The importance of never arriving empty-handed in Durban Indian culture

Never go anywhere empty-handed. I remember the old days when you could rock up at anyone's door at any time of day or night. No call, no appointment, no invitation. "Not anymore," the stylish lady in an emerald Benares sari at the district reunion crowed. "These days it's hard to even get one cup tea."

She caught me shooting my inquisitive eyes in her direction. "What you say, kanna?" Being a lover of good gossip, I nodded like one of those 'Thanjavur bomas' dancing dolls my aunty brought on the SS Karanja when she sailed from Madras in the early seventies. No Durban Indian home was without one. In my granny's case, they were precious enough artworks to be locked in a glass display cabinet and delicately dusted every couple of weeks. "Even in our district Ma, people say straight they are busy," I piped up not wanting to break the flow of the spicy talk. Emerald Benares bobbed as if to confirm that her suspicions were backed by my good authority. The event was a little delayed as the MC had to dash home to fetch his USB.

He couldn't speak without his backing track. I thought back to the maestro, Jagga, in a fresh haircut and crisply pressed white slacks, who needed nothing more than a microphone to get a party rocking with his off-the-cuff jokes. "I learnt from my parents that when you go anyone's house, you always take something in your hand," Emerald Benares went on. Her logic was that if you landed at someone's door unexpectedly, they would at the very least be able to offer you a cup of tea. From across the table, Violet picked up the tale.

"First thing they will go in the kitchen and put the kettle." I couldn't quarrel with that. Back in the day, there were no choices. It was tea. No coffee, hot chocolate or chai latte. Just tea. Usually with condensed milk and lots of sugar. If it was a hot day and you asked for water, it wasn't one of those fancy branded bottled jobbies in still or sparkling. Ice water came out of the fridge, frequently in those flat bottles that had an earlier career as Mellowwood brandy. Sometimes, the lady of the house would rustle up silver change from a tin in the kitchen cabinet to send for a bottle of 'mindrel'. The word cold drink or the latter-day Americanism of 'soda' never took root in our community. Top of the pops in the mindrel department was Iron Brew in a 750ml glass bottle with a crinkle design and colourful paintwork.

The language of mindrel is a throwback to Victorian times, when mineral water drawn from springs was bottled and sold. Historian Professor Goolam Vahed's research tells us about Shaik Emamally and his brother Hoosen Buckas starting up the Victory Mineral Water Factory in Durban in 1922. Other names that pop up are Rustomji's Aerated Water Works, Bromonda Mineral Waters and Stella Springs on the Berea. There's a lot of nineteenth-century English that has stuck with Durban Indians. My posh mother never spoke about someone's 'boyfriend'. Instead, she presumed it was that person's 'future'. I even remember words like omnibus, garters, bloomers and spinster which are hardly in use these days. Mindrel lives on with its special twist in the spelling. One of the first things one handed over to the lady of the house on entering was a packet of biscuits, a parcel of poli or some other baked goodies. Sweet treats were hardly ever kept in the house. Children would gobble them at first sight. By not arriving empty-handed, one spared the host the embarrassment of not having anything to offer with the tea. "Even one packet Marie biscuit is nuff," Emerald Benares opined. I slipped in that Marie was the wife of Mr Baumann of the famous biscuit factory.

My source of the story was the thoroughly well-informed Mr Balan Gounder who also related the tale of the Baumann barracks close to the Durban beachfront before the Group Areas Act bit that community. The bakery was burnt down by thugs consumed by anti-Jewish sentiment during the Second World War years. Marie Baumann is buried in West Street cemetery, but the biscuit is alive and well, especially when lashed with butter.

Mr Gounder insisted on the original Tamil spelling of his name, spurning the colonial concoction of Govender. Emerald Benares turned out to be a Mrs Moodley, without a first name. I was tempted to correct her to Mudliyar but bit my tongue. One shouldn't be too clever around someone who had spent three hours in the salon with Shirley for her up-style, had her face painted at the Chanel counter and pressed her sari with a sheet of brown paper complete with folds on the moonthanee. The details kept flowing and I lapped up the mental notes.

Even though the reunion was fully catered, Violet had brought a Tupperware of vedas and oorinda. "Not nice to go anywhere empty-hand," she insisted.

Catch Naidoo at the free outdoor screening of Lx Seth's "Bengal Tiger - the Rajbansi Story" at the Made in Chatsworth market at Depot Road Memorial School in Chatsworth this Saturday at 7pm. Bring a chair or call him on 0829408163.