brother who lived in Edinburgh. She didn’t go out to work and I could see why she had so little English.
We were only in a few minutes when Nazima called Shameena and the two of them disappeared into the kitchen before reappearing with bowl after colourful bowl of food, enough for a maharaja’s feast. Pakoras and samosas and bowls of rich, dark, curry. Indian vegetables and naan breads and popadums. Brightly coloured sweets, rolled in coconut and coloured yellow and pink and green like the tail feathers of an exotic bird.
Nazima motioned us with swift little hand movements and smiled into the carpet. Her son, Tariq, had been delayed and wewould start the meal without him. This could be tricky. Da was a stew and mince and tatties man. But he surprised me the way he not only ate, but enjoyed, the feast that was put before us. Da always did like colour. He loved the richness of the clothes Nazima and Shameena wore, the intensity of the colours and the sparkling threads of gold and silver that ran through them. He loved the exotic sweetness of the sliced mango on the table, and what, to him, was the fire of the curries. Specially mild dishes, Khadim said, for his new friend Joseph. I felt a bit touched by that; I had never known Da to have a friend.
Da laughed and said he’d never tasted anything as delicious as this Kashmiri chicken with its mouth-watering mixture of spices and bananas and pineapples. He was in such good humour that night. Halfway through eating, Tariq arrived home. When the door opened and he walked in, I nearly dropped my fork. Sarah was sitting opposite me with her back to the door and she clocked my stare before she turned to see who had come in. When she turned back to the table she gave me a little grin of amusement, and I flushed with annoyance and glared at her, kicking her lightly under the table.
He was gorgeous. Tariq would have been about eighteen or nineteen then. His eyes drew me, great dark pools that seemed older, deeper, wiser, than the rest of him. He wasn’t that much older than me and Shameena really, but there was something about his eyes that put him in a different league from us and the spotty youths we hung around with. Despite his slenderness, Tariq seemed like a man rather than a boy, and that was irresistible to an almost-sixteen-year-old girl.
I found him deeply attractive but underneath the warm, golden tones of his skin it was obvious that he was not well. He movedslowly and seemed breathless with the least exertion. Nazima fussed the minute he came through the door, and sat him down and laid bowls before him like he was an honoured guest, and he smiled a slow, warm smile at her and told her not to fuss. He sat next to me and turned those huge dark eyes on me and nodded.
Tariq had been born with a congenital heart defect. Doctors told Khadim and Nazima that he would be in a wheelchair when he was a teenager, but see, they said, he was not in a wheelchair. Allah was good. They thought he got better all the time. But he needed an operation soon. They prayed all the time for their son, said Khadim, and Nazima closed her eyes and clasped her hands as if in prayer.
“They’re not kidding either,” said Shameena, under her breath to me. “All the bloody time.”
Tariq heard her and grinned lazily at his sister. I glanced up quickly to see if Khadim had heard too, but he was too busy encouraging Nazima to spoon more Kashmiri chicken onto Da’s plate.
“We go to church every week too,” I said.
“Just once? You’re lucky. We pray five times a day and go to the mosque at least once a week.”
“God!” I said
“No, Allah,” grinned Shameena and we both giggled. “The only time I don’t have to go is you know… that time of the month,” she whispered to me behind her hand, so that nobody else could hear.
“What?”
She shrugged.
“That’s the custom. Don’t ask me. I don’t complain. I had two last month.”
I laughed, choking on a chunk of naan
We were only in a few minutes when Nazima called Shameena and the two of them disappeared into the kitchen before reappearing with bowl after colourful bowl of food, enough for a maharaja’s feast. Pakoras and samosas and bowls of rich, dark, curry. Indian vegetables and naan breads and popadums. Brightly coloured sweets, rolled in coconut and coloured yellow and pink and green like the tail feathers of an exotic bird.
Nazima motioned us with swift little hand movements and smiled into the carpet. Her son, Tariq, had been delayed and wewould start the meal without him. This could be tricky. Da was a stew and mince and tatties man. But he surprised me the way he not only ate, but enjoyed, the feast that was put before us. Da always did like colour. He loved the richness of the clothes Nazima and Shameena wore, the intensity of the colours and the sparkling threads of gold and silver that ran through them. He loved the exotic sweetness of the sliced mango on the table, and what, to him, was the fire of the curries. Specially mild dishes, Khadim said, for his new friend Joseph. I felt a bit touched by that; I had never known Da to have a friend.
Da laughed and said he’d never tasted anything as delicious as this Kashmiri chicken with its mouth-watering mixture of spices and bananas and pineapples. He was in such good humour that night. Halfway through eating, Tariq arrived home. When the door opened and he walked in, I nearly dropped my fork. Sarah was sitting opposite me with her back to the door and she clocked my stare before she turned to see who had come in. When she turned back to the table she gave me a little grin of amusement, and I flushed with annoyance and glared at her, kicking her lightly under the table.
He was gorgeous. Tariq would have been about eighteen or nineteen then. His eyes drew me, great dark pools that seemed older, deeper, wiser, than the rest of him. He wasn’t that much older than me and Shameena really, but there was something about his eyes that put him in a different league from us and the spotty youths we hung around with. Despite his slenderness, Tariq seemed like a man rather than a boy, and that was irresistible to an almost-sixteen-year-old girl.
I found him deeply attractive but underneath the warm, golden tones of his skin it was obvious that he was not well. He movedslowly and seemed breathless with the least exertion. Nazima fussed the minute he came through the door, and sat him down and laid bowls before him like he was an honoured guest, and he smiled a slow, warm smile at her and told her not to fuss. He sat next to me and turned those huge dark eyes on me and nodded.
Tariq had been born with a congenital heart defect. Doctors told Khadim and Nazima that he would be in a wheelchair when he was a teenager, but see, they said, he was not in a wheelchair. Allah was good. They thought he got better all the time. But he needed an operation soon. They prayed all the time for their son, said Khadim, and Nazima closed her eyes and clasped her hands as if in prayer.
“They’re not kidding either,” said Shameena, under her breath to me. “All the bloody time.”
Tariq heard her and grinned lazily at his sister. I glanced up quickly to see if Khadim had heard too, but he was too busy encouraging Nazima to spoon more Kashmiri chicken onto Da’s plate.
“We go to church every week too,” I said.
“Just once? You’re lucky. We pray five times a day and go to the mosque at least once a week.”
“God!” I said
“No, Allah,” grinned Shameena and we both giggled. “The only time I don’t have to go is you know… that time of the month,” she whispered to me behind her hand, so that nobody else could hear.
“What?”
She shrugged.
“That’s the custom. Don’t ask me. I don’t complain. I had two last month.”
I laughed, choking on a chunk of naan
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