A strange tension also existed between the rich and the not so rich. It would sometimes bother Zaina that her classmates could go whenever they wished in their mothers’ BMWs, or ‘do coffee’ with their privileged friends and cousins. It wasn’t their fault they were rich, but she sometimes felt ashamed to say that she had to take the bus. These tensions ran around the school like playful, naughty children, creating drama on a regular basis.

  Except during Ramadaan. School was different during Ramadaan. Everyone shared Ramadaan equally. It was about cleansing yourself from within. It brought with it a haze of spirituality that required only the number of words that needed to be spoken and the morsels of food required by the body.

  The morning assemblies were shorter because everyone needed to conserve their energy. The teachers were more lenient and the students were calmer, all hanging on to the last bits of strength their sehri power smoothies had given them. There was no rush to parade in front of a boy’s classroom or hurry to the tuck shop.

  Above all, Zaina liked the amount of time she had to focus on schoolwork during Ramadaan. The time saved by not eating or watching frivolous television programmes amazed her.

  Coming home was a highlight. Before iftaar, the time of breaking fast just after sunset, their neighbours would send samoosas, pies or chicken-and-mushroom mini quiches (Zaina’s favourite) to each other, through their maids or their children. The children ran through the corridors as if they were whizzing through a maze, foil packages clutched to their chests. Zaina wished it would never end.

  Her mind wandered into the possibilities of the coming Ramadaan; would it bring her and Imraan closer or would her secret create a distance between her and her mother?

  Back when Zaina was in high school, she and Rabia had been on the same page – work hard and travel. Her mother was the rope that would pull her towards independence. Zaina had never strayed, and the boys she’d flirted with after high school had always seemed so needy, so much more invested than she was.

  Now, she felt stuck between a handsome boy she was attuned to – so in sync with that she felt their hearts beat to the same rhythm – and the structured plan her mother had set out for her. She prayed honestly, tiptoeing on the edge of sin and sincerity. She didn’t know what else to do. She’d promised Rabia that she would never bring shame on her, that she would never risk her mother’s reputation as a single parent by running around secretly with a boy.

  Growing up, she’d told Rabia everything, even about the boys who were interested in her. Now, she could sense a heavy uneasiness between her and her mother. She didn’t want to scare Imraan away by asking him to meet her mother, but at the same time, she didn’t want to anger Rabia by confessing that she was willing to give up their plans to marry this boy.

  Zaina wished she could speak to Billy about this. But she knew what Billy would say: ‘He’s trouble. Stay away.’

  Rumours regularly floated around campus about Imraan. Within the S4I – Students 4 Islam – he was popular, but he was also notorious for being a flirt. He knew how to charm people, be it enticing them into funding his political campaigns or making anyone he was talking to feel like the centre of his world. He was sometimes volatile when he didn’t get his way, but only she knew why; only she had been given some glimpses of his torrid relationship with his father and a mother who’d abandoned him.

  Her love could fix him. Of that, she was sure.

  Fridays were difficult for them. Everyone else was thrilled it was the weekend, a temporary freedom from the musty lecture rooms. Golf GTIs filled with revelling students revved in the parking lot, music blaring from their speakers. But for Zaina and Imraan, weekends meant they would be apart from each other.

  It was too risky to meet in a public place and possibly be seen. Some aunty who knew another aunty who knew her mother would spread the news that they’d seen the divorced lady’s daughter with a boy.

  Besides, Imraan’s father had him doing all sorts of chores and errands on the weekends.

  Weekends were hardest when it came to lying to Rabia. Zaina had to come face to face with her mother over Sunday breakfast, or lazing on the beach or watching television, while this huge secret sat between them. In order to escape these situations, Zaina had tried to disappear into her work, designing the perfect retreat for Vikram Seth. But all she’d managed to do so far was build a dream home for Imraan and herself.

  Architecture was the perfect profession for her in this way. She could live in her head all she wanted, building towers in which she could touch freedom and skylights through which she and Imraan could watch the stars.

  CHICKEN-AND-MUSHROOM MINI QUICHES

  1 tablespoon butter

  1 teaspoon crushed garlic

  ½ punnet of button mushrooms, wiped clean and sliced

  1 small tin cream-style sweetcorn

  ½ cup cream

  3 tablespoons milk

  1 large egg

  2 tablespoons self-raising flour

  salt and pepper to taste

  chilli powder to taste (optional)

  400g readymade puff pastry, thawed

  2 cups shredded smoked chicken

  2 cups grated cheese

  • Preheat oven to 180 °C. Grease a 12-hole muffin pan.

  • In a pan over medium heat, add the butter and garlic. Once hot, add the mushrooms and fry until moisture has evaporated, about 10 minutes. Set aside.

  • In a bowl, mix the sweetcorn, cream, milk, egg and flour. Season with salt and pepper. You can add some chilli powder if you like. Mix well and set aside.

  • Roll out the pastry, then cut out 12 circles using a cookie cutter or the rim of a glass. Push the circles of pastry into the muffin cups, pressing it in to cover the bottom and sides.

  • Put a teaspoon of mushroom mixture in each cup, and top with chicken. Fill up with corn mixture.

  • Sprinkle generously with cheese.

  • Bake until the cheese is crispy and the edges of the pastry start to brown, 25–30 minutes.

  • Allow to cool for a few minutes, then remove with the help of a spatula or the edge of a knife. Serve warm.

  Makes 12

  10

  AS SHE OPENED HER EYES after the Jumma prayer, Zaina promised herself that this Sunday she would focus on her designs and have them ready for her supervisor, Dr Tannen. For now, she finished her duaas, slipped on her sneakers under her abaya, and allowed herself to enjoy the excitement of this afternoon.

  Today was the famous filling-and-folding party held every year at Summer Terrace, and Aunty Julie’s daughter, Zara, aka The Bride, was flying in from Cape Town. Zaina was eager to get home.

  Outside the jamaat khana, in the parking lot, Imraan was surrounded by S4I members. They were discussing that morning’s lecture on the state of Kashmir, or rather, its statelessness. Zaina sashayed past him in her flowing black cloak. Their eyes locked like a soft secret between them, and she smiled only for him. Every communication with him was bittersweet, riddled with passion and guilt.

  As Ramadaan and the exams and holidays drew closer, they could count the days they could spend together. Even if you ‘dated’ as a Muslim couple, you knew not to mess with Ramadaan. That month was for Him. Usually, couples didn’t see each other for that month, when Shaitaan was locked up and so were their vices and desires.

  Reaching her car, she texted him a flirty, Be good this weekend.

  Drive safe. Ur precious cargo, came his swift reply.

  She cruised slowly through the leafy university suburb and then into the crazy Friday rush of town. Her mother’s shop was a street away from where she was, but already she felt the heat of guilt creep towards her. Dodging dangerous taxis, she made it to the beach road behind the hotels, lined with palm trees.

  She didn’t drive often as the car was there for her and Rabia to share when the buses were not running or they needed to do grocery shopping. Zaina used it on Fridays when the taxis seemed drunk on the promise of the weekend or when she had a meeting with her supervisor and needed to transport her designs or models. Usually, Zaina whizzed around town by bus or taxi – then she didn’t have to worry about parking or road rage.

  She liked it, though: the actual act of driving. She was in control. She chose the songs she listened to and, more importantly, she chose the volume. Perhaps she was more like Rabia than she cared to admit. Her favourite song on the radio started and Zaina sang along with Coldplay’s ‘Fix You’.

  Zaina sang, out of tune, until her voice broke on a high note.

  The song seemed to give her a message: that perhaps she hadn’t recognised her worth; that she’d made herself believe she could fix Imraan, but, deep down, she was changing herself to suit him. Her mother would have told her this.

  She wished she could chat freely with her mother about Imraan. She had brought him up once with Rabia. Imraan’s picture had appeared in the Sunday Tribune for the film festival he’d organised for Israel Apartheid Week. Zaina had showed it to her mom, holding up the paper to her across the lounge.

  ‘Er, mom, this guy from campus is in the paper. Look, he’s a nice guy. We’re actually friends,’ she’d said nonchalantly.

  ‘Oh, that’s nice. He’s doing a good job,’ Rabia had said, frowning to get a good look at the boy.

  Brightening, Zaina had stuck her toe in a little deeper. ‘He’s not like other guys on campus – he’s so open-minded, Mom. And … he’s so handsome.’

  She’d gone too far.

  ‘Zayyana.’ Rabia sighed. ‘Open-minded often means nothing. Guys like this, with the looks and the power … I don’t know. They can’t commit to one thing. Wait and see what he grows into, what he does in the real world.’

  Zaina knew which ‘guys like this’ her mother was referring to – the same type of narcissistic man her father was.

  ‘I, for one, think he’s amazing. And someone said … he likes me.’ Zaina’s heart was thumping with boldness. She’d surprised even herself.

  ‘Well, then, tell him to come home and meet me. I’m “open-minded” too,’ Rabia had said, with an eyebrow raised, making quotation marks in the air. ‘Zaina, you have enough time to think about getting serious with someone. Enjoy life, travel, and work hard. Then you can see who’s worthy of you.’

  Clenching her jaw, Zaina put on a more upbeat song and held the steering wheel with determination. Maybe Imraan would gladly accept an invitation and walk into their home proudly and profess his love for her. Maybe. She would have to broach the subject with him carefully. She didn’t want to scare him off.

  Her fingers tapped nervously on the steering wheel. Glinting in the sun, her bracelet drew her attention: she noticed a tiny portion of it had begun to tarnish and turn her wrist green.

  As she pulled up to Summer Terrace, she lowered the volume. Mr Hassim’s ‘Airport Shuttle’ sat proudly in front of the building. He offloaded a few Louis Vuitton bags that bulged at the seams, much like him. Some of the maids rolled the luggage into the building while Robert held the door open.

  Zara, in a long flowing cloak and high heels, and with a scarf around her neck, was standing on the curb with Aunty Julie. The sun shone through the trees and on Zara like a spotlight, as if she was a heavenly creature who’d just descended.

  One day that’s going to be me – the moment I’m sure that I’ll marry Imraan, Zaina thought as she watched the scene. Instinctively, she pulled down the mirror, smoothed down her hair and swiftly smeared on some nude lip-gloss. She waited until Zara and her entourage had disappeared before she walked in.

  The round foyer was abuzz with excitement. Summer Terrace was famous in North Beach for its annual ritual of samoosa filling and folding on a chosen Friday before Ramadaan – samoosas were a staple starter in every Muslim home during the holy month of fasting.

  Ruki had ensured that everyone had placed their orders well in advance, so that she and Joyce could prepare for this – Ruki’s own symphony of samoosa filling. Spats between neighbours were forgotten for those few hours of filling the pastries, and then later filling their bellies over a shared biryani feast.

  Joyce was supervising the positioning of the six gleaming trestle tables across the round foyer. Precious unrolled reams of brown paper over the tables. Violet had given herself the role of supervising Precious, while exchanging voicenotes with her cousin on WhatsApp.

  Kadija, a Malawian maid who worked for Aunty Julie, had cooked hefty pots of chicken and mutton mince, and now transferred them into the lift. Aunty Julie was proud of her maid: she was respectful, hardworking, Muslim and foreign. Not like South African ones, with their grudges from the past and their entitled attitudes, Aunty Julie thought. She trusted Kadija with every area of her home, including the kitchen. She’d taught her how to cut chicken, add spices, sprinkle dhania and roll round rotis. There were no boundaries for a Muslim maid.

  It was clear that the more like your madam you were, the more spaces she allowed you access to and the more money she gave you. Sometimes the maids resented Kadija. At other times they didn’t envy the responsibilities she carried.

  The large pots were carried out of the lift by the maids like the guests of honour, and put at the front of the assembly line. Stacks of paper-thin pur were placed along the first two tables, while large empty containers from each flat sat at the end, waiting to be filled, as if they’d dieted the entire year for this.

  As much as Shirin despised the attention given to Ruki at this time, and her complaints about the samoosa corners not being perfectly pointed or the meat not as lean as she would’ve liked, she had to admit the yearly event of folding and filling was exciting, and it meant she didn’t have to fill these dreadful oily triangles Ismail loved so much herself. Frying the damn things was torture enough. This Ramadaan, she decided, she would make Violet fry them.

  ‘Violet!’ Joyce was shouting. ‘Keep the last table clear!’

  ‘Yes, medem,’ Violet chimed back sarcastically, slowing down even more. As usual, Violet wasn’t keen on doing more work than necessary. She lazily cleared the last table, smoothing down the paper for the women who were going to mix and pack the chevro for the wedding there.

  Joyce knew Violet very well. They’d been close friends, at one point even sharing a room. But as the physical distance between them expanded after Joyce had moved in with Ruki, so too had their closeness. It had devolved into a workable relationship with polite hellos and sarcastic jabs from Violet, but both seemed to stand their ground firmly. So Joyce wasn’t surprised by Violet’s attitude, but this year it seemed that even Precious’s motivation to work was subdued and her head was somewhere in the clouds.

  Joyce set to work herself. ‘Remember, ladies, we’re also making chevro for the wedding, so whoever wants to do that can be at the last table. I put the fried nuts and Rice Krispies and Post Toasties in bowls,’ she said, pointing at the breakfast cereals, ‘and don’t forget to add the vagaar at the end. It’s in that pot.’ Joyce pointed at a silver vessel that held an intoxicating aroma of crispy onions, mustard seeds, toasted jeera, cloves and curry leaves.

  ‘Oh, and in Shirin’s flat they’re tying the kunchas. If anyone wants to get more grey hair, they can do that,’ Ruki laughed, winking at Zaina.

  ‘Ruki! Just send Shaida and Thandi up,’ Shirin snapped back down the doughnut hole. Thandi was Mrs Bhoola’s maid. She seemed as sturdy and round as the building, and she was good at taking orders.

  Ruki, Aunty Julie and Mrs Hassim sat in a row at the table in their post-Jumma-salaah burqas set to work filling each sheet of translucent pur with mince. Then the long, rectangular pastry was wrapped around the mince, repeatedly folded so that the end product looked like the perfect equilateral triangle with sharp corners that could poke someone’s eye out. It was a real talent, honed over generations. The women worked swiftly, their delicate, experienced fingers gaining momentum like a well-oiled machine.

  Kadija ensured the mince was mixed continuously, stirring each pot so that no samoosa was overburdened with dhania or onion.

  Zaina tried her hand at filling and folding, but after some isosceles triangles and one square samoosa, she delegated herself to filling up the empty containers at the end of the table, according to the orders. She decided she was better suited to eating samoosas with Mrs Hassim’s famous green piccalilli chutney. To Rabia’s horror, Zaina ate the pungent mayonnaisy-mint condiment with everything, even two-minute noodles.

  Mrs Bhoola and Laila occupied the last table, where the chevro was being mixed, then adorned with vagaar and bits of coloured toasted coconut and cashews. Covering the bowls required more strength than thin Indian arms could muster, so Violet stretched the plastic over each bowl, showing no mercy to air bubbles. By 1.55 p.m., forty glass bowls had been sealed and stacked for the big day.

  Ruki was proud of her system. More than that, she was satisfied that this exercise brought everyone together. It was the one time of the year the maids and madams sat, worked and ate together, from the same pot, at the same table.

  As she stood back and looked at her neighbours chatting and laughing together, Ruki became emotional. Today was special. This would probably be the last symphony of samoosa folding she conducted. Everyone knew sewing was becoming more difficult for Ruki, as cataracts pulled curtains over her eyes, but only Joyce knew of the cancer that had crept into her breasts and was now ravaging her bones. She complained to her neighbours often about her eyes and debated about having her cataracts removed, but she could never allow herself to be pitied by the sad eyes that would look back at her if she attached herself to the other ‘c’ word.

  The last dozen samoosas were sealed with dabs of lei, a paste of flour and water. Zaina checked the label and filled the last container, a large pink one for Laila. All in all, they’d filled and folded around seventy dozen samoosas.