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I do love a dawat. Growing up in an English area, the fabled lunch invite was one of the few windows into my culture.
It was the only time I would see Bengali women in pretty sarees outside of a wedding setting. It was also the only time I got to hear mum talking to other Bengali women and, therefore, changing the tone from the short and bossy that she kept for the household, to a quieter, more eloquent, more refined way of speaking.
However, absolutely hands down best of all when it comes to giving - or receiving - a dawat, is the food. It’s not like any regular lunch invite. A dawat is like lunch on crack. It’s a supercharged meal. With everything I love at once - samosas, kebabs, roast chicken - served on a silver platter. In some households (never mine), said platter would be decorated with some embellishments, like sliced cucumber carved into star shapes, or even a boiled egg cut to resemble a flower. You know, that sort of shit.
However, just like presents at Christmas, it is much better to receive than to give a dawat. And the dawats this weekend hold even greater significance, because they are purely in our honour. Yes, I’m no longer the bridesmaid. I am the shiny new glowing bride, for whom two consecutive dawats are being held. And for M too, of course. But mainly me.
Don’t get me wrong, there are perks of being the third wheel to a couple’s dawat. I’ve done it a few times with my older sisters and not only been on the receiving end of delicious food, but also the gift of a silver kameez. It’d usually be ugly as sin but it’s the thought that counts, as the host family feel obliged to gift me something along with the married couple, lest I leave the house in floods of jealous tears. However, there is a specific prestige to having a lunch in my honour. Like I said when I was getting married, I don’t often get princess moments, so I’ll milk this one for all it’s worth.
The first dawat is, thankfully, from my side of the family. It’s at uncle Tariq’s and auntie Rukhsana’s flat in East London. They can be my dry run where I practice my coy bride act before going to the lunch invite from M’s auntie tomorrow.
“Mashallah you look so well. Marriage has made you pretty.” Auntie Rukhsana cups my face and manages to both flatter and offend in a way only a Bengali mum knows.
It must be my understated, no make-up make-up. Paired with a low-key pale pink salwar kameez gifted to me by M’s family, I’m feeling this look. I’m finally figuring out that less is occasionally more when it comes to beauty. Who would’ve thought it?
M fidgets with the cufflinks on his pale pink shirt (yes, we matched), while standing in the very small, square hallway.
“Come, come.” Uncle Tariq ushers M with his cigarette-free hand to follow him into the lounge/dining room. “You smoke?”
“Err... no,” says M.
“Ever tried it?” asks uncle Tariq.
“No.”
“Want to?” Uncle Tariq moves his yellowing, nicotine-stained fingers, which are loosely clasping a half-smoked roll up, towards M.
“No thank you. I’m okay.”
Given that M and I speak English to each other, I find it amusing to hear him have a go at mother tongue. It always seems like a struggle.
Uncle Tariq shrugs his shoulders. “Good. Good for you. Smoking is bad, bad habit.” With that, he cracks open a creaky window, letting in the cold air.
With that very quick formality out of the way, auntie Rukhsana places two shot glasses filled with sugar and milk on the coffee table in front of the ornate sofas with scrolled arms. This setup looks far too grand for the modest council flat in which they live.
This is the bit I don’t like so much about dawats. Milk is already sweet enough. I don’t think it really needs the extra four teaspoons of sugar. Not one to miss any attention to detail, auntie Rukhsana has wrapped a red ribbon around each glass for decoration. She is adorable. Despite not being my blood relative, she treats me like one of her own.
“Will Naila be joining us?”
Auntie Rukhsana does a giggle that is becoming so familiar to me since it’s one she let out during my wedding, any time the question was asked about her daughter.
“No. It’s weekend. Saturdays are very busy days for bridal bookings.”
I doubt there are too many weddings during the colder months, as a winter ceremony is not really a Bengali thing. However, while I’m dubious about her excuse for her makeup artist daughter not being here, I don’t go there. I’m worried about turning into one of those nosey Bengali women who have nothing better to do than to nit-pick and stir in other people’s business.
Auntie Rukhsana bolts to the kitchen and begins the familiar ritual of bringing through bowl after bowl of delectable curries and starters. Spying from the sofa, I can see the dining table becoming heavy with roast chicken, pulao rice, meat and potato curry (a favourite of M’s), and some masala fish, which I probably won’t touch, though I appreciate the effort.
The centrepiece of this affair is a silver tray loaded with around a dozen handmade kebabs, potato pakoras and neon red chicken tikka pieces.
M’s face lights up. He looks at me with a grin. Auntie Rukhsana does not disappoint.
That’s another thing I love about dawats. There is zero messing around. We don’t believe in faffing or foreplay, where we sit and chat for half an hour or sip on endless mocktails before we retreat to the dining table. Not at all. We get straight to the grand finale. I’ve not even finished my sickly sweet milky drink before we have to make the one metre journey from the sofa to the equally ornate mahogany dining table.
M is normally quiet but he is especially so now as he tucks into some much-needed home food. It’s been a week since we were up north, which feels like a year when you’re missing curry. I do my best but I can’t cook like a mother. Though M’s never complained, I’m sure he’s grateful not to be having chickpea curry for a change.
As I sift through the fluffy, separate grains of rice, I notice some hidden treasure in the form of ghee-coated raisins and cashew nuts. That’s an extra step for auntie Rukhsana. I have observed my mum, rather begrudgingly, fry raisins and cashews in clarified butter before adding to the pulao rice. Mum would also, when she really wanted to impress, fry extra onions until they brown to a crisp, to add as decoration. That was until she got totally pissed off with the effort and resorted to buying pre-fried onions. Eating this rich, flavoursome and warmingly familiar food makes me miss home. I didn’t get to stay over on the last visit. It was just a sit down for a couple of hours on our way back to London. Mum was gutted. I miss her, with her ranting about having to do all the cooking, though she inevitably would just get on with it, and her moaning about me not knowing how to cook, though she never let me do anything in the kitchen besides chop salad. My mum, the ultimate contrarian.
“Don’t play around with that chicken! There’s more to eat.” Auntie Rukhsana is concerned that I’m still savouring the roast drumstick I started with.
“I’m getting full on this! You gave me too much!” I say, despite being so very glad that she made too much. I’m hoping there is a Tupperware for us after the event.
“If you be full, just throw the chicken and start fresh.” She hands me the standard saucer used for scraps. “You must try everything.”
I must indeed try everything, though not at the expense of this delicious chicken.
Auntie Rukhsana is waiting with the saucer. Slowly and reluctantly I lay my chicken carcass to rest on there, with much of the flesh still intact.
“Eat the fish,” says uncle Tariq. “It’s got uri bissee. You love them when you little. It was first thing you go to when you ate here.”
I did? It’s been so many years since our trips to uncle Tariq’s were a regular thing. Then I remember mum picking the little, green, nutty seeds out of the flaking, boney fish broth before rolling them into a ball with rice and feeding me by hand. Mum would always try and sneak in some fish. She would break it down so much to ensure that no bones were present and I could barely detect the fishy flesh massaged between the rice and seeds. I would always know, though, and retch upon discovery.
I’m a married woman now. I think I need to try the fish for myself, instead of just opting for the seeds.
“What fish is this?” I ask, as though I’d know by name.
“It’s ayr,” says auntie Rukhsana.
Yeah, I’m none the wiser.
“It’s good,” says M. “Not too many bones.”
Right. I’ve got this. I can do this. I can get through one serving of fish without choking. I just need to mash it up enough to pick any out.
After several attempts at deep massage, I still manage to pierce my finger on a blunt but deadly bone. Not too many bones, my arse. This is why I never have fish.
Seeing my struggle, M takes over my plate and begins picking out the remaining few bones and moulding the fish and rice together into the deep rim of the plate for me, just like my mum would do when I was little.
Auntie Rukhsana smirks as she looks at uncle Tariq, who let’s out his own chuckle. I think they are satisfied that M is an upstanding gentleman. Us Bengalis don’t pack on the PDA, we don’t throw the L word around, and generally we’re not wont to display any outward signs of affection. So M’s little act of heroism is enough to satisfy my aunt and uncle that he’s a good guy who looks after me.
I place the loaded-with-love rice ball into my mouth, to find that my years of protestation about fish were unfounded. This dish actually tastes quite good. Meaty enough to feel substantial but still light enough to leave room for the business end of the meal, the lamb and potato curry. It’s a revelation.
Once dinner is done and I am full to the point of breathing uncomfortably (which is just as well as there is no dessert; it’s not really a forte of Bengali mums as all the efforts go into the mains), auntie Rukhsana offers us tea. I politely decline as they don’t have decaf, while M gladly accepts, as he can have caffeine any hour of the day or night without it affecting his sleep.
As uncle Tariq takes the last drag of his post-dinner cigarette, we get up to take our leave, but not before a staple ritual of the dawat is executed.
Auntie Rukhsana mouths something to uncle Tariq. This means gifts are coming our way. It could be in the form of clothing, or cold, hard cash. I’d take either.
I pretend not to notice when uncle Tariq disappears upstairs before reappearing with a green carrier bag which he hands to his wife. Clothes it is, then.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” I say, being totally fake and also slightly jumping the gun as auntie Rukhsana hasn’t given the bag to me yet. As I know she was about to, there’s no point messing about.
“Don’t be silly. I can’t let you leave empty-handed,” she says.
No, you can’t.
A great thing about dawats from my side of the family is that not only can I keep my outfit simple, I also only need to put up the mildest of protests when offered presents. Just a bullshit: “Ya Allah, you shouldn’t have,” will suffice. After that, I take the gift from her with ease. Tomorrow, when it’s a dinner invite from M’s side of the family, I’ll have to play it a bit harder.
Auntie Rukhsana’s generosity extends further still, when she says: “Take some food with you. Save cooking tomorrow.”
Oh yes, yes, bloody yes, goes my inner monologue. Of course, I don’t need to divulge the fact that I’ll also be fed and watered tomorrow, so wouldn’t be cooking anyway. That’s just a minor detail that will muddy the water.
My outer monologue has to be a little more reserved. While I can manage a pretend protest against the gift, before gladly accepting (I mean, it’s already bought and paid for. What the hell is she going to do with it?), I can’t make it too obvious that I will happily empty out her pots and pans and take her awesome food home. I have to be a little more coy.
I try out: “Oh, there is no need.” Yeah, that sounds about right. It’s the fine balance between not accepting, and outright refusing. Hopefully, she’ll pick up the hint.
“No, no. I want your mum to know we are looking after you,” says auntie Rukhsana, as her head disappears into her cupboards in search of containers. To my horror, she resurfaces to say: “Dooro! Our house usually full of containers. Then you need one and you no find any. Did you throw them out? Always getting in the way here.” She shoots a glare at uncle Tariq.
“What? What I do? I no get involved in your space.” Uncle Tariq puts the lighter he came for in his shirt pocket and swiftly exits the women’s quarters.
“I know...” Auntie Rukhsana looks like a woman on a mission as she goes to the fridge to take out a large tub of margarine. “This be nearly finished, not enough even for toast.” She runs the container under the tap and squirts liquid into it.
“What is this? There is no need.” I continue playing my role of not being bothered about the curry leftovers that I really, really, want.
Auntie Rukhsana turns the tap off. “Are you sure? It save you cooking tomorrow?” She lifts the half cleaned container out of the sink.
Oh, shit. I played too hard ball. At this point, my wing man M is saying nothing and hovering around the hallway, waiting to exit. He looks at me and I can’t really read the meaning. Is he annoyed? Does he want us to get going? Does he think I’m being too greedy? I have to take a guess.
“No, it’s fine. We’ll just get a takeaway or something.”
Auntie Rukhsana puts the tap back on and the used margarine tub back in the sink. “Don’t talk nonsense! Why get takeaway when you got cooked food here?”
With that, the Tupperware is generously filled with roast chicken. As a bonus, uncle Tariq redeems himself by emptying his container full of paper roll ups, which I assume is his secret stash, to make way for more food.
“Oh-ho! So that be where my containers go!” Auntie Rukhsana glares at uncle Tariq with what seems to be a mix of disdain and adoration. It’s a look I must learn.
As we drive out of East London, I ask M: “Should I have put up more of a protest with the food?”
M laughs. “No, you did good. With the dawat tomorrow taking care of lunch, that’ll sort us out until Monday.”