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In some ways, getting married and moving to London has been a rebirth. I’m starting again.
While I used to avoid small talk, it’s now nice sharing evening plans. Mainly because I actually have some. Granted, when I was dating M and living at home in Manchester, I had ‘day dates’ to boast of on the weekends he came up. However, on weeknights, while Bushra frequented the bars of the city with Emma, I did precisely nothing. Well, some nights I’d go to the supermarket with mum but that was about it.
Now, it’s different. If M and I aren’t mooching around Brick Lane, we’re getting the tube to Edgeware Road to get our Lebanese fix. When we’re sick of spicy sausages, we’ll hunt down some halal Thai food, or Malaysian, or Indonesian.
I’ve upped my theatre repartee and have even been to a couple of comedy nights in Covent Garden. M and I were the only ones there that were stone-cold sober and I was constantly conscious of being heckled but it was great fun.
Sometimes we’ll double date with Julia and Miles, too. Then, of course, there’s Jam. There’s always Jam. He’ll have us round for breakfast but ask us to bring bread, eggs and milk. He’ll invite us for tea but we know to always buy our own biscuits.
While Jam’s social etiquette needs some refining, I’ve rid myself of some of my weird ways.
I remember during my first job after graduation, both my older sisters fell pregnant around the same time. Yet, somehow, it made perfect sense to me to only talk about my middle sister’s pregnancy at the marketing agency where I worked. I think my bizarre logic was that I see middle sis more frequently, as she only lives in Bradford, whereas big sis buggered off to Bristol. So, naturally, her pregnancy came up less. Or at all in this case. Deep down, I think there was a real fear that I would be seen as the brown sheep yet again. You know, our lot popping out kids like nobody’s business. Both sisters gave birth to their respective kids - big sis’ youngest, middle sis’ eldest - just two months apart. The weekend I went to Bristol I mentioned it in passing at work, to the surprise of my colleagues, who didn’t even know I had another pregnant sister. The thing is, two sisters being pregnant at the same time is a pretty cute occurrence. I didn’t see it that way, though. I don’t know why I used to feel the things I felt or do the things I did. Why did I have to make things so complicated?
Not now. Not anymore. Things are different.
This time I’m not the weird one at work and I’m loving it.
Bryony once said to me: “You’re like a socialite. Always out. Always going to restaurants. I don’t know how you afford it. I can’t and I still live at home with my parents, rent-free.”
This was hilarious, given that I am as far from a socialite as possible. I’m stingy by nature. So, by a real stretch of the imagination, I might be a very, very, very low-rent socialite.
That’s another thing, Bryony doesn’t cringe when mentioning her living arrangement. I would die when asked anything about mine, when I was still at home. Bryony’s my age, so why isn’t she mortified like I was? Is it not as bad as I thought? Or did I have the heavy baggage of Asian stereotypes to defy? Was I scared of conforming to society’s expectation of brown girls by admitting I live at home? I honestly can’t remember.
Anyway, that’s all in the past now. I’m basking in being in the room, as it only took me 27 years to arrive. I entertain Bryony and Delilah with the story of how I visited middle sis on the weekend. I share how M, my M (oh yes, bonus points for having a love life to speak of), held the baby and possibly got a little broody. Lastly, and very loudly in the open plan office I share with my attentive team of listeners (and those who don’t want to listen) how I am totally not ready for kids as I am a career woman and want to make the most of life in London for a few years before we even think about babies. I feel the need to go against the grain of any preconceptions they may have that Muslim women abandon work and have kids straight after marriage. Just like I was the unwitting spokesperson for arranged marriages, there is a real chance that all of this is on my head, too.
I realise, after spending 20 minutes talking ad nauseam and raiding my phone for baby pictures, that I’m running late for a conference call with my team. My actual team of northern comrades I left behind to live down south.
“You’ll have to fill me in later,” says Bryony. “I want to hear all about that place you stopped at on the way back in Birmingham, as I’ll be going to visit friends there next month. What was it called? Star City?”
“Yeah, that’s right. It’s one to mark on the map when we next go up north.” M and I pride ourselves in discovering hidden gems off the motorway every time we visit our parents. The latest discovery, Star City, has a great noodle place.
I head into the quietness of the white meeting room, which is much warmer than when I was there last time, bearing my soul as I spoke of the racism I’d experienced.
Despite having had half a dozen conference calls, I have no idea how to use the damn triangle phone. It’s like something from a spaceship. All buttons and no headset. Luckily, my reluctant co-worker Eric comes to the rescue.
True to form, I’m the last to dial in and it doesn’t get any less embarrassing, as the automated system takes pleasure in announcing my tardiness.
“We are so pleased to have you,” Bernadette says with only a hint of sarcasm. “How are you, missy?”
“I’m good, thanks. I was just telling the girls here about my trip up north and -”
“Well, we’d love to hear about it later but now we’re all here I can share an update.”
I’m disappointed I didn’t get to share my story again but I should have known better, Bernadette was never one for small talk.
She clears her throat. “I wanted you to all know that I’ll be leaving at the end of this month.”
What? Bernadette’s leaving?
There is a long silence as nobody knows what to say next but everybody knows they should say something.
“Congratulations!” Bushra’s voice crackles through the phone.
“Thank you,” says Bernadette.
There is another drawn-out silence, with only scratchy white noise to fill the air.
“Where are you off to?” Amy verbalises what we’re all wondering.
“Not anywhere, actually. I just decided I fancied a break, which I don’t think is too much after decades of working non-stop. Speaking of which, I’m just about to hop on another call, so happy to answer any questions later as pertaining my replacement and what this means for everyone. However, I just want you to rest assured that it is business as usual and it will continue to be long after I’m gone. So, if there’s nothing urgent anyone needs to ask?”
We all reply in polite tones of “no,” and “not from me.”
Somewhat predictably, my landline rings before I even get a chance to put my post-conference call tea down on my desk.
“Where did you go? I’ve been ringing for ages?” Bushra sounds agitated and I can’t help but provoke her.
“I was just brewing up with Bryony and the guys.”
“Oh, it’s like that, is it? You’ve replaced me,” says Bushra.
We have this running joke about her being jealous of my blossoming friendship with Bryony. I like to think there’s some truth in it and I’m a hot commodity.
“What do you think is the real reason Bernadette’s leaving?” Bushra is keen to get to the heart of the matter.
“I don’t know. I’m hoping she’s got a better job but she can’t say because it’s a competitor.”
“Me too,” says Bushra. “But what if it’s not? What if it’s the big C?”
That’s exactly what I was thinking but didn’t dare say. “I hope not. I will miss her, though. She was a good boss.”
“Yeah.” I can hear Bushra nodding through the phone. “I’ll tell you what, I bet some people will be crapping it at the thought of a new boss. They’ll actually have to do some work.”
“I take it Mel and Amy have left the room.” It’s been an open secret that some of the marketing team haven’t been pulling their weight.
“Yeah, obviously. It’s 11am, they’ve gone out for their two-hour lunch break. You should have heard them talking earlier. Amy was all like: ‘Oh no, I forgot to brief for the press release for the event on Thursday.’ Then Mel was all: ‘Don’t worry, she’ll sort it.’ And we all know who she means by ‘she’. So you’ll have that to deal with later.”
I don’t think Bushra intended to hurt me but her words stung. It’s not the first time Amy’s brought work to me last minute. She’s always flustered and full of apologies. She blames sleepless nights and too many deadlines for being forgetful. She always sounds grateful when I inevitably step up to the challenge, juggling other PR commitments to accommodate hers. I never knew it was something people had come to expect, rather than appreciate.
“It’s fine,” I say, although it’s not. “I managed to pump out some press statements earlier so I’ve got a bit of time this afternoon.” That’s a lie, I’ll end up staying late to cover Amy’s arse.
“You’re too good to her, you know,” says Bushra.
“I know but the north region’s been good to me. I would have come to London jobless if it wasn’t for Bernadette agreeing a transfer.”
“You’re doing it again,” says Bushra.
“Doing what?”
“Making it sound like your transfer was an act of charity. When will you accept that Bernadette kept you on because you’re good?”
After a lifetime of low expectations and high levels of gratitude, I’m not sure I ever will.
***
“Thanks for saving my skin with the conference call thingy, by the way,” I say to Eric.
“No problem.” Eric doesn’t look away from his screen.
Still, at least he’s swapped grunts for words. I’ll take that as a win. The market research guy, who is more comfortable with data than people, is becoming slightly warmer than frosty with me. With a bit of persistence, I can thaw him.
It started with an offer of tea, which is high time, as I’ve been asking him twice a day, every day, since I first sat opposite him. Then, very occasionally, we get to talk about evening plans. He’s not married so refers to his girlfriend as his partner (I’m yet to learn her name). She apparently has a rather glamorous job in TV production.
As I’m relaxing into conversation with Eric about the subtle nuances of Far Eastern cuisine (I see myself as something of an expert now, having established that a Nasi Goreng is not from Thailand as I originally thought), he decides to get more deep and meaningful.
“How did you meet your husband?”
I haven’t been asked that one in a while. Despite becoming lunch mates with Bryony, she’s never probed into the ‘how’ of my love life. Perhaps it’s because hers is non-existent. I used to be the same when I was single. I’d rather not know about other people, in fear that questions may be returned in my direction.
“We met through friends,” I say, adhering to the standard response.
Eric breathes out what seems to be a sigh of relief. “I was worried you’d say it was arranged.”
Not this crap again. I better put my PR-for-arranged-marriages hat on.
“To be honest, it’s not really anything to worry about. Arranged marriages are a lot more modern than you might think.”
“I don’t know, it all sounds a bit Dickensian to me.” Eric, all brown curtain hair and close-set eyes, looks at me only briefly while delivering that throwaway missile. I think he’s done but then he comes out with: “Did he have to be the same religion?”
Another small weapon of mass destruction. How do I answer this without sounding racist?
“Well... it makes it easier that he is.”
“Why?” Eric is still looking at his computer. The excel spreadsheet must be riveting.
“It’s just... you’re on the same wavelength. You have the same values and it’s easier when you have children for them to follow the same religion.”
“You don’t strike me as the religious sort.”
What the hell does that mean?
“I’m not overly religious but I do certain things like keep my fasts, and pray -”
“What would your family say if he was white and Christian?” Eric interrupts, yet still doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. Just as well as he can’t see my face heating up. Nor is he aware of the eyes that are looking up from their desks to witness our conversation.
“I don’t know, as it never happened.”
“So nobody in your family married someone outside of your community.”
“Actually, my cousin has,” I say a little too loudly, remembering Naila.
“And? What was the reaction?”
“Her family are fine.” Then my voice goes quiet again. “I think they’d have rather she met someone that was Bengali and Muslim.”
Why did I have to say that last bit? Why couldn’t I just leave it at ‘they were fine’? Why am I continuing to fan the flame?
Eric finally looks away from his screen and straight at me. Now I’ve got his attention.
“See, I don’t get that. If I was to go out with say, a black girl for example, or a Muslim girl, my family would be fine with it.”
In the corner of my eye I can see Jerome look over. Then he looks back at his computer. I think this one must be too contentious even for him.
“And what if they weren’t?” I dare to probe.
“Then I wouldn’t care.”
“Has anybody in your family gone out with someone that isn’t white?” I’m using his words now.
Eric thinks for a second. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Okay, so say someone did. Would anyone mind? Would anyone have anything to say about it?”
“I doubt it. Maybe my granddad would but that’s how they are and that’s how it was back then.”
“Right. Well... there you go. That’s how it is in our community.”
Eric looks at me like he’s had an a-ha moment. “I get it! In your culture it’s like how we were generations ago. So while you guys still have an issue with it, we’ve moved on a bit?”
Everything about his answer is wrong and over-simplified but to end this conversation, I answer in the worst possible way. “Yeah, that’s basically it.”
Three hours later, I think up a better response.
No, Eric, it’s not as simple as you being a forward thinking white man and me being a backward brownie. It would be easy enough for you to think that, from your position of privilege. Nobody in your family has gone out with someone of a different colour or religion, so you don’t know how they’d take it. More to the point, the reason you haven’t dated anyone who is different to you is because you’ve never been around anyone who’s different to you for long enough to date them. You’re the majority, so the opportunity has never come up. You’ve never been an ethnic minority. You’ve never had kids snigger at you in school because your school uniform smells of curry. You’ve never had to mispronounce and anglicise your own name to make it easier for the receptionist at your doctor’s surgery to bring up your data. You’ve never had to play down the second Eid in the Islamic calendar, so that people don’t get confused and say ‘how come you get two Christmases’? You’ve never had to brush off the casual racism, the ignorant remarks, so people don’t think you’ve got a chip on your shoulder. You’ve never had to leave a function early because everybody gets drunk and it’s just too awkward for you being the only sober one. You’ve never had to work extra hard, only for people to feel like you’ve got what you’ve achieved because of some positive discrimination policy. You’ve never had to answer the most invasive personal questions about your culture and religion in an open plan forum. You’ve never had to answer well-meaning questions about your welfare, happiness and basic human rights when you told people the happiest of news, that you’re getting married. You’ve never had to explain to small, innocent children why your skin is brown. You’ve never had to pick up the pace and walk home quicker when you realise that you’re the only brown face in the dark. You’ve never had to avoid taking the train after an England game, just in case the home team lose and you’re the victim of an angry fan’s rage. You’ve never had to tell your mum not to go out by herself after a terrorist attack just in case someone decides to blame and target her. You’ve never had to hide aspects of your actual being to fit in. And you’ve never, ever, having done all those things, found that despite all these extreme lengths to assimilate, it is not good enough, you are not good enough and you will never fit in. It just takes one person to shout ‘paki, go home!’ to confirm that.
But where is home? I’ve only been to Bangladesh a handful of times and never stayed longer than a couple of months. I felt even more out of place there than I did here. Too English for Bangladesh and too Bangladeshi for England. I’m a displaced person with no home. And like many other displaced second-generation immigrants, we look for home in other people. While others might look for shared interests and hobbies, we seek a shared religion, a shared struggle and a shared understanding of what it is like to be someone who never quite finds home, because whenever they think they do, they’re reminded, whether overtly or covertly, that they don’t belong.
While we’re on the subject of home and belonging, Eric, I doubt you have any issue, or even give a second thought, to the expats living in Spain, who only hang around with other Brits? Of all the migrants from the UK that go and work in Dubai, and will never have spoken to an Emirati person or bothered to learn a word of Arabic. That’s okay, right? In the same way that we might try to preserve some of our culture, despite it being diluted to within an inch of its life, they do, too. The difference is they have privilege, we don’t.
So excuse me if I, my family, or every other brown person I know, has a preference to marry someone of their own religion and background. Those are just some of the reasons why. But thank you for asking, Eric, and fuck you for assuming. And fuck me for letting you. Fuck me for thinking up this response hours after the event, when the moment’s gone. When you’ve gone, leaving the conversation that had meant nothing to you, yet triggered so much in me, unfinished.