did.’
‘There was also a fortune in stocks and shares.’
‘They had to be sold to pay off Uncle Musa’s massive gambling debts.’ Zia fidgets in his chair. ‘And the old fellow is still at it! Do you know that he’s now into internet gambling? That scoundrel Nur comes to one of the internet shops in the city once a week with instructions for the proprietor who then places the bets. For a fee, of course.’
‘Family property has always been passed on to the next generation!’ The depth of my indignation surprises me. I thought I was indifferent to the land we owned. ‘We should at least have been informed!’
It’s a desolate gathering, this afternoon tea. I get the impression that, other than Ma, each of us is locked in a private chamber, preoccupied by personal worries. These problems may be formidable, but we each seem reluctant to share our troubles, to seek advice, in case we look weak.
I think about those sparkling days of my teenage years. The steady flow of relatives and friends who dropped in and were embraced by Ma’s hospitality. We couldn’t distinguish between the arrivals and the departures. Boisterous voices and unrestrained laughter, embarrassed giggles and pretended outrage—visitors left their afflictions outside the front door. Socialising was a celebration of life for us, a happiness neither transient nor artificial. It emanated spontaneously from my mother’s magnanimity and her belief that family and friends were intrinsic to our well-being. Afternoon tea then was a veritable feast of freshly made savouries and sweetmeats, extending well into the evening until the last of the guests had departed and it was close to dinner time.
In my anxiety to be anchored to more contented times, I remind Ma of the days of the Wedgwood and Wallace La Reine tea sets that were alternately used, more for the sake of impressing visitors than for aesthetic reasons. Had I known that they were among the items sold to ease our financial burdens, I wouldn’t have mentioned them, even in passing.
Zia and Nasreen are dismayed that I’ve induced the nostalgia hour.
We listen to Ma’s animated recollections. To hear her you’d think we were members of royalty, with the titular duty of attending grand tea parties and being gracious to guests. But even discounting the exaggerations, afternoon tea now is a sparse affair. Paper serviettes and stainlesssteel teaspoons. Tiny vegetable samosas and a plate of shondesh . I thought Nasreen was joking about the porcelain mugs and teabags.
We relax in cushioned cane chairs in the back veranda, which overlooks a well-maintained but characterless garden. A mali is employed four times a week, Zia tells me, to look after the lawn, the beds of seasonal flowers, and the fruit trees. Bare-bodied today, the man scurried away to find a singlet as soon as he saw Ma. He would be under strict instructions not to be boorish and expose his sweaty torso in our presence. Our delicate sensibilities cannot stand vulgarity, certainly not in the naked light of a summer’s afternoon.
Nasreen coaxes Abba to come out from his room and sit in a rocking chair next to me. She caresses his hands to comfort him and settle him down.
‘Even the slightest change upsets him,’ Zia explains.
‘Would you like a shondesh ?’ I ask my father, clumsily holding the plate of sweetmeats in front of him.
He looks perplexed and then his face breaks into a smile. ‘Cake?’ he asks shyly, and then frowns, as though struggling to conceptualise the word. ‘Fruit cake? Cucumber sandwiches?’
‘There are vegetable samosas,’ Ma replies. ‘You like them.’
‘Only the locals eat samosas,’ Abba says in a perfectly rational manner. ‘High-class people eat sandwiches. And cakes.’
We look expectantly at him as if a miracle might be unfolding.
Abba retreats into silence.
‘We have this problem every day!’ Ma sniffles. ‘If I make sandwiches for him or buy a cake, he refuses to eat them,
‘There was also a fortune in stocks and shares.’
‘They had to be sold to pay off Uncle Musa’s massive gambling debts.’ Zia fidgets in his chair. ‘And the old fellow is still at it! Do you know that he’s now into internet gambling? That scoundrel Nur comes to one of the internet shops in the city once a week with instructions for the proprietor who then places the bets. For a fee, of course.’
‘Family property has always been passed on to the next generation!’ The depth of my indignation surprises me. I thought I was indifferent to the land we owned. ‘We should at least have been informed!’
It’s a desolate gathering, this afternoon tea. I get the impression that, other than Ma, each of us is locked in a private chamber, preoccupied by personal worries. These problems may be formidable, but we each seem reluctant to share our troubles, to seek advice, in case we look weak.
I think about those sparkling days of my teenage years. The steady flow of relatives and friends who dropped in and were embraced by Ma’s hospitality. We couldn’t distinguish between the arrivals and the departures. Boisterous voices and unrestrained laughter, embarrassed giggles and pretended outrage—visitors left their afflictions outside the front door. Socialising was a celebration of life for us, a happiness neither transient nor artificial. It emanated spontaneously from my mother’s magnanimity and her belief that family and friends were intrinsic to our well-being. Afternoon tea then was a veritable feast of freshly made savouries and sweetmeats, extending well into the evening until the last of the guests had departed and it was close to dinner time.
In my anxiety to be anchored to more contented times, I remind Ma of the days of the Wedgwood and Wallace La Reine tea sets that were alternately used, more for the sake of impressing visitors than for aesthetic reasons. Had I known that they were among the items sold to ease our financial burdens, I wouldn’t have mentioned them, even in passing.
Zia and Nasreen are dismayed that I’ve induced the nostalgia hour.
We listen to Ma’s animated recollections. To hear her you’d think we were members of royalty, with the titular duty of attending grand tea parties and being gracious to guests. But even discounting the exaggerations, afternoon tea now is a sparse affair. Paper serviettes and stainlesssteel teaspoons. Tiny vegetable samosas and a plate of shondesh . I thought Nasreen was joking about the porcelain mugs and teabags.
We relax in cushioned cane chairs in the back veranda, which overlooks a well-maintained but characterless garden. A mali is employed four times a week, Zia tells me, to look after the lawn, the beds of seasonal flowers, and the fruit trees. Bare-bodied today, the man scurried away to find a singlet as soon as he saw Ma. He would be under strict instructions not to be boorish and expose his sweaty torso in our presence. Our delicate sensibilities cannot stand vulgarity, certainly not in the naked light of a summer’s afternoon.
Nasreen coaxes Abba to come out from his room and sit in a rocking chair next to me. She caresses his hands to comfort him and settle him down.
‘Even the slightest change upsets him,’ Zia explains.
‘Would you like a shondesh ?’ I ask my father, clumsily holding the plate of sweetmeats in front of him.
He looks perplexed and then his face breaks into a smile. ‘Cake?’ he asks shyly, and then frowns, as though struggling to conceptualise the word. ‘Fruit cake? Cucumber sandwiches?’
‘There are vegetable samosas,’ Ma replies. ‘You like them.’
‘Only the locals eat samosas,’ Abba says in a perfectly rational manner. ‘High-class people eat sandwiches. And cakes.’
We look expectantly at him as if a miracle might be unfolding.
Abba retreats into silence.
‘We have this problem every day!’ Ma sniffles. ‘If I make sandwiches for him or buy a cake, he refuses to eat them,
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