At noon, Shaffi loads up the Deliveroo app on his phone and within seconds it pings. He weaves his way through traffic and arrives at Chachi’s Kitchen, a busy, top-end Indian restaurant in London to pick up an order.

1.

The day you ate our Deliveroo delivery we’d ordered Indian food from Chachi’s Kitchen for four people. You knocked on our door and said, “I ate your food.” We looked you straight in the eye and saw that you did not look sorry. Instead, you looked defiant.

We wondered what kind of person you were to do such a thing. We did not know who you were, where you were from, where you’d been, or what you’d done, but now you were here, standing on our front step, while it was pouring with rain, with your belly bursting with our special order of Indian food. The inconvenience of you and your story was too much to bear.

“What?” we said, because we wanted to hear you say it again, that you had done something wrong to us.

You said, “I was hungry.”

“But that was food for four people,” we said.

You looked down at your wet shoes.

The rain pelted down…

The three women sat in the corner of the upper terrace of Shalimar Gardens which during the Mughal era had been the special space reserved for Emperor’s favourite harem. But for the women that day, because of the heavy smog which descended on Lahore every December, it was torture, The women were expected to make two hundred garlands for a wedding party and supposed to finish by sunset so that the flowers could be hung in the arched walkways of the garden.

The women sat close together on the cold marble floor, their brightly coloured cotton dupattas covering their heads, their deft hands stringing the pearls and flowers together. Every now and again they sprayed the small, white blooms from the gunny sack with rose water. The flowers revived but when the women sprinkled their faces, it did not lessen their discomfort. The morning the air was dense, and their eyes stung. They joked about the bride and groom coughing in each other’s faces during the ceremony.

By eleven o’clock, the atmosphere was grey and thick with a burning smell. The women checked the lower terrace to see if the mist there was any less, and indeed it looked like it was getting clearer. But they knew from experience it was just a mirage, and in reality, there was very little difference.

At noon, there was still a light haze in the atmosphere, but at least now the women could see their fingers. They could also see the other workers around the gardens, sweeping the marble floors and dusting the cobwebs from the lattice in the arches.

‘Look there.’ Shaan sounded annoyed. Her arm pointed to the lower garden where a man had taken off his shirt and was exercising in a pair of tight-fitting gym shorts. His hair was tied in a bun. Even with the distance, it was easy to see his body was toned and muscular…

Mehreen stretched her arms above her head and yawned. Their eyes met for a moment, then Asma looked away. Their relationship was at a stage where they knew what each other was thinking just from their expressions. The sun was already slipping away without having had its chance to shine because of the smog. Some days were like that. Never succumb, Asma said to herself. Never, not to the noise, or this business of life. Better the silence of sorrow. She had had a craving for karak chai, so they’d come to Lahore Chai Masters, a dilapidated kiosk in one of the gullies off Walton Road. Further down the alley, a group of men were seated in a circle on the ground playing rummy. This is what you did on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

A waiter with a pink showering cap on his head placed two cups of tea on the wooden stool. He covered them with saucers to stop the tea from cooling and keep away the flies. They were his only customers.

“What a time of day it is,” Asma said, “as though our whole lives were compressed into this hour.”

Mehreen gave her a sharp look.

“Doesn’t it?” Asma said.

A crow rocked on the dead wires above them and cawed, Mehreen did not reply but kept her gazed fixed on her. Asma lifted the saucer and picked up her cup. Of course Mehreen had heard her, but why didn’t she respond? What was she thinking? It was moments like these when Asma needed reassurance, and Mehreen wasn’t forthcoming, that Asma felt she’d never been understood…

His own greatness misunderstood, Dr. Fazal takes a vow

Monday morning and Dr. Fazal was ready for a productive week. Dr. Fazal, to be clear, did not have a PhD, nor was he a medical doctor, but his colleagues called him “Doctor” because he was full of “timeless philosophical wisdoms,” as he said himself.  He’d made the suggestion at an HR meeting in jest when he realized he was always being consulted when there were serious problems to be solved, and the name had stuck. One time, many years ago, he had the feeling that his colleagues were making fun of him, but that was a forgotten memory. When he did remember, he told his wife, “Being wrong is just as powerful as being right. Sometimes even more so.” He’d been at Amber Investments for ten years working as the Deputy Human Resources of HR Manager. He was not in any doubt that a man of his talent and superior intellect was destined for higher places. His favourite saying was, “In six simple words, I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life. It starts and stops with me.”

‘Marry me Nuru,’ Jaffer said in his precise, measured tone. ‘Together we’ll build our future in a new Kenya.’

He was standing opposite her desk at the Chambers where she worked. She’d met him several months earlier and they’d struck up a friendship.

Nuru had a Pitman’s Secretarial Diploma and a driver’s licence from the first Ladies Driving School in Nairobi. With her natural beauty and qualifications she felt she deserved a man who really appreciated her.

Jaffer was a confident, self-made, business man. He was shorter than Nuru, already greying, and had very ordinary features. But he was able to charm her with his big dreams. He spoke excitedly about Kenya’s future, saying he believed everything was possible.

Nuru’s family were not happy with her decision to marry Jaffer; they had received many marriage proposals for her from professionals; a lawyer and a dentist.

But Nuru was adamant about Jaffer. ‘He appreciates my ambitions and intelligence,’ she said…

We in this house know our place. We never pry, ask unnecessary questions or poke our noses into our boss’s affairs. Occasionally, however, we admit, we gossip. Of course, we keep an eagle eye on anyone new who joins the house.  We work here and live in the DSQ, or Domestic Servants Quarters.

We want to tell you about Mary. She was the new cook and came at the beginning of March when the old cook sent Ma’am a message to say he wasn’t coming back. He didn’t offer any explanation and Ma’am said she’d been left in the lurch yet again. She grumbles, but we’ve been with the house for more than ten years and she knows we are faithful.

Before we had a chance to ask our relatives and friends if they wanted the old cook’s job, Mary showed up. She appeared one morning at the gate wearing an orange dress with purple flowers. When the guard asked her what she wanted, she said she had appointment with Ma’am. He let her in and we watched her walking to the kitchen door with slow, steady steps. The rucksack on her back looked heavy, which struck us as strange. What on earth was she carrying in that bag?

Rich people have no idea what it’s like to be poor.

When you’re poor, you’re used to people dropping dead like flies and spending half your salary every month on funerals. Being poor means you’ll die young, because if you’re ill, you won’t have a car to take you to the hospital. And if by some luck you get there by bus, you’ll have to sit on the cold floor in the hospital corridor and wait for hours. And when the nurse finally takes you in, there’ll be no bed, medicine, or doctor. If you survive, your baby might die. If you hit your chest and cry, everyone will say it was God’s will, and if He took away your child, maybe one day He’ll give you a chance to change your destiny and know what it’s like to live like the rich.

Rich people have the luxury to mourn. They make a fuss about every death as if it were not a daily occurrence. Take Ma’am Farida and Mr. Abdul. I’ve been working for them for twelve years now. Last month Mr. Abdul died of a heart attack, and now Ma’am Farida is heartbroken. Every morning she opens the sliding doors to the balcony and looks at the apartment directly across the way. If you asked her why she was so interested in the neighbors, she’d tell you she didn’t care about them — it was what they were feeding the crows that bothered her. That’s another trait of the rich: They’re not interested in the poor, but more worried about the birds starving…

In the ancient romantic tale, Anarkali was a courtesan dancer in the Mughal court of Salim Jahangir who dared to fall in love with him. As the story goes, she was buried or burnt alive for her crime. Here, she is a poor street sweeper in Lahore, nicknamed Anarkali by a white professor researching bombing incidents on the city’s churches. Anarkali is the ordinary woman who is invisible, who goes unnoticed and unremarked by history. She is the one who dares to live her life in her own way, and pays a heavy price for it. Even today, centuries later, for a woman to love someone outside her class and caste is fraught with danger.

If you ever come looking for me, you’ll find me sitting in my car at the Kisementi car park, listening to Radio One. Kisementi is a shopping centre on Number 12 Bukoto Street, in Kololo, a suburb of Kampala. Opposite me are the Fat Boyz pub and Payless Supermarket. On my left are a local handicraft shop, The Banana Boat and The Crocodile restaurant and, on my right, the Christian Bookshop. From my car, I enjoy watching the congestion of boda bodas, special hires, taxis, matatus and private cars. I do this every day for a few minutes or few hours. It all depends…