‘I like that you’re wearing the outfits we chose,’ Lucy said after lunch, nodding at the beige high-waisted trousers I was wearing with a fluffy white jumper and the bracelet she gave me. My hair wasn’t looking as amazing as when I had first left the salon, but it was still lovely and far better than any style I had worn before. It was the first time she had said something non-work related all morning and I wondered if there was something else on her mind, other than the lack of food.
‘You chose, you mean,’ I corrected her. ‘I would never have been able to buy this stuff on my own.’
She smiled and looked away, turning back to her computer screen. I opened my mouth to ask her if she was OK and if there was anything bothering her, but she got up then, probably to go to the loo. The question dissolved on my lips.
It was freezing when I left work that evening and I wished I had worn my giant padded jacket. My beautiful new camel coat made me look good, but did a rubbish job of protecting me against the harsh January cold, even with the blanket scarf wrapped around my neck and my new calf-skin gloves on my hands. But as I was seeing Zakariya later, sacrificing style for comfort wasn’t an option.
The college where the Arabic lessons took place was in a backstreet in Whitechapel, a short walk from East London Mosque. It had been years since I had been to the area. We visited a lot when we were younger because Chacha and Chachi used to live in one of those gigantic brown brick council estates somewhere in Aldgate. Malik and I loved it. Growing up, there weren’t many Bengalis near where we lived and visiting my aunt and uncle almost felt like going to Bangladesh. Their estate was mostly full of Bengalis with a few newly arrived Somalis and Jews who had been there since the Second World War. Children were allowed to play freely in the estate, a novelty for us since Ma never let us play in the streets at home. There were battered playgrounds with broken swings where we would play ‘It’ and ‘Forty-forty’ with brown girls in brightly coloured dresses paired with old jeans and sandals, their thick black hair slick with oil. Clothes hung out to dry outside every flat, from the balconies and windows, offering a much-needed splash of colour against the dull brick and iron bars protecting the lower floors from intruders. Lungis, sarees, dresses and shirts flew gently in the breeze and there was always a distinct scent of curry in the air.
My brother and I usually spent a week at Christmas and two weeks over the summer with Pretty and Pinky, running riot in the estate with all the other kids, feeling more like us than we ever did in north London. I loved it all.
Whitechapel had had a major facelift since the days of our childhood and I wondered how much longer the Bengalis and other communities would be able to continue to afford living and working there. Brick Lane, once known as Curry Mile, was almost entirely lost to London’s bougie hipsters and it was only a matter of time before Bangla Town was completely gentrified and handed over to those earning big bucks in the nearby City.
It was dark as I walked past the synagogue and then the mosque and turned into a narrow side street with terraced Victorian townhouses on either side. The ‘college’ turned out to be in the basement of one of the townhouses and I carefully trod down the steel steps, taking comfort in the fact that Zakariya was going to be there and therefore it couldn’t be too dodgy. I was getting serious Jack the Ripper vibes as I retreated further underground.
I needn’t have worried though. The interior of the building was nothing like the gloomy exterior. It was bright and modern and there was a little reception area as soon as I entered. The receptionist, a pretty, petite girl in a light-blue hijab, led me to the room where the beginner’s class took place. I was relatively early, so it was empty bar the teacher, who was still setting up. Ustadha Salma was a stout woman with a tightly wrapped white headscarf and a stripy abaya.
‘Marhaba! Ahlan wa sahlan!’ she called out to me enthusiastically in a thick, Arabic accent. I returned the greeting shyly and introduced myself as she gave me a form to fill in and I handed over the payment for the month. The desks were set up in pairs facing the whiteboard and soon the room was full of students and chatter. A girl called Nadira sat next to me. She was gorgeous, with a flawless golden complexion and silky honey-coloured hair. She said salaam and we small-talked quietly until the class began.
The hour and a half flew and by the end of it, I’d not only learnt my Arabic numbers up to ten, the days of the week and some other basic nouns, but I had made a new friend. Nadira had to rush off but we agreed to go for dinner after class the following week.
Pulling on all my winter paraphernalia and grabbing my bag, I trudged up the stairs, my heels clanging against the steel and my mind so full that I had completely forgotten why I had chosen the Thursday class in the first place. Until I heard him call out my name.
‘Maya?’
I turned to find Zakariya at the corner with a couple of other guys, who walked away as I approached him.
‘Hey, Assalaamu Alaikum,’ I said, shivering. ‘You, OK?’
‘Wa Alaikum Salaam. Alhamdulillah, kaifa halik anti?’ His classical Arabic, the dialect we were learning in class, was really cute and I smiled.
‘Alhamdulillah, bi khair,’ I replied slowly, trying my best to pronounce the words correctly.
‘You joined then?’
‘I did. Thank you for the recommendation, it was brilliant. I love the teacher, she’s patient and thorough. Made a new friend as well.’
‘Great. You getting the Tube?’
‘Yeah, what about you? Not driving today?’
‘Why, were you expecting a lift?’ he joked, stuffing his cold hands into the pockets of his navy wool coat.
‘I don’t expect, I hope,’ I joked back.
‘Well, the most you’re going to get today is a cup of chai while we walk to the station. Which way are you going?’
‘Hammersmith and City to King’s Cross, then the Piccadilly Line. You?’
‘Same to King’s Cross and then the Northern.’
We fell into step and easy conversation as we walked down to the busy main road and towards Whitechapel Station. Halfway down, he stopped at a stall and bought us two cups of masala tea and I accepted one gratefully. As we were about to carry on walking, he looked at me a little nervously.
‘Are you hungry?’ he said, almost as if he was expecting me to say no or tell him off.
‘I am,’ I admitted as I took a sip of my tea. ‘My stomach growled through the entire lesson. It was so embarrassing.’
‘Me too and it just so happens, that restaurant over there has the best Bangladeshi food in London. It’s basic, nothing fancy, but the food is amazing.’
‘Say no more,’ I replied, my mouth already watering. ‘Let’s finish our tea and grab some dinner.’ It was only after we entered the restaurant that I remembered that I was on the Whole 30 and couldn’t eat rice, and I shouldn’t have had the milky tea either. Not to mention the fact that I was wearing an expensive white fluffy jumper that I could easily spill curry on, ruining it forever. Oil and turmeric stains were a mission to get out. And my beautiful new coat and scarf would smell of curry when we left.
But we were already inside and Zakariya was about to sit down. If I said any of what I was thinking, he would regard me as some sort of high-maintenance coconut. So I swallowed my reservations and sat down across from him, delicately placing my coat, scarf and bag on the chair next to me.
Zakariya was quiet and contemplative as we waited for the waiter to arrive. He was in his work clothes; a suit and shirt and I wondered what we looked like together. Did we look like a couple or did we look like friends? We probably looked like siblings.
‘What are you getting?’ I asked him as we read over the menu and I tried to determine what was the most Whole 30 compliant. The restaurant served ‘bhorta’, a Bangladeshi speciality where the vegetables or fish are smoked and then mashed up and mixed with onions, coriander, chillies, mustard oil and spices. It’s delicious but not without rice. For the fiftieth time in three days, I questioned my decision to do the Whole Stupid 30.
‘Everything,’ he replied. ‘I want the buffet but I’ll order some fresh paratha as well.’
We got our plates and headed over to the buffet station, where I gently lifted out some lamb and chicken, careful not to add any extra sauce to my plate, only whatever was already clinging to the meat. There was so much oil that it had floated to the top of the curry and created a shiny layer, like an oil spill in the ocean.
I returned to our table, where Zakariya’s plate was piled high with pulao rice and four different curries swimming in oil. He looked at my choices in horror.
‘What have you done to your plate? Where’s the rice?’
‘Erm, I’m not eating rice this month,’ I said miserably.