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I feel a dragging sensation in my abdomen. As I’m gathering the last of my bits in what used to be my shared bedroom with little sis, I feel... heavy. Normally I’m super anal, needing to hurry up and hurry everyone along with me. Clothes are thrown into my suitcase from a distance and left lying, corpse-like, in crumpled lumps. Right now, I’m folding my jumpers into the neatest of little squares. As I fold the last one, I realise there is nothing else to put away and nothing else to do, except face facts.
Just like that, my time at home has come to an end. It’s time to go back to London. Is it weird to feel like this? Shouldn’t I be beyond excited to get back to my new husband? Of course I’ve missed M. Of course I can’t wait to get back to him. But there is also a pull here to stay with my dearest and now not so nearest, my family. The ones who do my head in most of the time. The one’s who are largely dysfunctional. I’m going to miss them. It’s been a bit of a honeymoon period, being home for just a short space of time. Not long enough for us to piss each other off, yet enough time for me to realise that, despite the excitement of my new life in London, I truly, truly miss home.
It’s like when I was at university. I used to be so quick to get off the phone to mum. So quick to conclude the conversation so I could go back to being young and free and away from home. I never really appreciated that mum may have missed me and wanted to hear my dulcet tones for a minute longer. I just didn’t think. Now I’m the one who’s feeling funny about leaving. I’m the one wishing I had just one more minute at home. I wonder if mum feels the same way?
I left work early, even though my train tonight isn’t until 7.30pm. I wanted to make the most of my last night. I insisted mum didn’t cook and instead picked up takeaway for everyone. Of course, mum still did, as her reasoning was that it was far too early to eat ‘properly’. So the Chicken Cottage haul served as a pre-dinner dinner while everyone else will have chicken curry at the usual time of 9pm.
We spent the evening laughing, mainly brought on by my middle sis’ increasingly frequent bouts of flatulence. She shared a charming story about the first time she let one rip in front of her hubby. Of course, being the geisha-like, delicate-looking lady she is, she had a reputation to protect, so she did the only thing that was right in the situation - blame it on her infant son. This led to a conversation about whether I’ve farted in front of M (yes, we are childish like that and felt it’s an important topic of discussion. And no, I haven’t farted in front of him yet. I’ve displayed exemplary restraint).
My nephew and niece find it hilarious that we are discussing trumps which, to be honest, says more about us than them.
Home is always more fun when middle sis or big sis stay over. They usually entertain me with tales of their lives in their respective cities of Bristol and Bradford. Middle sis might share the odd gripe about her in-laws, the latest one being them comparing her to their newest daughter-in-law, who is a barrister and also knows her way around the kitchen. Funny, it used to be that beauty was enough for them to approve. I guess that shine has rubbed off after a decade and now that she’s not the only daughter-in-law.
Dad comes downstairs after praying. I think the smell of fries enticed him. He doesn’t care for the chicken burgers but, unlike most Bengali dads, he’ll happily swap rice for fries a few nights of the week.
“You stay tonight?” I’m assuming dad’s line of questioning is aimed at me, even though his eyes are fixed on the deep-fried prize.
“No, I’m going back to London.”
“Eh-heh, why you no stay?” asks dad. He looks disappointed and a little confused.
“How she stay?” says mum in her usual stern voice. “You know she be working in London office.”
“Just tell them you take day off? To stay home with family?”
Oh dad. If only it were that easy.
Mum reads my mind. “Oh ho! She just come and go when she please? You been retired so long you forget how work be! And she has husband be on his own there. Can’t stay here forever.”
I feel a pang of pain in my stomach. Dad’s face looks how I feel.
“Okay, okay,” he says as he picks at some limp fries in the cardboard box.
We sit and eat in silence, taking in the moment. I don’t know why it feels like the last supper. I felt the same way before my wedding, all sad and melancholy. It’s like I’m mourning the loss of my family, which is silly really, as I’m only going 200 miles down the road. It takes just two hours by train.
After our pre-dinner dinner, mum and dad go upstairs to pray again while little sis disappears into our shared bedroom for her ritualistic antisocial texting session with God knows who.
While my niece and nephew are preoccupied watching Tiny Pop in the front room, I ask middle sis: “When you used to come home to mum’s, did you feel sad about going back?”
“No. I couldn’t wait to get away from you lot. Why? Do you? If you do, your marriage is in trouble before it’s even started properly.”
I look at her and she returns my open mouth gaze with a cackle.
“I’m joking! Obviously you’ve forgotten all the times I’d cry my eyes out when it was time to go. I did that for a solid year!”
“Really?”
I only remember the rosier bits of her life as a newlywed. Her coming over and being waited on hand and foot. The bedroom being prepared with fresh sheets. Us having to sit and listen to her boast about all the things she’d been up to, the date nights, the holidays. I can’t remember any of the tears. Maybe that’s just how it is. Maybe we are conditioned to look back with rose tinted lenses rather than remember the bad bits.
I think for a minute, then the memory crystallises. “Oh, yeah. The ugly crying did seem a bit excessive.”
“I was a wreck the whole time. Obviously, I loved my married life and wouldn’t have things any other way. Well, I would. If there was something I would change, I’d keep us all together. You know, mum dad and even you, with me all the time.”
That must be the hormones talking. If we all lived together, we’d probably kill each other after a month of simmering resentment. There’s a reason why there are less and less extended families living together in the Asian community. Too many cooks really do spoil the broth. Though I do know what middle sis means. It’s like I’m being pulled in different directions. Towards M, towards London, towards the excitement of my new life. Then there is the other thing tugging at my heartstrings. The family thing. My mum, my silent but reliable dad. My monosyllabic teenage sister. Our beige walls, brown rugs and bland house that’s bursting with colour and character.
I know I am so, so lucky in my marriage. I’ve heard all the stories of other Bengali girls who haven’t had it so good. Girls like Rashda, who got interfering in-laws, which contributed towards the end of her marriage and her new life as a single mum-of-three. Then there are the other tales, which I never know if they are true or urban myth. Girls who give up their careers, their hobbies and their friends to commit to a life of homemaking. I don’t have that. My life hasn’t really changed at all. Yet, at the same time, it’s changed so much. Almost beyond recognition.
And just like that, it’s 7.10pm. The taxi will be here any minute.
My niece peels her eyes away from the screen and shuffles towards me, resting her head on my folded legs. She looks up at me and, without saying a word, looks back at the TV.
And just like that, my eyes well up. The ugliest of ugly tears.
“Eh heh. What happened? Who make you cry?” Dad comes in at the worst possible time. He must have supersonic hearing to have come down so quickly at the first sound of my sniffling. Or maybe he was hovering outside the door, too afraid to come in but still wanting to be close to us, to be part of our chats, our moment.
My phone rings with the number of the cab firm, which coincides with the car honking it’s horn outside.
It’s time.
“Quick quick! Taxi here!” Mum comes into the room sharing the most redundant piece of intel. She’s got a blue carrier bag in her hands, the ones she gets from the grocery shop, which is usually full of coriander or chicken.
Upon seeing my tear-stained face, she says: “Don’t be silly. You’ll make your face all puff. What taxi man think? Anyway, take these snack with you for journey.”
She hands me the bag. I look inside to see a juice carton, a packet of crisps and a dry, crumbling croissant wrapped in cling film.
My mum, always thinking. Always caring.
This makes me cry even more. Against my will, I’m now doing gulping, gasping cries as I choke on my own tears and nose water. I can only imagine how gross I’m looking.
“Dooro stop! You get late!” Mum is as comforting as ever.
“It’s alright, you silly bugger.” Middle sis puts her arm around me.
My nephew and niece look bewildered.
“You can watch your programmes, if you like.” My nephew hands me the remote control.
“No, it’s okay,” I say between sobs, clasping his still-baby-chubby, clammy hand and running my thumb across his dimply knuckles. I hold it for a moment. He looks at me like I’m weird.
I have to go. As I sit on the hallway steps, pulling on my boots, I notice all the coats hanging up ahead. Big coats, small coats, black coats, green coats, pink and purple coats. So many coats. So many people warming up the house I’m about to leave. Little sis comes down and stops at the landing before the stairs turn a corner.
“What’s going on? Oh...” she says when I look back at her to show my sad face.
Suddenly I’m surrounded by every single person in the house. Mum is repeating “no cry,” over and over again.
Middle sis is rubbing my back as though I’m the pregnant one. My nephew and niece are sporting confused faces and my dad is mumbling in the background: “Eh-he. Why she crying?”
It’s a good question. Why am I crying? It’s ridiculous.
Once I step out into the cold, abrasive autumn air, the tears are suspended and I feel the heat escape from my head.
The taxi driver is trying to make small talk. I’m replying with one word answers to whatever he’s asking. I think he’s querying about where I’m going and where’s my home or something or other.
When we are held hostage by a red traffic light, he turns around to reveal pale blue eyes, wearing the expression of concern to match his big, papa bear frame. He’s about my dad’s age, though he’s still got a full head of white hair.
“Just so you know, you’ve got more options, love.”
“Sorry?”
What’s he on about?
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. That’s all.”
A beep from behind prompts him to turn his attention back to the road as the lights have turned green.
I see the cabbie look down at my outfit through his rear view mirror.
I then look down at my outfit. In my rush of emotion, I changed into my short salwar kameez top instead of the pussy bow blouse I planned on wearing for my journey back. I never wear Asian clothes outside the house, unless it’s a wedding. Why didn’t anyone point this out? Why didn’t I leave my work clothes on? That would have been a better choice.
My ethnic top, combined with my bobbly black coat and unintentionally retro bootcut jeans is an awful combination of east and west. My low-slung ponytail is slightly obscured by my purple pashmina, which may look like I’m covering my hair rather than keeping warm. And if it’s true that shoes complete an outfit, I’ve managed to fudge this look big time. Again, I’ll blame the melancholy... but I’m wearing trainers. Trainers! I never wear trainers. And I NEVER wear a desi-ish outfit with trainers. Oh, how I dissed those commuters in London! Now I’m just like them, except instead of a skirt suit I’m pairing mine with... well, whatever the hell this is.
I meet the taxi driver’s gaze. His look has morphed from concern to something I’ve seen so often before - pity.
Oh no. Oh, God no.
“It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m just a bit sad as I’ve been home for the first time since I got married.”
Bloody hell. That makes it sound worse.
“Is it arranged?” He spits the word out like it’s a hairball.
“No, it’s not.” I suddenly feel like I’m perpetuating the stereotype that arranged marriages are a bad thing.
“Okay love, well, here we are. Just remember, you should never have to leave your family. Nobody should have power over you like that.”
Before I have a chance to clarify anything, he pulls up at the station car park and jumps out.
He lugs the suitcase onto his expansive belly and drops it onto the now rained-on floor. Bloody Manchester weather. I don’t even have a hood. There is no time to explain anything so I find him a £10 note and tell him to keep the change. He then presses a card into my hand.
“Call me if you ever need, yeah?”
I’m not sure if he means to use his taxi service or for rescuing.
As I pull my noisy, squeaky trolley up the concourse, I feel weighed down, and not just with the contents of my suitcase. Then there’s an announcement.
“The train from Manchester Piccadilly to London Euston has been delayed. Please wait for further announcements.”
I feel lighter. I head to the kiosks to look at the magazines as I’m not sure what else to do with myself. How long will it be delayed for? How long should I wait? Will work understand if I don’t come back tomorrow? I could easily work from the Manchester office again. Surely M wouldn’t mind, would he? If the train is cancelled, it’s not my fault.
That’s it. I’ve decided. The train, to all intents and purposes, is cancelled. I’m not waiting on this open-air windy platform with sheets of rain pelting me from every angle. I’m not waiting any longer. It will probably be cancelled.
Another tannoy announcement: “The train from Manchester Piccadilly to London Euston is delayed. Please wait for further announcements.”
No way. I’m not waiting. Otherwise the train might come.
“Awww, I was looking forward to seeing you. I’d cooked a nasi goreng for us, too,” says M, upon hearing my news.
“Oh no!” I feel bad for being so glad for this sudden turn of events.
“Yeah, but don’t worry, just enjoy your evening with your family. Make the most of it.”
I guess I better call that concerned cabbie back. At least it’ll give me a chance to set the record straight.
***
“So, this is a bit awkward.” I tentatively put my coat back on the overcrowded hook at home. “Sorry for my dramatics,” I tell everyone who has once again congregated in the hallway, standing on ceremony.
“Yes, that was a bit much.” Middle sis stops cradling her belly to put her arm around me and squeeze my shoulders. “But I’m glad you’re back, you oddball.”
“Auntie, were you sad that you missed your train?” asks my niece.
“Yes, that’s what it was,” I reply.
As I retire for bed, unpacking my nightclothes, which are unusually un-creased after being put away with such care, mum comes in. She’s dressed in her long, sky blue mumsy nightgown that we bought together in the sale last year. With her hair long and loose, I spot more greys strands than I last remember.
“You know, you married lady now. This be your life. You have to get used to it. Life be good, no? He be good boy?”
“Mum, he’s very good. Life is great. I love being in London with him.” I feel I should reassure her that all is rosy after my blubber-a-thon.
“So why you cry? When I be married, I left country as teenager to come here and live with your dad’s sister and husband. I be their cook! You be lucky. You need be grateful.”
“I know I’m lucky and I am grateful. But I’m allowed to miss you lot, too, aren’t I? The two don’t have to be mutually exclusive. Anyway, aren’t you glad I’m staying another night? Don’t you miss me?”
Mum smirks. “Maybe lit-ool bit.”
As I lie in bed, I think about M. How he doesn’t do the baby rhino snore like my little sister in the next bed. How his arms are strong and fit around my collar perfectly, and his stubble is soft with light bristles. God, after bemoaning leaving home, I now miss M.
This being married is a seriously messed up business.