Supply and Demand
Although we lived in reduced circumstances most of the time, there were some religious duties incumbent on all Muslim families. Islam is big on charity. Give zakat, never let a beggar leave empty-handed, feed the poor. There were clearly many more people who were worse off than us. We did not eat meat or fish everyday, but about once a week we did. We always had our rice and dal, if with no more than a piece of fried salt fish or a tomato and chilli chutney.
On some auspicious occasions, we would get a miaji, a man of god to carry out a fateha, little religious service, and on that occasion, Maman would cook a little bit of meat, perhaps with some vegetables and chickpeas, and I would be despatched to the Mosque to bring back a beggar or two, to come eat with us. I had done this dozens of time in the past, and I remember the good old days when the indigent chaps would look at you in anticipation, and you had an embarrassment of choice. I was always a bit sad that I was usually asked to come home with no more than two, as clearly there were so many hungry souls who would remain unfed. It was also the practice, after the grateful fellow had eaten to put a five or ten cent piece in his hand as he left.
But times change.
On that day, I knew that Maman had cooked calebasse, dal gram and cabri. Goat, chickpea and calabash. Sprinkled with fresh coriander, this was a real treat. I had also gathered that she had put two pieces of 25 cents aside.
As I approached the Mosque, there are just a handful of expectant invitees leaning against the wall of the building, but these days their eyes do not follow you round. Even when you get to their level, they do not raise them to you.
‘Assalam aleikhum,’ I say, and he grudgingly acknowledged my greeting, but having displayed his civility, he thought his feet were of greater interest.
‘Would you like to come to a khatam at our house?’ I had to repeat this before he responded.
‘What’s on offer?’ he asked. If he knew what a fantastic cook Maman was, anything she prepared would have been manna from heaven for anybody. This intelligence is received with singular lack of enthusiasm. He looks at me sourly.
‘I thought it would be at least a biryani.’
‘There’s also a kheer,’ I said. Kheer is rice pudding. He does not look too impressed.
‘And how much is the sadqa?’ I own to it being only twenty-five cents. He shakes his head.
‘I thought it would be biryani and a sadqa of at least one rupee,’ he says. I notice that two or three other people were waiting behind me.
I realise that the past is another country, and thought there was not much point in checking with the others.
Maman was not best pleased with my effort. I had no kheer that day.
