Chapter 5

LAYLA’S APRON IS STAINED with a day’s worth of cooking. The kitchen counters are dusted with flour, the hood fan is set on high, and all six elements on her stove are in use. On one of them, a bowl made of tinfoil lined with perfume-soaked sugar. It helps her fumigate the house. “Once you let those spices settle in, they are impossible to remove,” Mansoor always says. It’s the same reason he asks her to keep his clothes sheathed in dry-cleaner’s plastic. Otherwise, he says, his customers might run away. She doesn’t like it, but she understands. She knows white people don’t like food that is too spicy. Not that she has ever eaten at any of their houses, but she’s eaten at a few restaurants here to know.

When Ashif was growing up, Mansoor insisted they celebrate birthdays at a restaurant. White Spot. Ponderosa. Chuck E. Cheese. He wanted his son to do what Canadian children did. She relented, arming herself with a bottle of mircha chili in her purse. But when she doused her food with it, Ashif made her stop. “God, Mummy!” he whispered harshly. “People are watching.” Mansoor agreed. He asked her to put the bottle away and she did. After that, she kept her mircha bottle at home and learned how to force the bland food down on its own.

Layla lifts a heavy pot from the stove and shuffles to the counter, where she carefully sets it down. Scents of coconut and coriander rise from the kuku paka. She ladles the coconut curry, chicken, and eggs into the rows of Tupperware containers, stopping occasionally to shake her hands loose from the stiffness. She lets the steam escape, then snaps the lids on, running her finger around the outer edge to make sure each one is tightly sealed. She continues with the rest of the dishes on tonight’s menu then stacks each completed order into a plastic bag pre-labelled with the customer’s name. Meals that many won’t eat until they break their fast after sundown. Layla is fasting for the month of Ramadan, too. People fast for different reasons, but for her, it is a symbol of her dedication to the Imam.

When she is finally done with her orders, she sits down at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and reviews the elaborate menu for Ashif’s luncheon. It’s been so long since she has had a chance to cook for him and she does not want to skimp on a thing. The main dishes will include masala tilapia with thick-cut chips, Kenyan-style chicken biryani, and spinach curry served with rotli bread. For appetizers, dhorka, a semolina cake, with tamarind-date chutney, fried sticks of mogo-cassava, and potato-champs with green-chili chutney. She will end the meal with faloodha—a milky pudding—and sweet meats. She knows she is making too much, but she would rather have more than less. It was a guiding principle every time she hosted. She loved entertaining. So did Mansoor. But that was so long ago. They haven’t entertained for years now.