Conversations Over Curry

When we first moved to London, we rented a flat in Putney. I still remember the estate agent saying that we probably wouldn't like the set-up, because the landlady lived on the property and we would have to share not only the entrance with her, but also the washer/dryer in the basement. I could hear from the tone of her voice that her eyebrows were raised, but decided that I would see for myself whether or not this would pose a problem for us. The location was central and the rent was cheap. 

It was only when we arrived at the flat one unusually sunny morning, that I understood the caution behind the estate agent’s words. The landlady who opened the door was of Indian descent and my suspected racial prejudice was confirmed in the I-told-you-so-look I got from the agent as she followed us through the door. What she didn't know, however, was that despite my coming from racist South Africa, or maybe because of it, I was determined not to be put off. Looking back, I don't know whether we chose to rent the flat because I was trying to prove that it didn't bother me to occupy shared space with someone of color, or if it really was the sunlight streaming in through the glass doors that gave me hope that living in London wouldn't be so dreary after all. Either way, within the month we had moved in.

And this is how we came to know Farhia. It started with snippets of polite conversation at the bottom of the stairwell, or in the basement as we folded laundry, but mostly we kept each other at arm’s length in order to keep the relationship formal. Farhia didn't want us to think she was interfering or checking up on us and we didn't want to particularly encourage those behaviors either. But as the weeks and months stretched on, our British-reserve wore off and our innate humanity (or perhaps curiosity) got the better of us.

It was a new world we were about to discover, and I am glad we were brave enough to do it.

I remember getting home from work one evening and the smell of curry engulfing me as I entered the stairwell. I lingered, filling my lungs with deep breaths that awoke my stomach with a growl. As if she had heard it, Farhia opened the door and asked if we would like to join her for dinner. I waited for Greg to get home before heading over, feeling like Lucy needing Edmund before entering Narnia through the wardrobe. In hindsight, it was a new world we were about to discover, and I am glad we were brave enough to do it.

Farhia was a storyteller. She would tell us about how she got to England in the sixties with a husband she hadn't met until her wedding day. How he later sent her and the children home to Pakistan so he could carry on with an English woman. How her parents used all their savings to send her back to England only for him to disown her and leave her stranded with three kids. How an English family took them in and helped her go to college in the evenings and send her kids to school by day. How she qualified as a social worker and became one of the most influential people working with immigrant women in Leicester, frowned upon by her own people as she liberated women from the domestic abuse that she herself had suffered. How she worked with tribes in the Himalayas, changed social policy, and just recently retired from lecturing at one of the top universities in England. Each of these conversations took place over countless curries and never in sequence, so that it was hard to tell if any or all of it were true.

I knew at once that we were all capable of so much more than societal or our own limitations allowed for.

However, as the months went by and we met her children, or a colleague from the university who joined us for dinner, or as she pulled out old photos of her in snow-capped mountains surrounded by grateful women, we slowly came to believe that every word was just as she had told it. What had made me think otherwise? Perhaps it was my inherent bias that prevented me from believing that such an extraordinary life could be lived by someone of color. Or was it my traditional view of the role of women that had been challenged? Either way, something sparked within me and I knew at once that we were all capable of so much more than societal or our own limitations allowed for.

I remember the time I was over for dinner and our conversation was disturbed by the drilling of workmen on the street outside, trying to get a job done before traffic resumed in the morning. Farhia stopped mid-story, got up, and put the kettle on. I assumed the drilling had tethered her nerves and, as tea fixes all ills, deemed it appropriate to break for a cuppa. But as she filled a tray with ten or more cups, I had to ask her what she was doing.

“Well they need tea too, don't you think?” she answered.

“They…?” I asked.

“The builders outside of course. Now get the milk out the fridge and give me a hand here,” she said as she shooed me in to action.

“But what will they think…?” I stammered - always a concern of mine.

“What do YOU think?” she challenged.

I left it as a rhetorical question and followed her through the doorway with much trepidation. If you think I was surprised, imagine the look on the builder’s faces as we stepped out on the street - an older Indian lady with her blonde sidekick - carrying a tray complete with teapot, cups, saucers, and lemon cream biscuits for dunking. As their shock and suspicion waned, they got off their heavy machinery one by one and joined us for tea - right there in the middle of the street - with the bright work lights shining on us for all to see. It felt like heaven had opened and that it was in fact God's light shining down on this one act of kindness. 

It’s not the tea itself, but the mere act of offering it that breaks all barriers.

This was to be the first of many lessons, not only in the way builders like their tea - strong, milky and sweet – but how I should always be ready to learn from anyone at any time, regardless of their age, color, class, or ethnicity. It may also be why I still put the kettle on any time I have someone over, because it’s not the tea itself, but the mere act of offering it that breaks all barriers.