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dawned on her. Of course! Ramzan was around the corner. It was time to start making
samosas, pakhoras
and
rotis
for the freezer.
    Although Ummerji was the daughter-in-law, family and friends liked gathering at their housebecause they had a big kitchen and the conversation was always as good as the tea.
    â€œ
Asalaamu alaikum
, Ummerji!” she called out, knowing that they hadn’t heard her come in.
    There was a chorus of returned greetings and her mum came out of the kitchen, wiping her floury hands on her apron. Her hair was coming out of her bun and she had a streak of flour on her cheek, but Farhana couldn’t help thinking how beautiful she still was, even at the ripe old age of forty four.
    â€œOh, look at you!” she cried, taking Farhana’s bag from her. “You’re soaked! You’d better have a warm shower and change your clothes before you come in. Khala Sajda is dying to see you!”
    Farhana smiled and nodded, taking off her waterlogged shoes and handing them to her mother.
    â€œI’ll be right down, Ummerji,” she said.
    â€œ
Insha Allah
,” was her mother’s response.
    As Farhana made her way upstairs, her mobile phone rang. She fished it out of her bag and looked at the number. She bit her lip and cut the call, switching the phone off.
    Would he ever stop ringing?
    She was done with Malik, that was for sure.It had been a brief few months of madness, a situation she knew would end in tears. But he was only the most gorgeous Asian guy in the boys’ school across the park. Who would have been able to resist him?
    Malik had typical Bollywood good looks - gorgeous glossy dark hair, eyes the colour of hazelnuts, a strong jaw with a hint of stubble - and a smooth, deep voice that sounded like melted chocolate.
    His eyes had met hers at the inter-schools debate competition. Her heart had quickened but she held his gaze only for a moment before looking away. She wasn’t about to let him think she was impressed.
    It was only later, when the debate was in mid-flow, that he caught her eye again. The debate had been vigorous and Farhana was well prepared: her eloquent, passionate opening speech had floored her opponents. And that was when she saw the look in his eyes: admiration, curiosity and something else she couldn’t put her finger on. Again she had looked away haughtily. She had pretended not to know who the girls were talking about on the way home in the bus. He had madequite an impression: good looks and intelligence made such a good package.
    Robina had immediately declared that he was hers, and she had pursued him single-mindedly, finding out where he lived, where he hung out, who his mates were, whether he was single, even managing to get hold of his mobile number. But no matter how many times she had tried to orchestrate a meeting and get him to come with her to the many events her sister had free tickets for, Malik seemed only to have eyes for Farhana.
    And so it began.
    The text messages, the secret calls to her mobile, then the emails, MSN, back and forth, he so determined to get her to agree to a date, she equally determined to keep him at arms’ length, like all other guys.
    She wasn’t stupid. She knew what guys were about, especially guys like him. And she knew that certain things were too precious to gamble, that some things can never be reclaimed once given away. Her mother had taught her well. So she held back, held back, until he wore down her resistance.
    His words were too sweet and they drowned out the thought of her parents’ shock and completedisapproval. If marriage was not on the cards, there could be no talk of boys. And marriage most certainly was not on the cards at her age. So she couldn’t tell Mum about the gifts Malik would give her, little gifts, bought from the department store in town with his hard-earned Saturday wages.
    She couldn’t tell her about the dreams that left her heart pounding, the blood hot