in the mnada by evening. You could even send your servant to buy it back.
But Aloo convinced us that most items there were not stolen: the police came regularly to check. And if you knew the vendors there personally, if you befriended them, you could get just the selections you needed. The right sizes and the proper colours. Hehad started visiting the mnada regularly, on his way to check our box at the post office, and gave enticing reports of the cheap items on sale there. Finally he was given permission to buy, but only what was necessary and he started bringing home the stuff.
The question whether the goods were stolen was easily laid aside and for a few weeks the quality of life at home improved appreciably. Precisely those things we could not afford to have – whose absence betrayed our modest status, try as hard as we might to hide it – we could now get cheaply. At half the price or less. Mother, who worked alone in the store all day to make ends meet, did not have the heart to deny us these luxuries, these gifts that practically begged to be received. It was as if a rich uncle had unexpectedly turned up in town.
Aloo and I were soon newly outfitted for the coming Eid festival. Eid was always anticipated with great excitement all over town. In the few weeks preceding it, right up to the eve of the great day, shops stayed open late to make the most of the joyous season, while sewing machines hummed feverishly in their interiors and outside as bleary-eyed tailors worked overtime for anxious customers. But that season my brother and I were into ready-made importeds. The mnada gave us crisp white nylon shirts, made in Japan, and black ties to wear with them. The shirts had stiff collars and cuffs, and black plastic cufflinks. Next came leather shoes, with studs and steel inserts in their soles. Stretchable, nylon socks, which were new just then, followed.
Some weeks later, with the Eid behind us and business back in the doldrums, and school charging full steam ahead, came another treat – this time a potent relief which we had long awaited and fought for. It was our release from the irksome stiffness of our school shirts which, at Mother’s orders, were sewn in our shop once a year from thick white drill to last through to the following year with continuous wear. How much we resisted wearing these dreadful garments which when new stood out like the starchedkhaki of the police! They gave us the dubious distinction in school of being the only two boys in drill. But wear them we had to and Mehroon, my sister, even had our initials sewn in black on the tails to keep us from squabbling first thing in the morning. These shirts saw their remaining days on the playing fields and in the streets. They were replaced by new, ready-made ones of soft cotton called ‘Fuji’.
Aloo brought chocolates and orangeade, ‘Oxford’ compass boxes and ‘Baby’ pens. Straw schoolbags were abandoned for satchels made of plastic. The girls did not prosper as much as we did. Their clothes could only be sewn at home or at a dressmaker’s from material bought downtown. Such speciality items the mnada appeared not to have. Once, though, Mehroon got some bras when she enquired of him about a particular brand. He was the expert. He could tell us what could be afforded and what had to be done without. And like a father in our fatherless household he brought home the goodies. He went alone on these trips; I never accompanied him, feeling shy and too embarrassed to venture into the bustling mnada to shop for the home.
We used to walk to school, the two of us: along two long streets, a walk of about three miles. First came Livingstone Street, a dirt road passing mainly through an African neighbourhood, then the paved United Nations Road that passed through a Hindu then a mixed rich locality. Near the end of Livingstone Street we would pick our friend Meghji up – which meant waiting impatiently at the door for him while he got dressed or had
But Aloo convinced us that most items there were not stolen: the police came regularly to check. And if you knew the vendors there personally, if you befriended them, you could get just the selections you needed. The right sizes and the proper colours. Hehad started visiting the mnada regularly, on his way to check our box at the post office, and gave enticing reports of the cheap items on sale there. Finally he was given permission to buy, but only what was necessary and he started bringing home the stuff.
The question whether the goods were stolen was easily laid aside and for a few weeks the quality of life at home improved appreciably. Precisely those things we could not afford to have – whose absence betrayed our modest status, try as hard as we might to hide it – we could now get cheaply. At half the price or less. Mother, who worked alone in the store all day to make ends meet, did not have the heart to deny us these luxuries, these gifts that practically begged to be received. It was as if a rich uncle had unexpectedly turned up in town.
Aloo and I were soon newly outfitted for the coming Eid festival. Eid was always anticipated with great excitement all over town. In the few weeks preceding it, right up to the eve of the great day, shops stayed open late to make the most of the joyous season, while sewing machines hummed feverishly in their interiors and outside as bleary-eyed tailors worked overtime for anxious customers. But that season my brother and I were into ready-made importeds. The mnada gave us crisp white nylon shirts, made in Japan, and black ties to wear with them. The shirts had stiff collars and cuffs, and black plastic cufflinks. Next came leather shoes, with studs and steel inserts in their soles. Stretchable, nylon socks, which were new just then, followed.
Some weeks later, with the Eid behind us and business back in the doldrums, and school charging full steam ahead, came another treat – this time a potent relief which we had long awaited and fought for. It was our release from the irksome stiffness of our school shirts which, at Mother’s orders, were sewn in our shop once a year from thick white drill to last through to the following year with continuous wear. How much we resisted wearing these dreadful garments which when new stood out like the starchedkhaki of the police! They gave us the dubious distinction in school of being the only two boys in drill. But wear them we had to and Mehroon, my sister, even had our initials sewn in black on the tails to keep us from squabbling first thing in the morning. These shirts saw their remaining days on the playing fields and in the streets. They were replaced by new, ready-made ones of soft cotton called ‘Fuji’.
Aloo brought chocolates and orangeade, ‘Oxford’ compass boxes and ‘Baby’ pens. Straw schoolbags were abandoned for satchels made of plastic. The girls did not prosper as much as we did. Their clothes could only be sewn at home or at a dressmaker’s from material bought downtown. Such speciality items the mnada appeared not to have. Once, though, Mehroon got some bras when she enquired of him about a particular brand. He was the expert. He could tell us what could be afforded and what had to be done without. And like a father in our fatherless household he brought home the goodies. He went alone on these trips; I never accompanied him, feeling shy and too embarrassed to venture into the bustling mnada to shop for the home.
We used to walk to school, the two of us: along two long streets, a walk of about three miles. First came Livingstone Street, a dirt road passing mainly through an African neighbourhood, then the paved United Nations Road that passed through a Hindu then a mixed rich locality. Near the end of Livingstone Street we would pick our friend Meghji up – which meant waiting impatiently at the door for him while he got dressed or had
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