| |
Well, it’s been a busy month.
It seems that my newfound assertiveness has rubbed off on mum, as she rang Mr Choudhury, our professional busybody, to give him a right good bollocking about the lack of talent he’s sent our way. When I say bollocking, I mean in the Bengali way. She’s still polite, voices aren’t raised and the conversation starts and ends with a salaam. But she gets her point across.
Mr Choudhury shares his sincerest apologies and explains how busy he’s been at work (his real office work), which is why he hasn’t had much time to send over any suitor details. He also mentions in passing something about his uncle in Bangladesh being unwell. Call me a bitch but what’s that got to do with anything? I suspect he’s thrown in an extra fib to cover up his half-arsed-ness. In fear of losing his monthly subscription, Mr Choudhury pulls his finger out and sends three biodatas in one big brown envelope the very same week.
My heart sinks a little when I see the first photo. He’s actually Boy no.4 that I met online. The guy who was basically telling me everything that I wanted to hear. He went quiet for a while on the messaging front, which I suspect was down to him chatting to someone else. I’m not one to judge, as soon afterwards I started speaking to Shy-boy.
Then he got back in touch before Eid. His message was unexpected, not least because we were still in Ramadan and my online activity had died down but I assumed he wanted to get a head start on the other boys on the site. He apologised for being elusive and explained how he’s been super busy with work. It’s likely that he was lying but didn’t want to be so brazen as to say he was speaking to another girl. I also colluded in the lies with a tall tale about how I’ve been busy too, and that I’d recently been promoted. That bit was true but I failed to mention that I met someone else in the interim.
The funny thing with this process is that despite the fact that we’re all actively looking, chatting, meeting... nobody talks about it as it feels like we’re cheating on someone we’re not even dating. It’s bizarre but I go along with it, anyway.
I failed to document this dalliance, as my conversation with Boy no.4 ended just as quickly the second time around as it had begun. This was because... it pains me to say it... he didn’t fancy me.
After a few quick messages, he asked if he could see my picture. It was fair enough as I’d already seen his photo which was made public from the outset. Plus I didn’t want to have an endless conversation with someone who hasn’t seen me. After Shy-boy, I didn’t want to drag things out with someone who wasn’t the right fit.
Now Boy no.4 is pretty damn good-looking, with fair skin, a chiselled jaw and sharp features. The kind of guy that would get noticed at a thinly veiled marriage event. Deep down, I knew he might be too attractive. He went against my criteria by being prettier than me. However, out of politeness, obligation and a bit of hopeful optimism (I know, I know), I unlocked my photo. And you know what? The cheeky bastard went quiet. Again. He didn’t even acknowledge my picture. He didn’t even respond with some innocent message and let our conversation fizzle out naturally. He didn’t even say thanks but no thanks. He... just disappeared.
Natural selection is a bitch. And so is Boy no.4.
I can’t cry foul play as I’ve done my share of superficial rejecting. Mum is often moaning that I’m never going to get married if I keep turning down the rishtaas that come through from Mr Choudhury. To be fair though, the last photo he sent was the brown incarnation of Quasimodo, hence the angry call from mum demanding a better calibre of men. But the way Boy no.4 just fell silent really stinks.
You can imagine my dismay when I see his smarmy face staring back at me in full, printed glory. Mum still doesn’t know I’m online and I’m hoping that she never will. Now the two realms have collided and come full circle. The arranged marriage world and the online dating universe have been bridged by bastard Boy no.4.
This presents a real dilemma. I clearly don’t want to meet this boy but how do I outright reject him without making mum suspicious? After all, he’s the best-looking rishtaa photo to come thus far. More handsome than Tall-boy, who mum knows I was slightly gutted about. I can’t even poke holes in his biodata. He’s geographically appropriate, has a degree and works as a dentist. Mum and I both have a soft spot for anyone working in the fields of medicine or finance.
I say that I don’t want to meet this boy. Mum naturally asks why, so I tell a half-fib. I explain that a friend had actually suggested him for me but after exchanging photos, he wasn’t keen. It hurts my ego to tell mum that he didn’t like me. I think it upsets mum too, as she’s as Bollywood as I am, and would love for me to end up with a hottie. But she understands that we need to let this one go.
A real saving grace of the archaic, formulaic biodata tradition is that the boy’s family normally send their photo over first, giving the girl’s side the option to refuse without exchanging pictures. So Boy no.4 hasn’t received my details and can’t reject me twice. Nor can he tell anyone we met on the Internet. As he lives about 25 minutes from me and the Bengali community in the north of England is small, news of my online presence could spread like wildfire. So on this occasion, thank fuck for outdated, slightly sexist rules.
The other two biodatas are more promising. First, I haven’t spoken to either on the Web. Second, neither is ugly, though they couldn’t be more different.
The first boy looks like the opposite of a beardie. In his photo, he’s pictured in front of a bar, wearing a black fedora hat. It must be a fancy dress party and I’m hoping he was only on mocktails. His black shirt is unbuttoned slightly beyond what is considered decent. He’s of a similar complexion to me and he might be bald, or at least have a shaved head. I can’t quite tell because of his stupid hat. His face isn’t one I can pick fault with. He just looks... normal, I guess. He’s got a slightly big, bulbous nose but then so have I. On a good note, he’s a pharmacist and has a muscular build, so I decide he’s worth meeting.
The second boy’s photo seems to adhere better to the arranged marriage guidelines. It’s a standard mid-shot photo of him sat on a sofa at what looks like the lounge of Nawaab restaurant or some other fancy banqueting suite. He’s wearing a navy suit and tie and looks slim, borderline skinny. He’s got an unquestionably full head of hair, is fair skinned and smiley. He’s got thin lips and smallish, deep-set hazel eyes. However, he’s only 5ft 6in, barely making the height grade by a whisker.
Mum and I are also unsure of his work. His biodata simply states that he’s in management. But Bengali people are notorious for exaggerating their job roles – a teaching assistant is always referred to as a teacher, a paralegal is always a lawyer. We decide that we’d need to quiz his occupation if we decide to meet.
As I haven’t said an outright no to either rishtaa, mum shares both photos with dad and little sis.
This time around, dad shows a tiny bit more interest. He takes one look at each photo, coughs a little, before asking: “Ok... ok... which village in Bangladesh is he from?”
Satisfied with both boys’ respective motherlands, he then passes the photos back to mum and gives his usual verdict: “Yes, yes. That’s fine. If you think they’re OK. Maybe one with the hat be bald. But otherwise OK.”
That’s about as involved as dad will ever get. I do love his hands-off attitude. Unlike some families where the father rules with an iron fist, my dad happily lets mum take the lead in what he thinks is ‘women’s business’. But he still has an opinion on the looks of his prospective son-in-law.
My little sister finds the whole thing hilarious. I see her assuming the role I occupied when my middle sister was getting married. She’s the comedienne, making a mockery of Fedora hat-boy. She looks at the other photo and says: “He’s a short-ass. I bet he’s smaller than you.”
I’m not offended. Her opinion doesn’t really count.
With both boys being potential contenders, mum does something completely unorthodox. She requests meetings with both suitors and their respective families on two consecutive weekends. Traditionally, you see one boy first and if that doesn’t work out, you then arrange to meet the other boy’s family. This long standing, unwritten rule has been passed down to me and is something I exercise outside of the arranged marriage process. I’ve only been talking to one boy at a time online. However, mum was throwing the unwritten rulebook out of the window.
She calls Mr Choudhury with her request and I can hear through the phone that he is unsurprisingly aghast. But then mum simply says: “I don’t see what problem is? All boys families do same thing. We got two photos, why not see double boys? More choice, better choice. Just like job interview. Need to try lots for best job. This same thing.”
It seems like mum is growing fatigued by the long, polite arranged marriage etiquette and becoming all too aware that other families frequently flout this exclusivity rule. So she’s bending the rules herself. And for this, I applaud her. She’s turning into a trailblazer among Bengali mums. Sensing that he might lose his £30-a-month fee, Mr Choudhury reluctantly agrees to mum’s request.
I told you it was a busy month.
Mum is surprisingly relaxed about these rishtaa visits. There’s none of the ceremony we experienced the first time round. My older sisters are invited but only middle sis could make it. Big sis promised to attend the next weekend, like there’s some kind of sisterly rota.
There’s no shopping for new outfits, as I’ve still got an unworn salwar kameez from my double deal. Plus the first one’s only been worn once. And it’s highly unlikely that my rishtaas past and present are all going to get together and discuss my sartorial choices. I’m seriously hoping they don’t all know each other.
But one thing mum does is prepare an abundance of samosas. She is nothing if not a feeder. I catch her folding vigorously the day before the first rishtaa visit. I’m about to head out to the shops but I notice she looks tired. I sit down to help.
“Mum, why do you have to go to so much effort? We could have just bought some samosas from the Asian shops. Some brands are pretty authentic, just like home cooking.”
Mum looks as though I’ve sworn at her. “Dooro!” This roughly translates to Oi, that’s out of order. “And have people say bad about our food? Everyone already talking so we don’t need any more –,” mum pauses.
People must be talking about me and my single status.
“Anyway, no. I make with hand.” She returns to her folding.
I tentatively spoon some keema onto one end of a strip of pastry and start folding.
“But it’s such hard work for you. Maybe instead of samosas we could try something different. We could make kebabs. They just need to go in the oven. And we could buy a bunch of cupcakes. From the patisserie, not the supermarket. They’d love it so much they wouldn’t care if they’re shop bought.”
“I told you, home food! When you have daughters to get married, you buy cakes! You no have to cook smelly food. Be as English as want!”
“Mum, I didn’t say anything about wanting to be English. I love our food. It’s not smelly.”
“Not what you say before. I stopped eating shutki for you.”
“What? I never said don’t eat shutki. I hated the smell but –,”
“Yes, so I stopped. All things I do for you girls. Even don’t eating my favourite food so kids no embarrass.”
Mum blinks her eyes for a long second, like she’s holding back tears, before grabbing a spoonful of keema. Her samosas are perfect acute triangles. I look down at mine. It’s an isosceles and a wonky one at that. I’ve also overfilled my pastry, the oil is leaking out of the corner.
“How come yours are perfect, and mine are like this?” I ask.
“Look, I show you how,” mum replies, demonstrating her well-honed folding technique. She creates a triangle, slowly, delicately, before adding in the keema. I was all gung-ho and just plonked on the mincemeat, forcing the pastry around it.
She’s made about 80 so far, all neatly lined up on a silver tray. Each one takes time and patience to make but is eaten in seconds. I bet she’s lost count of the number of times she’s covered this table with a clear plastic cloth and sat folding dozens of samosas, despite never getting round to eating any herself. I shouldn’t take for granted how much mum does for us. From making samosas by the truckload for boys I may not marry, to not eating her favourite food for years as we’re embarrassed by the smell.
I remember the stench of shutki wafting from round the corner on the walk home from school. During my first year of high school, a bunch of us would journey back together, even though we weren’t necessarily friends. This eclectic group included Carly. It was unfortunate that mine was the first house everyone would pass before cutting through the country park to get to their respective homes.
Carly once said: “Eww, what’s that?” Before realising, to my mortification and her amusement, that it’s coming from my house.
This led to a chorus of subtle sniggers and a helpful comment of: “Ooh, I think your dinner’s ready!”
Julia was the only one who pretended not to notice.
To make matters worse, as we approached my house, I saw mum putting the bins out. That was the last thing I needed. As if the shutki stink wasn’t enough, my saree-clad mum was about to throw herself into the ethnic mix. I might as well have had a sign on my back, saying kick me, I’m different. I looked at mum. She read my mind and abandoned her domestic duty, leaving the bin in the middle of the garden before shuffling back indoors.
It feels shit now to think that my own mum knew she embarrassed me. Not in the usual way teenagers are embarrassed by their parents. I was embarrassed by what she represented – a world that I’d tried to deny.
To make it easier for me, mum stopped making shutki on weekdays. Then, as I got older, I started hanging out with my friends on the weekend. Sometimes they would come and call for me. Mum avoided those weekends. Gradually, she made it less and less. I don’t remember exactly when she stopped making shutki but I was glad. And now I feel bad. I probably should say sorry for being such a shit daughter but I don’t.
* * *
FIRST THROUGH THE DOOR is Fedora hat-boy. Happily, he’s not wearing his fedora hat. Though he could have made more effort. He arrives in a black leather bomber jacket. His jeans are ripped and his socks have pictures of Bart Simpson. Compared to Tall-boy, who was dressed to impress, Fedora hat-boy looks like he’s popping to the shops for some biscuits. He’s either super-casual, or he just doesn’t care to be here. This is something of an insult as I’ve made an effort, wearing my pink embellished salwar kameez and matching bangles. I even applied my new Maybelline foundation especially for the occasion. I’m already unimpressed.
I now understand why his family sent a photo of Fedora hat-boy wearing a hat. He’s got a clean-shaved head. This is unlikely to be a fashion statement and is probably a way of hiding his impending baldness. As a lack of hair is a deal breaker for many girls, Fedora hat-boy’s family were playing it safe with a cunning disguise. He also seems to be a lot stouter than his photo suggested. And the muscular frame looks more like fat in person. Either his shirt was very well tailored in the photo or it’s an old snap and he’s since piled on the timber.
Interestingly, Fedora hat-boy arrives with just his mum. This is a much smaller party than Tall-boy’s. My mum’s annoyed as she’s fried enough snacks to feed a family of six. It’s also telling. His dad and older siblings stayed at home. The pessimist in me suggests that they couldn’t be bothered either.
If I needed any more evidence that this wasn’t a rishtaa for me, here it is – Fedora hat-boy is a pompous prick. When we’re left alone for our obligatory chat, he initiates by asking me about my five-year plan. This sounds more like a job interview than any real job interview I’ve ever had. It also totally puts me on the spot.
I reply: “I haven’t really thought about it.”
Fedora hat-boy tuts and looks me square in the face, with an expression of disappointment. “You’ve not thought about it? So you don’t know what you want to do with your life?”
He clearly hasn’t met many Bengali girls. If he did, he’d understand that our main aim in life is to marry the man of our dreams. Yes, I love my PR job and I am perhaps more of a career girl than most but the only thing I’m certain of in five years is that I’ll be hitched. At least I’m hoping so. And my work will fit around that. Not the other way round.
“What about your five-year plan?” I ask.
He then proceeds to bore me about how he wants to travel the world, listing the countries he hasn’t seen and buy a house. Yep, he might think of himself as progressive but like any good Bengali boy, he still lives at home with mummy and daddy. At no point in his five-year plan does he mention getting married. Again, I’m wondering why he’s even here.
The conversation continues in this vein. He talks about how he doesn’t like to laze about on holiday and that he’d rather soak up some culture and do some sightseeing. I agree, saying there’s more to holidays than sitting on the beach.
He responds with: “Oh I like sitting on the beach too. After all, the whole point of going on holiday is to relax.”
It seems like whatever I say, this guy is determined to put forward a counter-argument. I don’t even want to make eye contact with this knobhead. I lower my gaze, only to notice that he has a small hole in his sock at the big toe. Clearly he’s spent so much money travelling that he’s neglected his wardrobe.
Mum walks in with some vermicelli dessert, interrupting the awkward conversation. I’m relieved. I just want this visit to be over. Thankfully, like my first rishtaa meeting, the boy-girl chat is the last item on the agenda. In this case, it was a very short agenda as my family only had to entertain one other relative.
Before Fedora hat-boy is about to leave, his mum, a tiny-looking grey haired woman wearing a washed out beige saree, shuffles towards me and gives me a tight hug. I see her face close up. She’s really old. Weathered by time. She looks at me for a long second. In her eyes there seems a sadness, almost a last-chance saloon sense of despair. Fedora hat-boy is the second youngest in his family and he’s one of six. He’s nearly 31 and something tells me that he isn’t as keen to get married as his parents would like. This would explain the lack of sartorial effort and shitty attitude. The investigative journalist in me reckons that he’s either got a white girlfriend, is gay, or a self-hating Asian. I bet he doesn’t want an arranged marriage and is going along with things at his parents’ wishes. However, by doing this, he’s wasting other people’s time, including mine.
It looks like I’m not the only one who sensed a bad attitude. Middle sis comes over to me after they’ve left. “He seemed like a bit of a knob, didn’t he?”
I nod and agree.
Though mum doesn’t fluently understand English, she can read body language like an expert. She sensed his arrogance too. After asking me what I think, she says: “Never mind, boy like that is waste of time. And he got no hair. I call Mr Choudhury first, before boy family have chance to say no. You no worry, just eat these shomsha. We’ve got lots left.”
The following weekend’s rishtaa wasn’t much more successful. But this was down to a much more shallow reason on my part. I could talk at length about the potential mother-in-law and how she was the polar opposite of Fedora hat-boy’s mum. This mum was younger, probably in her late 40s / early 50s and looked much feistier. She eschewed the traditional hijab in favour of a stylish coiffed updo. Her eyebrows were plucked to oblivion and redrawn with a pencil.
As my mum would say, she looked like a modern cow. And what is the significance of this? Well, Bengali mums matter. Despite there being a widely held belief that ours is a patriarchal society, more often than not women rule the roost. They make the key decisions behind closed doors. So if the mum’s a bitch, you’re up shit creek. I know every country has the monster-in-law stories, but in our culture, the situation is worsened by the fact that you might have to live with your in-laws, at least in the early years of your marriage.
Every boy I’ve seen so far, including this one, lives with his mum and dad. That’s quite the norm for unmarried Bengali boys, unless they live in a different city for work. The general unwritten rule seems to be that boys live at home initially, before moving into their own place within a year or two. As middle sis lived with the in-laws initially, I’ve come to accept that as the normal way of doing things.
Even if you end up in a place of your own, chances are that mummy-in-law will still be a looming presence. After all, it’s well known that in Asian culture you don’t just marry the boy, you marry the whole family too. And front and centre of that family is mummy dearest.
Bengali mums tend to fall into two distinct categories, each with their own specific challenges. If they’re old, like Fedora hat-boy’s mum, chances are they’ll be less feisty and bothersome as they often have their own ailments to deal with. However, there may be a greater expectation for you to pick up the baton domestically.
If they’re young, like this rishtaa’s mum, it could go one of two ways. They’ll either be a really cool, modern mum who understands that you need your marital space and leaves you and their son to get on with your lives. They might even become more like a friend than a mother-in-law. However, there is also a very real chance that they’ll be strong-willed and overbearing. It’s likely that they’ll have an opinion on everything, from your choice of career to your way of cooking and how you raise your children.
Judging by the looks of this mum, with her ‘don’t mess with me’ face and harsh eyebrows, I would bet she fell into the latter category. That may sound judgmental but without the luxury of getting to know someone and their family over a period of years, the cover of the book is all you can go by. And quite often, the cover is an accurate depiction of the story inside.
There was also the small issue about his ‘management’ role. He was a store manager in a clothes shop. So yes, he’s technically in management, just not the type that I thought. As an academic and occupational snob, this doesn’t sit very well with me.
If this all sounds terribly shallow, brace yourself for the next bit. His mum, his job and everything else pales in comparison to one thing I can’t get past... he is tiny. Like, really tiny. His biodata says 5ft 6in but I’m calling bullshit.
There’s no denying that he’s shorter than me. But more to the point, he’s more petite than I am. His small frame makes him look like a little boy. He’s wearing a charcoal-coloured pinstripe suit, the jacket looks far too big with its 80s shoulder pads and the skinny pink tie fails to add maturity. He looks like a schoolboy. Despite him being four years older than me, I could pass for his big sister. And I’m only a size eight and look very young myself. With age and childbirth I’ll likely only get bigger, whereas I suspect he’ll always be petite. Many girls don’t mind being larger than their man but I couldn’t settle for a lifetime of looking like a big old bird next to a teenager.
The worst part is that this boy actually sounded normal. He’s not travelled yet – perhaps airport security don’t think he’s old enough to fly without a parent – but he’d like to “with the right person,” he tells me with a shy smile. It turns out he’d like that person to be me.
To my mortification, he asked if he could take my number while we were having our one-to-one chat. “It might be easier to talk that way,” he reasoned.
I nearly fell off my chair. Surely that’s against the rules at stage one? I’m not sure whether to be offended or impressed with his request.
Unsure of what to say, I pull out the prudish Bengali-girl card, muttering: “Oh, I wouldn’t mind but shouldn’t we consult our parents first? It’s probably the right thing to do.”
Like parental permission has ever stopped me before. And I wouldn’t mind??? What a cop out.
After Small-boy had left, mum, big sis and I convene around the table with the leftover samosas for a debrief. Unanimously, we agreed that Small-boy was too small.
Mum, politically incorrect as ever, says: “He wasn’t even full-sized man. You’ll get small kids.”
There are so many things that are offensive about her statement but I’m too tired to correct her.
Big sis chimes in with: “And did you see the mum in her low-cut saree blouse? Her boobs were practically out on the dining table.”
“Dooro!” mum hisses, stifling a laugh at the same time. “Your dad will hear you!”
“Oh relax, he’s got the Bangla news blasting in the front room, he won’t hear a thing. And there was a lot of boob. I wasn’t sure where to look,” big sis argues.
My sister is clearly exaggerating. Though there was more dimply cleavage than I would have liked to see on a Sunday afternoon. And yes, big sis is just as unfiltered as mum. It must be a Bengali immigrant thing.
Then we hear an annoying teenage voice: “He was smaller than me!” Little sis sniggers.
I didn’t realise she was in the room. She must have been playing on her phone in the corner. Bless her, she’s trying to get involved in the girl talk. She pulls up a chair, and we all spend the evening talking and laughing about the last two rishtaas. Big sis reminds us of her rishtaas in Bangladesh, which I’d long forgotten about.
“Now let’s see. There was lanky Larry, baby face and heffalump,” she recalls.
“Which one was heffalump?” I ask.
“You know... the hefty one. Not that I can talk now,” she sighs, looking down at her not-so-skinny frame.
Mum seizes the opportunity for a life lesson: “See, never make fun anyone. No-one can say how you end up, or with who you end up.”
“Oh, sorry. What was it you said about today’s rishtaa? He’s not a full-sized man?” Big sis teases.
Mum has the perfect answer: “I wasn’t making funny, I was speaking truth.”
“Well anyway,” big sis continues, “this little fella is quite the catch compared to some of the bobby dazzlers that came my way.”
“They not all been bad,” mum argues. “You just too fussy.”
“I don’t think turning down heffalump was fussy, mum,” says big sis. “I hardly had Bollywood heroes knocking on my door. In fact, all the women in our family are great at the art of compromise, apart from Rashda. Some of the boys she turned down... I wouldn’t have said no.”
“Dooro!” says mum. “Have shame.”
“I’m only being honest. That girl’s still got eyes on her and she knows it. I bet she’ll be all dolled up like a queen at her brother’s wedding. I’m glad I won’t be there to sit near her.”
“Oh stop! If you jealous, then lose weight!” Mum is supportive as always.
“I will. Diet starts in January,” she says, dipping her third samosa into a pool of ketchup.
Big sis has never been so funny. She’s usually got a stiff upper lip, playing up to her first-born role. I forgot that she’s actually quite witty. Through her banter, she’s reminding me that she’s been through it and that there is a happy ending. It’s a welcome gesture, as it’s easy to think that everyone else had it good. Big sis, with her big house, kind husband and cute kids, seems to have it all. Yet she had to go through her fair share of uncomfortable rishtaa meetings before she met my brother-in-law. Despite them having fewer opportunities to meet pre-marriage due to more strict formalities back home, it’s plain to see that they are made for each other. If ever there was a poster couple for arranged marriages, surely they were it.
I’m glad to have a talking point with big sis. I’m glad we’re all on the same page. We don’t say it out aloud but we all know that this arranged marriage business is one big hilarious head-fuck. If it wasn’t so funny, I’d be quite sad.
However, despite the giggles, I’m becoming all too aware that time is marching on and I’m no closer to finding the one. With each failed rishtaa meeting, each date, each disappointment, I’m beginning to wonder if the one actually exists.