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Group calls are very annoying. I managed to escape them most of my life, however I foolishly figured it would be great to get my entire clan’s counsel regarding the outfit I should wear for today’s dawat at M’s auntie’s house. That was very foolish indeed.
“You must wear a saree!” says big sis from the corner of the screen on my phone.
“Dooro! You say to still wear saree! Just because they do in Bangladesh! She need be comfortable sitting eating all day.” Mum is most unimpressed with big sis’ advice.
“It’s okay, mum,” I say. “I’d quite like to wear a saree. I haven’t worn one since my mehendi. It’d be nice to be a bit fancy.”
“What you say?” Mum puts the phone to her ear, turning her corner of the screen black.
“Mum, you don’t have to hold the phone like that. We can’t see you,” I say. “Just put the sound up.”
“How I do that?”
“You see where there are two buttons on the side? Press the top one.”
“Okay... this one here?” Mum hangs up. I think she pressed the wrong button.
Five minutes later...
“You no be comfortable? Are you sure you handle it?” asks mum, now planting a fresh seed of doubt in my mind about wearing a saree.
“What do you think?” I look at the top right hand corner of my phone screen at middle sis. She’s munching on a rice cake.
“Me?”
I think she’s hoping to be a passive participant on this one. “Wear whatever you like, girl. You’re married now. The deal is sealed so you don’t have to impress. As long as you’ve got your knickers on.”
“Dooro!” mum shouts.
“Ignore these two, lady. They don’t know anything about hosting, or being hosted,” says big sis.
“Oh ho!” Mum sits up on the screen, cutting off the top of her head. “Just because you marry in Bangladesh, you expert? I be doing this before you all born!”
“I know you have, mum,” says big sis, warming up her shit sandwich. “It’s just that, your hosting is a bit on the... lazy side?”
Okay. So that just happened.
“What you mean?” Mum stands up, giving us a flash of pink pearlescent buttoned cardigan.
“Well, mum...” Big sis gulps. “You’re not exactly one to make loads of effort, are you? Even when dressing us, you prefer an easy life over getting it right.”
Mum looks down at the screen, her lips stripped back to reveal clenched teeth.
“Don’t do that face. Remember when we were going to people’s weddings?” Big sis points at me. “She ended up going in a Puma tracksuit until she was nine! The other kids were wearing lehengas.”
I forgot the time mum put me in a tracksuit to go to a family wedding. I must remember to add that to my list of grievances when mum and I have our next fallout.
Given mum’s sartorial sins and middle sis’ I-couldn’t-care-less-I’m-pregnant attitude, I reckon big sis probably is the best person to help me on this one.
***
An hour later, I’m not so sure.
“Do I look like a brown Little Red Riding Hood?” I ask, examining myself in the full length mirror.
“No, you look...” I can see big sis fumbling for a word. “Royal.”
“Royal?”
“Yes. That blood red is rather striking and when you cover your hair like that, you look grand. And you’ll be in your hubby’s good books for wearing a saree his mum gave. It’s just a shame that it’s not the most flattering for your, erm, complexion. But you can’t have it all.”
I’ll let that casual colourism slide. “I don’t think he’ll even know or care that I’m wearing the number two saree from his mum. He wasn’t involved in the buying process. I just wish he was here now so I could see what he thinks.”
I’m surprised how long it’s taking M to get the obligatory gift offerings of crisps, chocolate and fizzy drink from the supermarket. I told him to just buy double when getting the exact same goodies for uncle Tariq and Auntie Rukhsana yesterday. I don’t understand men.
“It’s better he doesn’t see, lady. That way you can surprise him and emerge like a queen. Imagine his face when he sees you all dolled up.”
I never knew big sis was such a romantic.
“There’s just one problem. The way you told me to pin the saree to my hair, well, it’s stopping me from moving my neck. If I need to turn, I have to twist my whole body.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that, lady. The hood style looks lovely. Why would you need to move your neck, anyway?”
“I don’t know... just to look around?”
“Don’t be silly. Remember, you’re the new bride seeing his family for the first time. You’re going to have to act a bit shy, not be all look-ey, look-ey, noseying around at their place. They bring the food to you, they bring the gift to you. You don’t need to lift a finger. There’ll be no need for sudden head movements.”
This all makes sense in big sis’ world. To me it’s just bizarre.
“Anyway, you could always go the whole hog?” Big sis has another idea.
“No. I don’t know how I feel about wearing a hijab just for show. It goes against my very principle.”
“You and your principles! It would make your life easier just wrapping a scarf around fully rather than this whole hood thing you’ve got going on. I mean, the side swept updo is nice, so I get why you want to show it off, but that’s the price you have to pay. Feeling a little uncomfortable for a few hours.”
They do say you suffer for beauty. I guess I just have to roll with it.
“Right, now you know you’ve done this all in the wrong order?” says big sis. “You’re meant to put your make-up on first, you silly Billy.”
“Oh, crap. I was too busy faffing about with you, while you talked me through where to pin, where to fit the pleats and where to fold in what, that I completely forgot about my actual face.”
“That’s what I’m here for, lady. Do you want me to talk you through your make up?”
I think this is one area that big sis can excuse herself from having to monitor. She is very much a believer of the fair is beautiful mantra, which, luckily for her, she is. Though that doesn’t stop her going a shade, or two, or six, lighter with her foundation.
“I think I’ve got this,” I politely reply.
Having safely shooed my sister off the video call, I’m going to be a bit daring. In the run-up to my wedding I had a makeup trial, and there was a hairy moment where I thought I would have to do my own bridal makeup. Thankfully, a makeup artist came to the rescue, which is just as well as my skills were sub-par. However, I’d like to think things have moved on a bit since then, and, with the help of a couple of trusty tutorials, I’ve uncovered an amazing secret - how to match your eyeshadow with your saree...
***
“What the hell are you doing?” M comes in at precisely the wrong time, as I’m smudging black eyeshadow across the crease of my eye and blending into my socket.
“I’m getting my makeup sorted.” I must admit, I’m shocked at his response. A pre-cursory: ‘Hi, I’ve got some extra crisps for us because they were buy-one-get-one-free’ would’ve helped ease into the conversation about my beautifying method.
“Why’s it so black? It looks like you’ve been in a fight.”
Harsh. I can’t tell if he’s joking or not.
“It won’t look like this at the end.” I must admit it does look rather scary. Hopefully the YouTube video I’ve tried to memorise will come good. “The black is just a base layer, to make the shade I’m going to put on top stand out more.”
“Why? What colour are you going to put on top?” asks M.
I know we are kindred spirits but I never expected to be having a conversation about makeup with my husband.
“I’ll be using a red shade.”
M leaves me to my makeup and walks into the hallway. I can hear him pick up the carrier bags and stuff things into cupboards. On the plus side, it sounds like he’s bought crisps for us.
He comes back in while I’m pressing red-pigmented shadow over the black.
“You don’t need to do all that,” he says, pulling a pink shirt from the hanger.
“I have to make a bit of effort, don’t I? People judge on these things.”
”They’re gonna judge you more for going over the top.”
I look in the mirror. The blood red saree draped over my head with its silver and purple stonework border in a hooded fashion showing sideswept fringe, combined with the strong blackish maroon eye makeup and red lipstick... it’s quite strong. There’s not a lot I can do about it now. I’ve committed.
M looks disappointed. “To be honest with ya, you look nicer when you hardly wear any makeup. And you don’t even need to cover your hair.”
“My sister said I do.”
“Well, you don’t.”
I put this down to M being a boy and not really knowing how catty women can be afterwards. I’m sure he thinks it will be okay and they will obviously be nice to my face, then they will be cussing me out afterwards for being so loose with my clothing. Alright, that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but not by much.
Just in the nick of time, big sis calls me. I could do with a distraction.
“Let’s have a look at you, lady,” she says, in her usual jubilant, intrigued and matronly tone.
I switch the call from audio to video so she can see the final look.
“Ooh, I don’t know lady. The eyeshadow is a bit scary.”
I furrow my brow and purse my lips in an attempt to make her shut up. She obviously doesn’t know M is in the room and it will only add ammunition to his case against my overdone get up.
“Is he home now?” That’s sister code for checking whether it’s safe to have an unfiltered discussion.
“Yeah, he’s back from the shop and is just here getting ready.”
“What do you think of how she looks?” My sister shouts through the phone in an attempt to consult M.
“It’s a bit much,” he says, not looking at the phone and instead fiddling through his cufflink box.
Big sis raises her eyebrows and gestures with her mouth to say: “Ooh.” I can tell she wants to stay well out of this one.
“Anyway.” She is planning her exit strategy. “I’ll leave you guys to get ready. I better sort out dinner.”
“Okay, but remember, you are the one that talked me through this entire look.” It’s only right that she is held accountable for this fashion faux pas.
“Well, the saree, yes. And it looks lovely. I didn’t have anything to do with the makeup. I said you should’ve let me stay on the call.”
The cow. She has not got my back on this at all.
***
The drive to Ilford is only half an hour, according to the ETA on M’s phone, yet it feels like hours. M isn’t talking much and I don’t feel like it’s the time to throw in my standard silence fillers. Is he in a mood or something? Is it because of what I’m wearing?
“Oh, bloody hell.” M huffs.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, grateful for the break in silence but also scared of what the answer will be.
“The bloody diversion, the road’s closed.”
M takes a sharp right down a country lane. That is my least favourite kind of road. Most people love the easy, breezy, national speed limit that country lanes offer. I am not most people. I dread the possibility of skidding on a cowpat or being bullied by the aggressive drivers who try to take over, ignoring the hazard signs that specifically request they don’t.
“Come on!” M seems to be driving a little faster than usual. Maybe he’s just hungry. We are running late, after all.
“What’s wrong?” I ask again, in the hope that my repeated probing will get to the heart of the issue.
“I’ve lost fucking signal. Fuck’s sake. I don’t know which way to go... straight ahead, or right?”
He’s asking the wrong person.
“I don’t know.” My voice becomes small.
“Come on! My shit phone’s decided to screw me at the last minute. We should have been there in 10 minutes. Don’t know how long it’s gonna take now.”
I say nothing.
“Where is your phone in all this?” he asks.
I route through my bag to get my phone, praying, willing it to have reception. It doesn’t.
“It’s okay,” says M, much to my relief. “I think I’ve got it.”
He returns to his usual composure upon taking the right turn off the country lane into what he says will be familiar territory.
“Do I look that bad?”
“It is a bit over the top.” M doesn’t make eye contact, which is sensible given that he is driving.
“I just thought I should make an effort. My sister told me I should dress like this.”
“I’ve had my fair share of dawats and I’ve not seen anyone be so done up. It’s too much, to be honest with ya...”
Oh dear.
“It doesn’t look nice,” he concludes.
Ouch.
That hit harder than I expected. Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. I feel a lump in my throat I have to swallow hard to expel. I can’t believe it, my hands are shaking. Please don’t cry, please don’t cry, please don’t cry. We’re about to go to his family’s house. And I’ve got a shit ton of eye makeup that I do not want to ruin.
Too late. It’s ruined.
“Babe, are you okay?”
I try to hide it but M sees me furiously patting my eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
Really? Does he need to ask me what’s wrong? Who is this man?
“Is it because of what I said about your outfit?”
“It’s just...” I can’t speak through the ugly sobbing.
“Awww babe, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be a prick. I just overreacted. What I meant to say, and obviously I didn’t say it properly, is that you don’t need to wear all that for them, you’re pretty without it. You just took me by surprise, that’s all. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”
Nope, I’m still crying. It’s like someone turned a tap in my sinuses. It’s getting ugly now. There’s snot and everything.
“But... you... just didn’t need to say it like that.” I’m glad I manage to get at least a few words out, between the undignified sobs.
M takes my hand. “To be honest with ya...”
Oh no, not again.
“I’ve been a bit stressed.”
“About what?”
“The flat stuff. Greg is coming earlier than I thought. I’ve been looking at stuff, and it’s way more expensive than I expected. I’m not sure what I can stretch to.”
“What do you mean? We’re not in the 18th century. You don’t have to provide for me. We provide for each other.”
“Yeah, I know, but being a bloke I want to take care of you.”
He’s really making up for his dickish behaviour with gallantry.
“Look, I know it’s been drilled into you that it’s a man’s job to take care of the money but remember, we’re a team. It’s enough that you pay for everything when we’re out and pick up the shopping tab and all the rest of it. You shouldn’t have to take the stress for both of us. I work, don’t I?”
“Yeah. And it’s great. But...”
“So then that’s that. Remember, your stresses are my stresses now. And I’d rather you just tell me than...”
“Than be a dick?”
“Exactly. I knew you couldn’t be that upset about my makeup.”
“Well... you do look more done up than you did on our wedding day.” M laughs.
I don’t. We were getting on so well.
M looks at me sheepish. “Sorry.”
“You should be.” I say, feeling emboldened. “Next time I’ll put false lashes on, too.”
Now we are officially friends, we spend the rest of the journey talking about very grown-up things, like how we’re going to use our joint account which we set up to put in the wedding money (the plus side of inviting every man and his dog to our wedding meant that we ended up a few grand richer), to deposit some of our salary each month, which would cover rent and bills for wherever we move to. Though the journey started shit, it ends on a better, albeit more practical, note.
***
I arrive at M’s auntie’s house to find it’s a much more lavish abode than uncle Tariq’s council flat in East London. The paved driveway leads to a double fronted semi-detached house. M’s auntie opens the door. She’s a cute woman who only slightly resembles a mole (the similarities are enhanced by the grey-ish, brown-ish, green-ish, moleskin-ish scarf she has draped over her entire being. I guess I’m not the only one that made a bad fashion choice today). She leads us into a very wide mahogany hallway. You get more for your money in Ilford. The dark wood-panelled interior is illuminated by a chandelier, even though it’s two in the afternoon. I guess they don’t get much light in the windowless entrance.
M’s auntie cups my face warmly. I think I like her.
“You here! We excited to meet you as we missed wedding.”
Well, since you missed it I thought I’d wear my wedding attire again. It’s a good joke but I think I’ll keep it to myself, it’ll be lost on her.
She leads us into the front room, where we sit on almost throne-like sofas. The grand seating isn’t dissimilar to uncle Tariq and auntie Rukhsana’s, the only difference being they have a room dedicated to just lounging, whereas my auntie and uncle have to make their space multi-purpose.
A lady, who looks to be in her 30s, walks in with a tray of milk shots and some sweets. Without even being told, I can tell she’s the daughter-in-law. Her hair is loosely covered in a green scarf, in a similar style to the one I’ve adopted, and she’s wearing a matching salwar kameez with delicate gold embellishments. The small diamond nose stud on her slightly large, slightly hooked nose, only adds to the wifey look. The daughter of the house wouldn’t serve like that, all demure and coy. Call me sexist, call me old-fashioned, call me judgmental, but I know my community. It’s just the way it is.
“This my bahu,” M’s auntie confirms my theory. I always find it funny how Bengali mother-in-laws refer to their daughter-in-law as their wife. It’s not her wife. Again, it’s just how it is. I steal a look at M to confirm my other theory, the one he chided me for an hour earlier, that the wife is expected to adopt a hair covering.
“Congratulations. How are you?” Her Scottish accent throws me. Again, I’m not winning any prizes for non-judgemental acceptance, but I always stop in my tracks when a brown person has an accent that isn’t English.
“Thank you.” I don’t know what else to add. “How are you?”
“Yeah, I’m grand,” she says in the jolliest tone I have ever heard. “I hope you’ve got a sweet tooth, as it’s rude for the new bride to refuse all this sugar.”
M and I gulp down the sickly milk drink, which tastes like it has double the quantity of sugar compared to auntie Rukhsana’s, and some kind of syrup to boot.
Out of obligation more than anything, I cut a lump of laddoo with my spoon and shove it in my mouth. The round golden ball is as tasty as I remember. It was something we had when we were younger but don’t get too often these days. I’m not sure how I’ll be able to sit down for a full lunch with this amount of sweetness running through my bloodstream.
Not dissimilar to yesterday’s dawat (these things always follow a certain protocol) we are ushered into the dining room. In keeping with the fancy house, the room is taken up by an eight-seater table with pink velvet cushioned chairs. Despite M’s misgivings about my saree, I feel like I’m dressed for the occasion. What does he know?
A new face pops in. She’s younger, possibly in her early 20s. This girl, hair long, loose and fixed in place with a black headband, bounds through the door with a large bowl of steaming rice in hand. She places it in front of us, and says: “Hiya, I’m Rukshana.”
“That’s my auntie’s name!” I blurt out.
She laughs, looking unsure. Her mum comes in behind her, all small and mole-like.
“You supposed to bring rice last!” she says. “It’ll go cold now, before curry arrives.”
The daughter wrinkles up her button nose, looking chastised, then an unmistakable accent calls from outside the room: “Don’t worry, mum, I’m bringing the curries now.”
The daughter-in-law comes in, saving the day, with a curry bowl in each hand, like a seasoned waitress. After placing them delicately on the table in front of us, she rubs the younger girl’s back and says: “Come on, you can bring the rest with me.”
As both women leave, M’s auntie laughs. “Sorry, my daughter’s learning how to host. I tell her, you must know these things for future. Lucky she’s got my bahu to show. She treats her like baby sister, as she should. I treat them both the same. I always say, I didn’t get a wife when my son marry, I gained other daughter.”
I smile at her.
Dinner is delicious. Just how is it that these mum’s manage to throw down such amazing food? I’ve never been to a dawat and left disappointed. It makes me worry that when it’s my turn to host, there will be some very dissatisfied guests.
Just like yesterday’s lunch, it’s an intimate affair. There’s M’s auntie, her daughter and the daughter-in-law who’s like a daughter. Plus we’re joined by her hubby, M’s cousin - who he barely knows (M told me en-route between being quiet and making me cry that they’re second cousins who he’s only seen about four times in his life). This guy was conveniently out during the cooking, no doubt doing men’s business, but came in just as we were being served. They’re kind of opposites in a way. She’s tall, broad and strong. He’s thin, almost petite.
Between mouthfuls I get to hear snippets of information about this family. The daughter is a newly trained primary school teacher, the son is an architect and, to my surprise, the daughter-in-law is a doctor. I’m not even talking a 9 to 5 GP, either. She works at a hospital, in the emergency paediatric department, saving lives.
I feel bad for being so surprised but I’m going to admit it - her wifely performance made my unconscious bias kick in big time. I didn’t even think she worked, let alone have a job that requires lifelong learning.
As she carries on talking I have an epiphany. Having spent my whole life being the only brownie in the village, I have been subjected to years upon years of the same narrative. And it was wrong. Whether overt or covert, subliminal or straight up in my face, I was brought up on the same assumptions. A headscarf equals submissive, an arranged marriage equals unhappy, being domestic is at the expense of a career. I always thought I was a modern, forward-looking Asian. I was proud to enjoy a great PR career. I wasn’t one of ‘those girls’. You know, the girls who aren’t allowed to pursue further education or a career. The ones who know they’ll be married back home. I assumed that to occupy any kind of professional role, you have to look a certain way, be a certain way.
Yet here I am, sat with this woman who I presumed to be a homely daughter-in-law just because she came in and served us with her hair covered. This woman, who I presumed would have less qualifications than me, has more letters after her name. I assumed she would have no salary at all, yet she likely earns more than me.
I used to think the negative assumptions around my community were held by those outside the community. However, it’s clear I’ve been indoctrinated. Without even knowing, all the false narratives I’ve been fed, by the media, by outsiders, by insiders, has had its affect. I’m unwittingly a believer of all the assumptions I derided.
You can be more than one thing. You can be contradictory. You can be a brown woman and survive and thrive in a white man’s world. You can wear a headscarf yet be incredibly forward-looking. You can have a high-flying career then come home and play house. You can have one and the other. Us humans are complex beings, after all.
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of clattering as both M’s cousins clear the table. M also gets up to wash his hands in the kitchen, as opposed to dipping his fingers in the bowl of water we were both offered when we sat down and ate.
I am left with the daughter-in-law.
“How are you finding married life?”
“It’s fine. I love it.”
“That’s good. It is a huge adjustment getting married and moving cities. As I know full well. It’s okay if it’s a bit bewildering sometimes.” She searches my face.
Oh crap. I completely forgot about the excessive crying that took place just a couple of hours before. I didn’t even have the chance to check my mug in the mirror. I bet my face is blotchy and terrible. I’ve been like this for the whole time I’ve been here. She must think I’ve had a full-on fight with M.
“How did you find moving away from your family?” Deflecting from myself and putting the situation on her might take away from my tear-stained face.
“I’m not going to lie, it was hard but you get used to it. I’ve been married six years now. And I see my folks often. Luckily for me, my in-laws are absolutely lovely. They treat me like their own. I only ever met your in-laws once or twice but from what I’ve seen, they’re lovely people, too.”
“They are,” I say.
I suddenly notice there are no kids in this house. They’ve been married six years. Do they want kids? Can they have kids? Then I realise, that’s my unconscious bias kicking in again. It’s none of my bloody business whether or not they want to or can have kids. I need to stop thinking like a nosey auntie.
“One piece of advice I would give you, however, from one married woman to another,” she lowers her tone and leans forward, “is that if there are any issues you have with your hubby, don’t share them with your family. It can blow something out of proportion. You’ll get over the argument but they’ll still remember and remind you of it when you’d rather forget.”
It makes me think of the small fall out (if you could call it that) M and I had. I was going to tell my big sister afterwards, mainly to bollock her about getting me in that situation in the first place with her stupid over-the-top styling tips. However, on reflection, maybe I’ll keep our little moment a secret.