hot haleem and naan.

  Rabia was impressed with her daughter’s cooking skills. She’d often looked at her across the table, remembering the Grade 1 girl with the missing front teeth, uneven pigtails and wide smile looking back at her. She was a woman now, all of 22 – but still her little girl nonetheless.

  Their friends and family said they looked very alike. ‘Yes, I was copied and pasted,’ Zaina would joke, sometimes a touch resentfully. Rabia was the quintessential Memon lady: fair-skinned, with sharp eyes, a long slim nose, even lips and jet-black hair. Zaina had inherited her mother’s rapier wit, wild smile and long nose, albeit in different proportions. Her eyes, however, were larger and deep-set, her nose was wide as well as long, and her walk lacked the grace of her mother’s delicate gait. It was almost like someone had dropped a JPEG of Rabia into a Word document and stretched it a bit, so that Zaina resembled a stumpy trunk, while Rabia was proportioned like a patriotic, polished Palestinian olive tree.

  Tonight, Zaina seemed ravenous, even tucking into the pie Fatima had sent after wolfing down the chicken jalfrezi and a bowl of haleem.

  What Rabia didn’t know was that her daughter was stuffing her mouth to keep the secret from escaping. Eventually, as she had a spoonful of sweet, heavenly, milky kheer, her secret became subdued and was swept into the darkness of her belly.

  The sewing machine upstairs rattled on as Rabia and Zaina cleared the table.

  ‘Zaina, would you mind going up and giving some haleem to Ruki Masi?’

  It had occurred to Rabia that Ruki might not have had some in a while – haleem wasn’t something you usually made outside of Ramadaan, when it was the most comforting dish on many iftaar tables. It would feed ten people in a night, or one person for ten nights. After much trial and error, Rabia had found a delicate way of halving the recipe, so she and Zaina cooked it often, but there was always leftover haleem, as if the barakah in it overflowed.

  ‘Oh, Zaina, put the haleem in Ruki Masi’s kheer container,’ she said to her daughter.

  Rabia hated the exchange of containers that plagued Muslim women. She wanted no part of it. She didn’t want to owe anyone anything if she died, nor did she want any of her unreturned containers burdening anyone with the pressure of returning them filled. So Rabia either returned containers on the same day, or gave food or treats to her neighbours in disposable containers.

  Zaina threw on her abaya and scarf, and made her way up the stairs, dutifully carrying the refilled container, as conversations and a mixture of spices and incense from each flat floated around her. She could hear Aunty Shaida’s husband shouting at their children while her range of vanilla biscuits cooled outside their flat. Incense burned along a windowsill or two, while aromas of food escaped the walls and danced with each other along the stairs. It was a heady concoction, and she loved these evening scents.

  She waited patiently outside Ruki’s flat after knocking gently. Finally, the door creaked open and she found herself pupil to pupil with Ruki’s suspicious eyeball.

  ‘Um, Ruki Masi, salaams … my mom thought you might like some haleem,’ she whispered.

  ‘Oh, Zaina! Thank you! Walaikum salaam! Sorry, you know how it is. You can never have too much security. Nowadays people just take what they want.’ There’d been some petty theft going on in the building, but nothing too alarming – some coins from a dressing table here and a towel from the washing line there. Still, Ruki was extremely cautious.

  She opened the door a little wider. She was already in her floral pink nightgown, and Zaina was surprised to see her soft, grey hair loose around her shoulders. She suddenly longed for the comforting hugs of her late grandmother.

  ‘It’s okay, Ruki Masi,’ she smiled. ‘Here you are. I hope you like it. I made it this evening.’

  ‘Oh, you made it? Mashallah, Zaina! Learning to cook! Just now you will get married!’

  Zaina laughed wearily. She was used to this conversation. Why was it that once you learned to cook, you were suddenly worthy of a man’s love? It didn’t matter if you were educated or if you had an extra toe: it all came down to your ability to produce food for your man. But you couldn’t say all that to an elder. A Muslim girl had to be polite and know her limits.

  ‘Ruki!’ Joyce’s voice intervened. ‘Stop telling Zaina to make nikkah. She doesn’t need a man now. She is still young. When she wants her life to be destroyed, she can find one.’ She laughed loudly from her room next to Ruki’s.

  ‘I should go,’ Zaina said, smiling and backing away from the door. ‘Early morning tomorrow.’

  As she made her way downstairs, she passed Shirin’s flat. Number 8. The door was slightly ajar for a change. A tune floated out and filled the air. The lustful, raspy words intrigued Zaina as much as they offended Ruki, who believed music was the work of Shaitaan.

  Zaina stood on the spot for a while, transfixed by the song. ‘O Re Piya’ spoke of new love the way only Bollywood movies could. It clung to her clothes and whispered in her ear, like Imraan had done.

  The song stayed with Zaina as she walked slowly back down to her flat, heavy with its words and cavernous bass.

  HALEEM

  ½ tsp ginger & garlic paste

  ½ onion, sliced

  ½ teaspoon jeera

  2 peppercorns

  2 cloves

  2 small sticks of cinnamon

  1 tablespoon oil

  250g chicken, cubed

  ½ packet of Osman’s Taj Mahal Haleem Mix

  5–6 cups water

  1 tablespoon rolled oats

  1 tablespoon lemon juice

  chopped dhania and shallots to garnish

  • In a large pot, fry the onion, jeera, peppercorns, cloves and cinnamon in the oil until golden brown, about 10 minutes.

  • Add the chicken and simmer for 5 minutes.

  • Add the Haleem Mix and toss to coat the chicken well. Simmer for 5 minutes.

  • Add the water and cook for 25 minutes, stirring often.

  • Add the oats and cook for another 15 minutes until it resembles a thick broth.

  • Beat with a whisk until the chicken is soft and shredded and there are no lumps.

  • Remove from heat and leave to cool for 10 minutes, then add the lemon juice and garnish with dhania and shallots. Serve with naan.

  • Freeze leftover haleem in a washed ice-cream container. Alternatively, give Manjra’s a call – they make the best haleem and will deliver.

  Serves 4–5

  6

  MOTHER AND DAUGHTER CHATTED FOR A WHILE, putting the leftover haleem in an ice-cream container to freeze and placing the jalfrezi and rice in the fridge for tomorrow’s dinner. They washed the dishes and laid out their clothes for the next day, as they’d done every night for years, watching bits of the news or soapies in between, before praying Esha.

  ‘Sweet dreams, Zayyana, and thanks for the amazing supper,’ Rabia said, kissing her daughter on the cheek.

  ‘Love you, Mom,’ Zaina replied, retiring to her dimly lit room.

  Rabia sat for a while, doodling a few floral designs for Aunty Julie’s daughter’s wedding in a spiral-bound notebook perched on her knee. Reclining on the couch, she tried to let the hum of the TV make her pencil create something enchanting. But all it managed was the word ‘Zaina’, with some roses around it. Somehow, her daughter’s inability to pronounce ‘Zayyana’ when she was little had resulted in her adoption of ‘Zaina’, and everyone else had then used it too.

  As a little girl, Zaina had been painfully shy. She’d always gravitated to activities that didn’t require socialising. Often, she’d busy herself with intricate puzzles or fat novels, filling her holidays with words and daydreams while other children rode bikes or swam together. Rabia had worried about the way Zaina lived in her head.

  But as Zaina grew, so did her confidence and her circle of friends. She’d embraced her penchant for henna designs and practised new patterns on her friends’ palms, chatting happily. Sometimes she was called to be the henna artist at her friends’ mehndi ceremonies and she made good money there, doing the entire bridal party’s henna.

  This confidence surprised Rabia at times. Somehow, she had a feeling that there were some parts of Zaina so hidden that she wondered if she’d ever get to know her daughter completely.

  Zaina, may Allah SWT keep you safe, she prayed silently.

  Rabia was suddenly struck with a worry. She’d heard that on the Day of Judgement, when Allah calls you forward for accounting, He calls you by your full name. What if Zaina gets so used to her name that on that day she doesn’t recognise her own name?

  A blade of fear ripped through Rabia like electricity. You’re being silly, she told herself. Of course your own child will recognise her name! But she made a mental note to call her Zayyana from now on, just in case.

  Frustrated with the small worries that always seemed to take over her mind and bulldoze any buds of hope she had, Rabia jumped up, switched off the TV, and took to washing the bathroom basin. Even though Precious had cleaned the flat on the weekend, things still looked dirty. There was grime between the shower tiles, and the basins and taps didn’t sparkle like they should. Often, Rabia left notes for Precious, reminding her to do these things, but recently it seemed as if Precious’s mind was elsewhere. It had left the crevices and creases of her flat and wandered off into a greater, more unreachable place.

  Rabia had hoped she would have the courage to ask Precious about it this Saturday. But she knew that, come the evening, she and Zaina would have to redo some of Precious’s work, because they didn’t have the heart to ask her to redo her chores. While Rabia’s sharp wit allowed her to assert herself when she received bad service at a restaurant or closed deals with suppliers, she found herself at a loss when it came to the possibility of hurting someone’s feelings, especially someone like Precious, who seemed to be soft yet strong, like resilient jasmine.

  Dabbling with the thought of confronting Precious, Rabia scrubbed the basin until it was as white as white could be. Her hand was starting to hurt. The soap suds had entered her fingers where she’d been pricked by thorns or scraped by leaves.

  Tears sprang to her eyes. She was surprised by them. It had been a while since her emotions had floated to the surface. Years, even. Since Yacoob’s knuckles had cracked her cheekbone, she’d vowed never to cry for a man or feel sorry for herself again.

  She looked at herself in the mirror, her features softening and blurring through the tears.

  In the next room, Zaina settled into bed and looked at her phone expectantly. Nothing. He hadn’t called or sent a message. He hadn’t been on WhatsApp since this afternoon when he’d texted her where to meet. She checked his Instagram and Facebook. No new posts.

  She swiped through Instagram stories of rich social-media influencers posing with their turbans in Turkey or endorsing the latest weight-loss craze. All the distraction served for nothing, though. She closed her eyes and paged through her day in her mind: the coldness of Joyce’s greeting; the rushed prayer; the way Imraan had held her gaze. The guilt started to crawl back into her pores, heavy on her body like a blanket that was bound to suffocate her. What if Mom finds out? she kept thinking. The shame. The anger she dreaded.

  She willed herself to read her duaas before sleeping, but they felt light on her tongue, as if they held no weight. She felt nervous, frightened, exhilarated. Imraan was like the hurricane in the song. She wondered if he knew the effect he had on her.

  Zaina drifted into a dream about seashells on a distant shore. She tiptoed on them and suddenly she was walking on jagged rocks. Imraan was calling her to him and she ran into the water, cutting her feet. But he kept getting further away. And when she finally looked down, she was in the middle of a fuming ocean.

  Somewhere between the darkness and the dawn, a small light flashed innocently on Zaina’s cellphone. She slept as it twinkled beside her.

  The small, blinking light.

  The tiniest inkling of the biggest lesson Zaina would learn.

  Shirin had heard Zaina’s footsteps slowly tread past her door that Tuesday night and Ruki’s delight over Zaina’s culinary skills. It had been bothering Shirin for a few nights now. Nobody had entered her home just to visit since she could remember. Violet came in every day but that was because she was paid to. She never stayed a minute later than 4.30 p.m.

  Ruby Le Creuset pots gleamed on Shirin’s stove, the mahogany cupboards were smooth as melted chocolate, and the mirrored fridge could give a Woolies pantry a run for its money. Her home was always ready for company. But she had isolated herself. Nobody came to visit any more.

  Even Ruki’s interruptions had become further and further apart, despite the two flats being separated by just a few walls. Walls were strange that way. They could separate a large family from a small one, a warm home from a cold house.

  Shirin hadn’t always been the icy, unfeeling woman she saw now in the mirror. Applying her eyeliner at the ornate cream dressing table, she noticed that strands of grey had crept into the golden hair that framed her face. She made a mental note to get Violet to colour her hair this week.

  Saturdays always started like this. She in front of the mirror. Ismail where he always was – in the lounge, watching cricket or that neverending Champions League soccer on TV.

  Shirin knew what Ruki and the women in the building thought of her. They, in their daily kaftanned and scarved existence, saw her as a childless, uppity woman who thought she was too classy for their company. She’d been disturbed by this in the beginning. But to her mind kaftans were a sign that a woman had given up, surrendered to her home. No, she wouldn’t be one of them.

  The thought of wearing a scarf had crossed her mind more than a few times; she did want to please Allah. There were elegant ways of wearing the scarf, too, but she worried it might make her look older and, God forbid, that younger people would then call her ‘Aunty’ or ‘Masi’. But Shirin displayed no signs of this inner conflict and chose to stay behind her wall of make-up and mystery.

  She’d smiled politely at them when she’d first moved in eight years before, but she’d made no attempt since to engage with them in their exchanges across the floors about recipes and their squabbles over shared domestic workers. She wouldn’t exchange savouries with them during Ramadaan or sweetmeats at Eid, like the other neighbours would. She preferred to either stay in her home or Uber to Vida e Caffé to meet the few friends she had.

  Over the years she’d begun to take pleasure in provoking a reaction out of them, especially Ruki. Ruki always tried to bring Shirin ‘out of her shell’, or ‘into the fold’, as she said, which meant knocking on her door for a chat at the most inconvenient times or talking to her about the high status of neighbours in Islam. But Shirin never invited Ruki in, or returned her dishes, which often contained an array of calories in the guise of samoosas, pies and bhajias.

  Once, Shirin had even refused to accept the plate, saying, ‘Oh, I don’t eat fried food.’ This had infuriated Ruki, and had the women in the building mimicking her snootiness for a week. At least, for Shirin, it was some attention.

  She felt like a bit of a celebrity at times, with the neighbours always wondering how she was going to insult them next.

  Her ‘acquisition’ of Violet had been the last straw for the women of Summer Terrace.

  Violet had been Aunty Banu’s maid for many years. Seemingly sweet, old Aunty Banu often praised Violet loudly while talking to Ruki across the doughnut hole. In doing so, she somehow often managed to praise herself as a madam. ‘You know, I don’t even insist she wears a uniform. That’s how fair I am,’ she would say. ‘We’re all women at the end of the day, heh? Why must I worry as long as she cleans nicely, isn’t it?’ She would nod her head as if in agreement with herself. ‘You know, these young maids talk back. They come with their weaves and fake nails, and they want to eat from a porcelain plate. No, no. My Violet, she won’t even touch my cup, she will eat what I give her …’

  It would go on regularly, while the other women smiled and nodded. Talking back to an elder would have elicited a worse reaction than speaking up for a maid. You had to weigh up these things.

  As much as she ‘praised’ her in public, Aunty Banu patronised Violet in private. She preached about equality and sisterhood, but when there was furniture to move, endless grocery packets to carry or a grimy toilet to be scrubbed, those bonds of sisterhood evaporated.

  Once, when Violet was washing her madam’s bathroom floors by using a mop, bending over to wring out the grey strands, rather than getting down on her hands and knees to do the job, Aunty Banu had loomed questioningly over her.

  ‘I have my period,’ Violet had mouthed to her.

  ‘I don’t pay you to worry about your monthlies!’ Aunty Banu had screeched, the sound from the bathroom windows echoing through the corridors. For the rest of the day Aunty Banu had complained to anyone who would listen that Violet was slow and moody, as if she was a petulant child and not a forty-year-old woman.

  Violet never exacted her revenge overtly, but now and then she left certain things in places she knew Aunty Banu would never think of looking: her reading glasses in the washing basket, or her wudhu sandals in the sons’ cupboard. For Violet, there was a Machiavellian satisfaction in seeing Aunty Banu doubt her own mind or spend a fortune replacing these items. A few days after the purchase, Violet would emerge with the lost item saying, innocently, ‘Medem, look what I found!’

  Aunty Banu’s husband and three sons were no better, all adding their abuse to Violet’s burden of resentment. She carried this load until the evening, when she would swear about her madam in the maids’ quarters and wash all the day’s residue away in the tiny shower.