Uhuru Street Read Online Free Page A

with mystical awe.
    Much as I liked Ali, and despite our special relationship, it was I who proved my elders right and caused Ali to leave us. There
was
something else for him in our home.
    Every afternoon, at about three o’clock, Ali would leave the store and go upstairs to the flat to make tea and bring it down in a thermos. Mother was practically addicted to tea, which she required in regular doses. Without it her headache would creep up on her, paralysing her and causing the rest of us much anxiety. But Ali never had to be told – the tea was there when she needed it. It was one more reason that made him so special.
    One afternoon Mother ordered me to go up after Ali to remind him to make an extra cup for my aunt who would be visiting. Grumbling, I went upstairs as I’d been told. When I reached thelanding the door was open. This was normal, of course – Mehroon was inside, and a girl did not lock herself up with a man, let alone a servant. But as I walked in, a strange and at first comical sight met my eyes, the meaning of which took me a while to realise.
    Ali stood perched somewhat precariously on the large wooden dining table which he had moved. He was leaning against the top of the bathroom door and, face pressed against the metal bars, was looking down through the ventilator window above it at my sister Mehroon taking her afternoon bath. Upon hearing me, he started, looked at me, and jumped lightly down on the floor.
    ‘I shall marry her,’ he said, as if confidingly, and moved the heavy table back.
    Ali was dismissed immediately, and Mother went without her tea that day. I never saw him again. Perhaps he went back to his farm, but more likely he found better employment elsewhere, possibly even with a European family. He was followed by Elias, more sombre, solid, who was not as good, but who stayed longer.

Alzira
    The Jiwanis moved away to better times and places, all ten of them, and the four Pereras moved into the flat across the street. They brought to the place an air of gloom and depression such as it had not seen before. Soon afterwards Mrs Daya their neighbour reported to Mother: ‘They come with a secret to hide.’
    Each morning Mrs Daya descended on the street from the second floor, and did her rounds of the stores, while waiting for the fruit and vegetable sellers to arrive. She brought the freshest news and gossip. But the Pereras were Goans and their affairs of little interest to the rest of us. They would have passed through the neighbourhood without much notice, but for Alzira.
    She walked into the store late one afternoon – school over and the family noisily crowding the customer space – holding a piece of printed material with a gleaming, threaded needle sticking out from it. With the other hand she moved aside a clutch of belts hanging from the doorway. A tall ambling girl with a large mouth and short, straight hair, her long faded dress hanging loosely on her. She was grinning, a little shyly.
    ‘How are you, Mama?’ she said. ‘I live across the street, over there, and I sew ladies’ clothes. I charge ten shillings for a dress, but for the first one I will charge seven. When you have something, let me know.’
    Mother looked at her from behind the counter and the rest of us continued to stare at her.
    ‘I do all the modern styles,’ Alzira told her, with a glance at my sisters. ‘Look …’
    She had two pattern books under the material and Mother’s interest was caught. She took the books and flipped a few pages expertly until her eyes fell on a design.
    ‘Look,’ she said to my sisters, ‘the pina. Just like the one that European girl was wearing.’ Any European woman who chanced by on our street was the subject of Mother’s deepest scrutiny, as she watched out for new patterns.
    Mehroon and Razia jumped up from their seats and went to look over Mother’s shoulders, while Alzira looked around the store. She checked the babies’ bonnets hanging in a bunch, made by my