Stirring the Pot Read online

  Ruki lived on the second floor, in number 10, above Zaina. People joked that Ruki and her husband Solly were the perfect ten: he a thin pencil of a man, and she the round ball that rolled along contentedly next to him. He’d sold his business as an Islamic bookstore owner five years before, and since then headed Umrah tours four times a year, leading retired men and women slowly around the Kaaba, handing them zam zam water, and quietly acknowledging the glint in their eyes that told that this may be their last pilgrimage.

  When he’d first started leaving home for three weeks at a time, Ruki had seemed a bit aimless without him, like a zero with no other number to give it value. But now she occupied herself with a variety of activities and made sure that she was useful. She knew her worth.

  She kept the minimal amount of furniture in her flat, as her mother insisted a good Muslim woman was a simple one; ‘What will you take with you when you die?’ her mother had always asked, rhetorically. Besides, the neighbours said she needed all the space for her and Joyce’s personalities, which lived in every room.

  Where people usually had a television in the lounge, Ruki had her sewing machine. The old Singer, which sang out of tune and vibrated the entire floor at times, matched its equally life-battered owner.

  Ruki didn’t understand why people had an entire room dedicated to the television: it was a tool of Shaitaan, just like cellphones and haraam things on the internet.

  From where she stood in Ruki’s lounge, Zaina could still hear Ruki’s faint annoyance. She’d now moved on to how sad it was that society was losing their culture and Islamic values.

  Running late, Zaina texted Imraan.

  Me too, came the instant response. See you at 3.15.

  With the extra time, Zaina suddenly felt she’d regained control of her day.

  Ruki set Zaina’s full bowl of kheer, wrapped in clingwrap for the journey back to her flat, on the sideboard and positioned herself at the sewing machine again. ‘See, Zaina, I’m going to alter that beautiful Punjabi suit for Aunty Julie’s daughter,’ Ruki explained, pointing at a teal-and-gold garment that hung over the couch. ‘A bride must always be shy and cover her hair. Even if she is educated.’

  There hadn’t been a bride in Summer Terrace in ages. Everyone was anticipating the wedding festivities and imagining what the bride would wear. Aunty Julie was already in a panic, and had asked Ruki to add sleeves to some of her daughter’s outfits to ensure they were modest.

  ‘But now I’m making a cotton burqa,’ Ruki added, turning back to the machine. ‘There’s nothing as cool as pure cotton.’ Her attention on the fabric, she continued, ‘Why must girls today be so … modern? They walk around with degrees around their necks, questioning religion in their hearts. They think Allah will say, “Okay, bheti, you are educated, you don’t have to cover your hair.” As if knowledge will bounce off your head if your scarf is in the way.’

  Ruki wore her hair like she wore her tradition: perfectly rounded into a bun, at the nape of her neck, draped in one of the well-matched scarves she’d bought from the Durban Islamic Souk last December.

  ‘They say big-big words like “emancipate”, and that they want Muslim women’s voices to “be heard”,’ she complained. ‘If I wanted my voice to be heard, I would open my kitchen window and scream my head off about all the problems Shirin is giving me, or I could even send one big, big message on the building WhatsApp group and then everyone here would have fresh gossip to feast on for the rest of the week. But me, I protect my izzat. Nobody can say I don’t have that.’

  Ruki knew she was being harsh, but Zaina had to be educated about these things nobody taught you in college. She was happy she’d worked it into the conversation. The best place to learn life’s lessons was in your lounge, from your family. They’ll tell you the truth. Your friends will tell you that you look perfect, but only your family will tell you when you’ve got methi bhaji in your teeth.

  ‘Your generation,’ Ruki said, pointing a pair of scissors at Zaina, ‘you all think you can study till the cows come home. But let me give you some advice. You girls must do something useful, like teaching, or baking or sewing – you know, something you can do from home. When you get married, you’ll be the queen of your home. It doesn’t matter how many degrees you have, the way you run your home and raise your children is the main thing. I’m only telling you this because you and your mommy are like my family, otherwise I wouldn’t say anything. You can do this, uh, Master thing, but then you must also think about a mister, eh?’ She chuckled at her own wit. ‘You must remember what boys look for.’

  Zaina bit her tongue. Hard.

  The pin between Ruki’s lips bobbed self-righteously up and down as she spoke, like a silver cigarette that had etched itself there over the years. Zaina couldn’t remember her without it. Sometimes she saw it when it wasn’t there. She’d never known a time when Ruki didn’t sew her own clothes. Her pants and long dresses reflected her affinity for all things pastel, as well as their ability to accommodate a growing waistline.

  Ruki was an expanse of a woman. A doughnut. Zaina felt as if she was going to be absorbed into her every time they hugged, enveloped by her Omo-scented softness and the slight vibration of Ruki’s chuckle as it reverberated through her body. There was a naughtiness about Ruki’s smile that hinted at a mischievous past. Her eyes, which sloped down like crescendos into silence, bore the warmth of a balmy night, but if you looked hard enough, they also hid a twinge of sadness.

  Ruki’s life existed in fabric. She wielded her needle at anyone who dared to disturb its pattern. She designed her ideal life in the wedding dresses she created, painstakingly adding beads and lace until the frothy fairy tale was told. She turned old cocoons of saris, laden with memories, into glittering new skirts that fluttered freely in the breeze.

  Sometimes, when life tore a hole through her favourite quilt, Ruki would sit bent over her sewing machine, late into the night, patching it back together. This is what Ruki knew the young girls would have to learn. They were carefree, spending their Saturday mornings in her flat, learning to sew, and exchanging stories about school and future husbands. But in the end, Ruki knew, they would all have big-girl problems. They would have to know how to stitch their lives back together, cover their beauty and their bruises with shimmering fabric, and smile.

  A smile could ward off the most inquisitive neighbours, deceive the TV-licence inspector and seduce your husband when you’d burned his favourite food, all in one day. It was the most useful talent a Muslim woman had. And she must use it.

  As the Singer wheezed and Ruki paused to allow it to catch its breath, the hum of an Islamic naath echoed from the lift. A familiar rhythm of sandals slapping the floor of the corridor followed it and grew louder. Joyce.

  ‘Ruki! I just cleaned this place and now you’re busy sewing again!’ Joyce bellowed as she squeezed herself through the door, carrying an overloaded washing basket in front of her like a long-overdue pregnant woman. She frowned at Ruki crossly.

  ‘Oh, look, Zaina! My mother-in-law is checking on me again,’ Ruki laughed, waving her scissors in the air, cracking a smile into Joyce’s hard exterior.

  Zaina grinned. She was beyond grateful for the interruption. She might actually have a chance to leave now.

  ‘Ja, ja. In this building I’m the only mother-in-law doing all the work, neh? Now don’t throw all your pink cotton on the floor, I’m not going to sweep here again. Kassam!’ Joyce had the face of a school principal: sharp enough to elicit compliance, yet soft enough to confide in. She acknowledged Zaina with a slight nod.

  Zaina smiled back, a little taken aback at the cool greeting instead of the warm hug she usually received. For a second she wondered if something was wrong, before dismissing the thought. Joyce must just be tired.

  ‘Jee, Ma,’ Ruki said solemnly, imitating an innocent daughter-in-law, as Joyce eyed her sarcastically and busied herself in the spare room.

  Ruki bent down to pick up a few strands of cotton that had waltzed around the shiny parquet floor as the door closed. Her mood with Joyce’s arrival had seemed to lighten. She exhaled loudly as she stood up, curling the cotton around her finger. ‘That one,’ she said, smiling and nodding her head in Joyce’s direction, ‘she is the madam of my house. Anyway, come. I have something for you.’

  Following Ruki into the kitchen, Zaina took in the spotless grey granite counters and white cupboards. The infamous incense burner, which was the source of much controversy on Jumeraat, sat innocently on the windowsill. It knew nothing of Shirin’s coughing attacks or the clouds of smoke that alarmed even Robert after all these years. No. Nobody messed with Ruki’s traditions.

  Steam billowed into the clear air as Ruki opened the pot of freshly made chicken curry. Coriander. Chilli. Cumin. They combined and marched into Zaina’s senses, taking them on a surprisingly warm, exotic journey into her grateful stomach. ‘Wow, Ruki Masi, you’re such a great cook!’

  ‘Me?’ Ruki chuckled and blushed crimson, closing the pot. ‘This is all Joyce,’ she said, checking if she had rice in the fridge. From the fridge door, Ruki’s children, Dilshad and Tariq, smiled at Zaina from some exotic location, frozen in time under a magnet. ‘She even made this phudina chutney,’ Ruki said, holding up a plastic jar. ‘That’s why all the other madams want her. Thirty-six years we’ve been together, Joyce and me, like sisters.’ She held up both her index fingers and joined them.

  Ruki seemed contemplative for a second, looking at her hands, as if she’d remembered another version of herself she’d left behind somewhere. For an instant this childlike gesture made her seem smaller: a daughter who’d lost her mother.

  Ruki made a swatting motion, perhaps waving the memory away. ‘Anyway, she came with me to the butchery and the vegetable market, and we bought all the ingredients for the filling and folding on Friday,’ she said. ‘You must come, huh?’

  ‘Jee, I will,’ Zaina said, genuinely.

  Ruki was famous for that one chosen Friday before Ramadaan every year, when all the women would gather in the foyer and prepare the samoosas. Zaina had to admit that certain traditions weren’t as painful as others.

  Maybe Ruki was right. About izzat and sharing. Perhaps some things were better left unsaid. Mystery was what made something beautiful. Was it not the mystery of what women wear under their flowing black cloaks or the secret of what beauty lies beneath the veil that kept men guessing? The most beautiful women she’d ever seen were those who looked like they held the secrets of the world in their eyes, the only part of them they allowed others to see.

  Zaina lingered on this idea a moment longer than she should have, and allowed herself to slip into a memory of Imraan. She wondered if he thought about her in this delicate way.

  ‘Arreh, Zaina! You’re blushing like a ripe tomato! What’s happened?’ Ruki asked with a playful enthusiasm, closing the fridge door. Dilshad and Tariq gazed down knowingly at Zaina from their magnetic shrines under the ‘Frost-free’ sign.

  ‘Um, no, Ruki Masi, I just realised I’m late for something,’ Zaina said, looking at the clock on the kitchen wall. She straightened up, hoisting her brown bag over her shoulder and absentmindedly slipping a stray lock behind her ear.

  ‘And what is this something you’re late for?’ Ruki asked, peering inquisitively into Zaina’s eyes.

  ‘Oh, I’m just going to the library with Billy.’

  Satisfied with this answer for now, Ruki rummaged through her snack container on the counter and stuffed two blue Wonder Bars into Zaina’s hand, before leading her out the door.

  CHICKEN CURRY

  1 medium onion, thinly sliced

  1–2 black peppercorns

  1–2 cinnamon sticks

  ½ teaspoon jeera seeds

  2 tablespoons oil

  500g chicken cubes or 6 medium drumsticks

  ½ teaspoon ginger and garlic paste

  ½ teaspoon salt

  ¼ teaspoon turmeric powder

  2 medium tomatoes, liquidised

  1 teaspoon chilli powder

  ½ teaspoon Osman’s Extra Special Dhania & Jeera Powder

  3 potatoes, peeled and quartered

  ½ medium-sized butternut, cubed, or 1 cup mixed veg (optional)

  1 cup water

  dhania to garnish

  • Braise the onions, peppercorns, cinnamon sticks and jeera in the oil until the onions turn soft and golden brown, about 10 minutes.

  • Add the chicken and ginger and garlic paste to the pot. Mix and leave it to braise for 5 minutes.

  • Add the salt and turmeric. Mix well and leave to cook for 10 minutes.

  • Add the tomatoes, chilli powder and Dhania & Jeera Powder. Mix.

  • Add the potatoes, butternut/mixed veg (if using) and water. Leave to simmer for 20 minutes, until the potatoes are soft and the gravy is thick.

  • Garnish with dhania and serve with basmati rice, rolls or roti.

  Serves 4

  3

  IN RUKI’S SPARE ROOM, Joyce hummed a familiar naath and folded the clean T-shirts into squares. She rolled the socks into balls, hung up the tired pants on the hangers, and draped the colourful kaftans on the handles of the cupboards, just the way Ruki liked. She knew each thread by heart, and her fingers had grown fond of the softness of these fabrics. Her knees had become accustomed to kissing the gleaming floors as she cleaned them, and Ruki’s language rolled easily off her tongue when she sang or answered the phone with a confident ‘As-salamu alaikum’.

  Recently, she’d been preoccupied with this whole Zaina business. Joyce had heard Zaina lie many times. She’d even seen her with the boy, holding his hand in the park. But Zaina had been oblivious to Joyce’s presence. Joyce was used to that – being invisible – even though she was tall and imposing, her skin the colour of mahogany.

  Ruki saw Joyce, though. In each other, they realised they were getting older. Often, the flat was spotless, but their relationship had always been about more than housework. They needed each other.

  As Ruki’s diabetes had set in and her husband had set out on more trips, Joyce had moved from the maids’ quarters into Ruki’s second bedroom.

  Before this, Joyce had lived in the second storeroom with Thandi. It was a small, bare space that they’d brightened up with pictures of smiling family members and colourful bed linen. Of course, it was a pain to wake up in the middle of the night and walk down the passage to the communal toilet during freezing winters, but they’d kept it clean, and they had regular running water and electricity.

  Often, the maids would bring the leftover food their madams had given them and eat together in Joyce and Thandi’s room, or watch TV on the old Telefunken that sat on top of the cupboard. They all had each other. They had a place to call their own. They knew their place in this world.

  Joyce had ruled the maids’ quarters: she’d made sure it was clean and warm, and that none of the maids let their boyfriends stay over, and that new young maids were taught about cleanliness of Muslim homes. So five years ago, when the news had filtered through the corridors that Joyce was moving in with Ruki, eyes had widened and the gossip had begun to flow. The parking lot between the building and the maids’ quarters was the boundary between them and their madams. Until Joyce had dared to cross it.

  The move had sat uneasily with all the women of the building. For the madams, it was unthinkable: a madam must know her place. For the maids, it was absurd: Joyce might have been the matriarch of maids, but she was still a maid, and a maid must know her place.

  Violet, who lived in the first storeroom, had shouted at Joyce the night she’d packed her suitcase and taken her family pictures off the brick wall. Her voice had echoed off the metal doors. ‘Go! Go be a slave to your medem night and day!’

  ‘Vi, please. She is alone. She is my family.’

  Thandi had sat in silence on the single bed across from Joyce. Thandi with her narrow shoulders and slender neck holding up her noble head. Her eyes were slanted, as if she’d laughed too much for one lifetime, and she had a mouth that told the sharpest jokes. The rest of her body, however, didn’t seem to share the joke, expanding into large hips and heavy thighs, ending in bulky feet that seemed to slow her down.

  ‘You will never be family!’ Violet raged. ‘You are a worker! She is paying you to care. Never forget that. And she will use you until she doesn’t need you any more. You sellout! Just go. Hamba!’

  In the next room, Kadija, Gracie (who’d since found a job at a daycare centre, and moved out) and Hlengi sat silently, unmoving, until they heard silence and there were no more words left. You didn’t get in the middle of elders’ quarrels.

  Whatever Violet thought or said, Joyce and Ruki knew they needed each other, and Joyce duly moved into Ruki’s second bedroom. They went grocery shopping together, liked the same programmes on the Islamic radio stations, and folded samoosas like sisters.

  When Joyce’s blood pressure made the room spin, Ruki, her anchor, was there, checking on her throughout the night, just as Joyce had checked on Ruki for the last four decades, give or take a few years.

  Thirty-six years today, Joyce thought to herself.

  Joyce’s entire life, her adolescence and her adulthood, was wrapped up in this woman. Her friend. Her madam.

  Joyce’s mother had grown old, and arthritis had crept into her fingers until she could no longer hold the scrubbing brush or braid her own hair.

  On a frosty July morning, when she was just fifteen years old, Joyce had thrown away her name. Nonkululeko. It had fallen down into the drain of their broken shower with the sparse drops of lukewarm water, its melody, its syllables clanking against the pipes like tin until they’d disappeared deep into the earth and she could hear them no longer.

  ‘Joyce,’ her mother had said. It was easy to pronounce.

  Her mother had made her wear a green-and-white cotton kitchen-coat that barely covered her knees, and had given her R5 in case she needed it. Joyce had set out from her home on the banks of the Umgeni to look for work, climbing the ascent to Reservoir Hills, a green suburb that sat proudly overlooking the river. She’d found it at the very first house she went to. Tall, thin Mrs Tar had opened the door and taken pity on the fragile black girl with the worried eyes and pursed lips.