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“Are you pregnant?” M’s sister-in-law pats my slightly softer belly.
Cheeky cow.
“No!” I step back from the stirring, both on the stove and in person.
“Really? Tell me the truth!” My big sister-in-law continues to mix the pan of lamb curry, adamant that there’s something in her crackpot theory.
“I’m not! I just put on a bit of weight on our honeymoon.” I now feel self-conscious of my pink and black salwar kameez. Is it too tight? It was fairly roomy last time I wore it, which was during my last visit to my in-laws, before I lost a few pounds during Ramadan and then gained them back (and them some) over the two weeks we were on holiday.
During our honeymoon, the breakfast buffets got the better of us at every destination. Whether it was the fish ball soup with a side of full English at our trendy Kuala Lumpur hotel, or the devious omelette station in Singapore, we bonded over our love of gastronomy. We didn’t hold back during lunch or dinner, either. One of my fondest memories was when M and I decided that a burger and fries each at the beach hut in Langkawi wasn’t enough, so we ordered a pizza to share. This was washed down with full-fat Coke (the diet alternative just isn’t the same and I refuse to pay for a bottle of water when we can get it for free from a tap) and finished with ice cream.
Though we also sampled the local delicacies. Every day we ate rice with Malaysian laksa curry and their standard side of peanuts and cucumber. The pizza and fries were just for when we were craving some home comforts, which, as it happened, was quite often.
So yes, I may have put on a small amount of timber while on honeymoon. So did M. We are fine with it. I am fine with it. I’m still a size eight, despite every item of clothing I own fitting a little more snugly. But I most certainly, certainly, am not pregnant.
“Actually, it’s good if you’re not. I got pregnant within the first year of my marriage. Enjoy your time together.” M’s sister-in-law turns up the heat on the meat curry, tops it up with freshly boiled water and adds chopped potatoes into the pot before returning the lid. She’s a pro in the kitchen and at total ease in the environment, even though it’s not her home, her kitchen or her pot. We’re at my in-laws. My mother-in-law has gone to pray, leaving us wives holding the fort. Or in this case, leaving me to be ambushed about kids at the first opportunity.
“It’s nice...” she continues. “You two seem so comfortable together, much more than I was with my husband when we first got married. We only met twice, that’s how it is in Bangladesh. I remember being so nervous around him at first. Believe me, I was too shy to even go to the toilet for the first month!”
“Really? I’ve been the same. I thought it was just me.” I’m wondering if the inability to open one’s bowels in the early days of marriage is something that affects all women. Something needs to be done if it’s a universal problem. I’m also rather touched by the frank admission. I didn’t think she’d say such a thing as she seems so ladylike.
“The best thing is to go when no one is around. Maybe in work? Actually, maybe not. They don’t have bodnas, so how would you wash? Or do they have... what are those things? Bidets?”
This certainly is uncharted territory. I did not expect bum washing to be on the table while laying the actual table for a 3.30pm lunch. I don’t think I’ve even talked constipation with my sisters. Maybe I should. Perhaps they’ve been holding a secret, too.
“How was the honeymoon?” she switches to a less crude subject.
The good thing about M’s sister-in-law is that I know this is a straightforward question. There’s no agenda or jealousy. From what I’ve heard, she and her hubby travel a fair bit, even with small children in tow. Though their trips seem to be closer to British soil. Still, it’s a reassuring reminder that life doesn’t have to change just because you birth small people.
“It was amazing. The best holiday I’ve had.” I then remember that it’s been my only holiday, not counting the few trips to Bangladesh, which were anything but holidays. I’d spend most of the time in a gilded ivory mansion, as we had to rely on the driver to take us anywhere and he was always fully booked up by everyone else. I’m sure M’s sister-in-law, having been born and brought up in Bangladesh and coming to the UK after marriage, has a much more positive experience of the motherland. I must ask her about this at some point but, for now, it’s time to brag.
I regale with tales of our honeymoon. The night markets of Langkawi, sitting outside the Marina Bay in Singapore, watching the light show illuminate the dark waters at night. Swimming in an infinity pool which was sat atop the 34-storey hotel. Sharing fries and Sprite in Clark Quay. Strolling through the streets of Kuala Lumpur after midnight. Eating lots. Talking more. When I share this story, it sounds like I’m detailing someone else’s trip. Another girl’s life. Never in my wildest dreams did I dare to imagine being so lucky.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. Once you have kids, the holidays are less exotic. Europe is lovely but it’s not quite the same.”
“What you say?”
I stand to attention as my mother-in-law appears behind me, seemingly out of nowhere.
“We were just talking about their holiday,” says M’s sister-in-law. “It sounds beautiful, Mashallah. Mum, you should see these places one day.”
As if, I think. I don’t want to judge a book by its cover, however, if my mother-in-law is anything like mum, and so far, judging on the superficial things - basic grasp of English, choosing the Bangla channel over the BBC, politically incorrect in an endearing way - I don’t think M’s mum will want to hear about our holiday.
“Was there halal food there?” M’s mum asks, to my surprise. I don’t ask her which destination as we went to a few, however I can answer in a generalised yes as every country visited had a big Muslim population.
My answer impresses her and she imparts some not-so-well-travelled wisdom of her own: “Lots of people from Bangladesh go to Malaysia to work.”
“Really?” I ask out of genuine intrigue rather than feigned interest. “I always thought most Bengalis came to the UK.”
“No, no. Many go to other countries like Italy, France, German.”
I love how my mother-in-law drops the ‘Y’ from the end of Germany. I love even more how we’re able to have these conversations about travelling.
Before I got married, I didn’t know what to expect. Though I’ve often told Julia how forward-thinking all us Bengalis are in contrast to her preconceptions, I couldn’t help but worry about what was in store for me. I knew life would be different. I’d heard all the stories. Most were heart-warming tales of happy marriages. Yet, I couldn’t shake off the bad stories. Isn’t that always the way, the bad things always stick in your mind like superglue, while all the thousands of good stories fade away? It’s like when you’re buying a new phone. You scour the reviews, looking for something negative and get fixated on the handful of one star reviews in a sea of high praise. Why is that? Why do we seek out the worst? I always thought I had the problem with being glass half empty. Maybe we’re all wired that way?
“It’s not like that anymore,” mum would tell me when I’d share my worries. “Even the most old-fashioned woman has to change with the times when her son gets married.” She would say this while simultaneously warning me that I’ll have to get my act together, not be so argumentative, learn to hold my tongue and fold samosas properly. No wonder I’m perpetually unsure.
Lunch is nearly ready, which is just as well, given the time. I’m a fast learner and I cottoned on that these guys like a late meal. So this weekend I’ve been prepared. Instead of having cereal in the morning, I broke the habit of 27 years and joined them in having two rounds of toast and a fabulous new recipe as taught by my mother-in-law. It’s basically a tin of baked beans thrown into a pan of fried onions and scrambled egg and a bit of chopped fresh green chilli for good measure. I never knew you could Bengali-fy beans, the most British of British staples, but my mother-in-law did, and it’s genius. I will definitely be recreating that in London for brunch on the weekends.
There’s still no sign of M’s little sis, not that I’m keeping track or anything. I didn’t see her last night, either, though to be fair we rocked up to M’s mum’s at midnight, an hour after M’s big brother and his family, so I wasn’t expecting her to be awake.
Where could she be today? It’s a Saturday. I don’t want to turn into one of those medley daughter-in-laws but surely she should show her face as we’ve come over? I don’t expect royal treatment but a hello wouldn’t go amiss.
Just as I decide it’s none of my business my mouth draws a different conclusion.
Upon asking, my mother-in-law does a somewhat nervous giggle, before saying: “Eh... maybe the library? She say something about it last night. You know, she so busy with exam and things.”
Again, what exams take place just before the Christmas holidays? And again, I won’t get involved.
M comes in for the fourth time to do his courtesy check on my welfare. He’s a good egg like that, ensuring that I’m not overburdened with domestic responsibilities. At one point he took over and stirred the heaving pot of pilau rice, when he saw that I was struggling to manoeuvre the wooden spoon around the vast stainless steel fortress. I wasn’t sure what my mother-in-law would make of it and expected a sneer of sorts. Bengali mums in general don’t like their boys cooking. Not least their married boys. Especially not with their wives present, who have two spare hands to be busied. However, instead of a look of judgement which would read: “Oh-ho! Look at her, already got him under the thumb,” she shared a sweet smile with M’s sister-in-law.
One thing I am very grateful for is that M’s mum hasn’t probed into my pregnant-or-not status. I don’t think I could cope with the embarrassment of her asking. Thankfully, mum hasn’t asked me, either. In fact, she’d be rather shocked and, dare I say, slightly disappointed if I was to get knocked up so soon. Modern-minded minx that she is, mum is very much of the view that I should establish my footing in the marriage, continue with my career, and have some money of my own. Having been financially dependent upon my dad for her entire adult life, mum knows first-hand how frustrating it is when you don’t have your own money. She often tells me, in brutal honesty, that cash is the currency in which we operate. Any other work, i.e. the real work of bringing up children or running a household, pales in significance. It doesn’t matter if you cook 20 curries. Yes, it’ll be eaten, but no, it won’t be valued. What will be valued is if you can hold onto a job, even something that pays £1 an hour. Because in that lies power. In a world where women are often demoted, mum reminds me that we need to grab all the power we can get.
I’m not really sure what M’s mum stance is on this. Hopefully, she’s applying a smidge of common sense and assuming I won’t get up the duff within less than three months of marriage. Unlike my nosey new sister-in-law.
M’s sister comes in just as the food is about to be served. I forget how convenient it is to be an unmarried daughter. Did I used to rock up like that once the cooking was done? It was only a few months ago that I was single and at home, yet it feels like years ago.
M and his brothers choose to dine in the front room, using their knees for tables, as the football is on. M’s dad opts for the living room, to have the Bengali news for company. Us ladies of the house are left to eat at the kitchen table, though we have to huddle around it as, just like in my mum’s house, it’s pushed up against the wall and only gets pulled out for special guests. We are not considered special enough.
“Try the fish,” I offer to M’s younger sister, rather proud of the fact I had a big hand in the creation of the dish.
“I don’t really like fish,” she says, reaching for the chicken curry.
She could’ve at least attempted to try some.
M’s mum doesn’t bat an eyelid. She must be used to catering for different palettes. M’s sister-in-law, however, shoots a knowing smile at me. It’s a look that says: Yeah, she’s a bit like that.
I return the look. Yeah, she does seem to be that way.
***
“He’s meeting this girl from Bolton,” M shares an update on Jam’s latest love interest before we go to sleep. “They’ve been speaking a bit online, so we’ll see what happens.”
“Maybe I’ll get to wear a fancy saree again soon.” I’m feeling optimistic. “It’d be nice to get use out of them.”
“I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” M warns. “He’s super fussy. One time he turned a girl down because she had lipstick on her teeth.”
“Really? I didn’t think a bloke would even notice that.”
“Most blokes wouldn’t but he spots everything. Anyway, he was asking, since he’s up, if I’m free to meet him tomorrow for breakfast.”
M pauses, testing the temperature of the room.
“I said I’d let him know.”
“You can go if you want,” I say, as it’d be a bit crap not to.
“Is that alright? I’d only be about an hour.”
Famous last words.
“It’s fine. Anyway, your sister-in-law is really cool,” I say.
“She’s sound. What did you ladies talk about?”
“Well, you won’t believe this but she was too shy to go to the toilet when she got married, in case your brother heard.”
“What? To go at all? Or just when she needed the poop station?”
I feel like I’m breaking girl code here but my verbal diarrhoea rumbles on. “Erm, we didn’t go into specifics. But I’m guessing both? The truth is, I’m the same.”
M puts his phone down to look at me. “Why?”
“I don’t know. It just feels weird. I don’t want you hearing me...”
M laughs. “Have you never heard me? More to the point, do you think us guys don’t know you pooh?”
“It’s not that, it’s just that I like to retain some mystique.”
“To be honest with ya, that died on our honeymoon,” says M.
“What do you mean?” I dare ask.
“Well, if you’re worried about me hearing you in the bathroom... I already have.”
“No you haven’t!” I shout, forgetting where I am and who might be listening. “I didn’t do any number twos while you were in earshot.”
“You might not have done that but you did do a little fart with your wee. In Langkawi. I heard.”
I bury my face in the pillow. Oh my God. That bloody cabin en-suite with its paper thin door.
M laughs some more. I don’t.
“Don’t worry, babe. I don’t like you any less because I’ve heard you in the toilet. I like that you’re down-to-earth, not like some of these pretentious girls I’ve met before who are probably constantly constipated. Seriously though, I don’t want you getting ill or anything by holding your pooh.”
“I’m not actually trying to. It’s just that... I get stage fright. To be honest, I feel embarrassed that we’re even having this conversation.”
“You will be properly embarrassed if you leave it too long. There’s no worse smell than old pooh.” He laughs again. I don’t. Again.
“Sorry babe, but it is funny.” He strokes my cheek. “I’ll give you a tip. Next time, take your phone with you when you go to the toilet.”
“That’s gross.”
“I do it all the time. Anyway, while you’re on the toilet just go on Twitter, Instagram or whatever it is you like to do. That way you’ll be relaxed and, before you know it, you’ll be plopping away.”
Now I laugh louder than expected. I hope my mother-in-law doesn’t hear.
I can’t think of a single other person who would advise me on how to get comfortable toileting, let alone the person unintentionally making me uncomfortable in the first place. As if I didn’t know it already, I think I found my soulmate.