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“I can’t believe you’ve been here for seven months and we’ve not even met yet. Where you been, man?” Naila makes it sound like I’ve been avoiding her. Yet she’s the one that’s been missing in action.
Every time I’ve been to uncle Tariq’s house she’s never there, under the guise of being busy with work. I never knew being a makeup artist was so lucrative. She’s also crap at getting back to my messages. She’ll usually reply a day or two later with a three-word answer, one of which is an expletive. I could be spilling my heart out about problems in my marriage and her response would be: That’s shit, man.
We’ve finally got an in-person meeting, at a coffee shop on Chancery Lane. It was Naila’s choice of location, which is odd given that we both live in East London. It also doesn’t look like she’s come from work in the city, with her emerald green tracksuit, paired with red stiletto heels. How is it that she can pull off such a mismatched ensemble, whereas if I dared, I’d look like a massive knob?
Maybe she’s thinking the chic location, with its aesthetically-pleasing flower wall and retro tea sets, combined with her outfit, will make for some good social media photos. Not that I’m pre-judging or anything.
“It has been forever,” I say. “How are things with your parents? I mean, I’ve seen them. And you’ve missed out on some mean curries. Are things better?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well... you mentioned how things were a little... strained, I guess? After you got married to Darren?”
Naila looks blankly at me. “Yeah, man. Things are fine. We’re tight. I go to mum’s in the week. Obviously you’re at work in your fancy pants job in the city. Then I’m working on weekends when you’ve been round. But we are cool man, we are cool.” She runs her fingers, decorated with scarily long pastel pink nails, through her hair, which has taken on a lighter golden hue since we last met.
Maybe the advice about not confiding in your family about problems isn’t just in relation to husbands but also other family members. I’m guessing she’d rather forget the bad and focus on the good.
“Sod all that. I want to talk about your wedding and all the rest of it. How much gold did they give you?”
I wasn’t expecting that to be her first question.
“I don’t know. It’s just the usual set you get. You know, the one that Bangladeshi women would rock at weddings back in the day. I only wear these.”
I roll my blouse sleeve to reveal the wedding bangles gifted to me by M’s family. They are chunky, sturdy and made for regular wear, unlike some of the delicate, foil-like bangles worn by new brides. I love them. M doesn’t quite feel the same way. He isn’t a fan of the 22-carat gold aesthetic. Every time I put them on, he reminds me that wearing bangles as a married woman is more of a cultural thing we’ve copied from other parts of the continent rather than something that is religiously mandatory.
“They’re nice,” Naila offers. “They do look a bit fresh, though. I guess it matches your village bumpkin sense of style.”
Ooh, bitch.
“I’m just kidding, man. They’re cute. I didn’t want gold.”
I guess that translates into Darren didn’t offer gold.
“Instead, I said give me a big eff off diamond.” Naila shoves her ring finger into my face and wiggles her knuckle, showing off her centrepiece. It’s bigger than mine, but then again, she didn’t get gold, I remind myself.
Then she pisses on my thought, by saying: “But they gave me a gold necklace. They insisted. Mum and dad were well impressed. They said it’s bigger than some of the ones given by Bengali grooms. So really, what difference would it make if I married a Bengali guy? Your wedding was lovely, though,” she says. “It must’ve cost a bomb.”
I think that’s more of a probe than a statement. I’m not taking the bait.
“How much did it cost altogether?”
“Oh, I’m not sure to be honest with you, maybe about 40 grand?” I’m being on the generous side.
“Really? That’s not bad. Some girls that have the big Bangladeshi wedding end up spending like, seventy grand. I see it all the time through my work. The bride’s go all out. We didn’t need to because we had a smaller wedding but Darren and his parents were adamant we don’t skimp on the details. The amount of kebabs and pakoras his family brought over... it was more than most Bengalis do.”
Oh, I get it. We’re having a pissing contest.
“Anyway,” Naila moves on to the next item on her premeditated agenda. “How are your in-laws?”
“They’re nice.” I wouldn’t dare say otherwise, even if I think they’re terrible. This girl is on a mission to pick holes.
“So when you go up north, do you stay more at his mum’s house? Or is it like, 50-50?”
“Probably more at his.”
“That’s not fair, man. You should watch it. It should be equal. The amount of time you spend at his mum’s should be the same as you spend at yours. Little things like that can escalate and, before you know, it’s all his way or the highway.”
That seems extreme, especially given that, overall, I spend more time at my mum’s thanks to work.
“What are his family like when you stay?”
“They’re really nice. When we go I see his younger brother and younger sister mainly, and, yeah, they’re really nice.”
Naila looks at me, penetrating me with her spiky lashes. She obviously wants more information.
“Yeah... so his younger sister is the same age as mine. She tends to keep herself to herself. You know what teenagers are like,” I say.
“I bet she does nothing to help at home, right?” Naila slurps on her iced latte.
Annoyingly, she’s right. Though I’m not about to tell her. “Well, she’s a teenager. It’s not like my sister does anything at home.”
“You just wait and see, that will be the case even when she isn’t a teenager. It will be one rule for you and one rule for her.” She takes off the corner of her cheesecake with the side of her fork and slides it into her mouth.
Still chewing, she adds: “See, that’s what pisses me off about our culture. The daughter is the princess whose only job is to do her hair and makeup, look pretty and take selfies, while the daughter-in-law is the maid. That old-fashioned shit should’ve died out centuries ago. I’m glad I married out. I wouldn’t be Cinderella for no bastard’s family.”
I open my mouth to throw out a counter argument. However, Naila stops me in my tracks.
“Anyway, I gotta bounce. It’s date night but before I go, could you take some photos for me.”
She slides her phone across the table and kicks back in her chair, with her elbow on the electric blue fabric armrest and her fingers fanned out across her jawline.
The irony just oozes out of this girl.
***
I’m annoyed. As I sit on the tube journey home, I’m seriously annoyed. I’m annoyed that I caught the tube in rush-hour after work, unnecessarily fuelling my anxiety about travelling on the underground alone.
I’m annoyed that I stayed behind to take 15 additional shots of Naila in various poses, taking a sip of her drink, looking directly at the camera, looking away from the camera. Smiling, looking pensive, hand on her hip, fingers through her hair. After various poses both sitting and standing against the flower wall backdrop, she examined her photos and sighed. “Shoot life,” she purred. What the fuck does that mean anyway? Shoot life!
I’m annoyed for letting her poke and prod into my newly married life, despite me not asking a single question about hers. What’s her household like? What are her in-laws like? I didn’t ask, so I don’t know.
I’m annoyed for not offering an alternative narrative to her cultural self-hating sentiment. Just like the million times I’d had a conversation with a white person, whether it was at work or at school, and I felt I didn’t offer up another viewpoint, this felt the same. Except I was defending the culture to someone who should know more about it than me, having lived in Bangla town her whole life. Or maybe that’s what she’s seen? Maybe she’s grown up around households which fit the mould as she describes? Or is she just speaking of old horror stories? After all, she wouldn’t have first hand experience. Her brothers don’t live at home and they’re not married. Are there any other cousins that have such a tale? Maybe on auntie Rukhsana’s side? Even so, it doesn’t mean that M’s family will be the same with me.
My little sister is just like M’s, she does nothing around the house. Maybe it’s just a teenager thing? It doesn’t mean to say that M’s sister will be perpetually lazy. And so what if she did? I don’t live with my in-laws. I only go there on the odd weekend. It won’t kill me to show my best face for two days a month.
That’s the most annoying thing of all. Despite all my rational thinking, despite all the things that mum tells me about not making a fuss, about being understanding about how things work in our culture, Naila has planted a seed and it’s lodged itself in my deepest layer.
Beneath my PR-friendly thoughts, I know there is some truth to what she says. Though her opinions are on the cynical side, it’s a universal known that there are expectations on the daughter-in-law. It’s just how it is. It’s how it’s always been. Life is always a bit harder for the woman in any society. We get the periods, we get the pregnancy, we get the childbirth. Once the child is born, let’s face it, despite all the gender equality attempts made by the western world, we get lumbered with the lion’s share of the childcare. So I guess I always figured the role of the daughter-in-law is an extension of this. Who am I to be a trailblazer and challenge it?
But then also, as I keep telling myself, a lot of what she says just isn’t true. The daughter-in-law isn’t the house maid. Yes, you do a little bit more but then if every woman was to keep score of when she’s cooked more frequently, when she’s picked up a pair of socks off the floor, when she’s done more work than her colleague, when she’s had one less nacho than her friend... when, when, when... There are so many when’s that if you want to pick at them all, you’d find yourself in a daily battle with everyone. Surely life is too short for that?
Yet... and yet, yet, yet... Naila’s got me thinking and given that we are now held at lights on the tube, I’ve got a lot more time to brood. On the plus side, the little pot of stirred shit is helping distract from the fact we’ve been held underground between stations for what seems like ten minutes. Small mercies.
One woman keeps looking at her shiny, silver watch and huffing. Another man is loosening his red, skinny tie. Come to think of it, it is a bit warm down here. Okay, these folks are making me nervous. I’ll get back to brooding.
M’s little sister doesn’t do anything around the house. She comes downstairs and food is ready. She expects it that way. I guess that’s how she’s been raised. Like a princess. If I lived with my in-laws, if it was something I did every day, I may feel more begrudged. But then am I being too much of a mug? Am I being too grateful? Is my lifelong feeling of not being good enough showing its ugly self by making me feel obscenely appreciative of my lot? I don’t know.
I do know this - it took seven months to have a sit down with Naila. The way she’s left me feeling, I don’t mind if it’s another seven months, or longer, until I see her next.
***
I come home to find M in full renovation mode. Jam is there, manoeuvring a massive speaker on our creaky coffee table which doubles up as a dining table and everything else table.
“What are you doing?” I ask what feels like a very reasonable question given the current situation.
“You know how I said the sound on our TV is crap?”
I don’t remember him saying that.
“Well, I bought these speakers. Don’t worry, they were on offer. I got the lot, five speakers for 500 quid and now we have surround-sound!” M’s eyes dart across to Jam, who returns a look of mischief.
“O-kay, so where would you put them all?” Despite my greatest expectations, I’m afraid.
“I’ve wired some around the flat discreetly. There are two behind the curtains on each corner. One’s on the floor behind the sofa, the other one is next to the telly. And there’s not really much space for this one, so...”
“It’s on the coffee table?” I ask, hoping that this is a temporary solution.
Jam laughs. I don’t.
M puts his hands behind his back. “Yeah, so I was thinking... we could just have it here. To be honest with ya, I hold my plate when I eat, anyway. We don’t even use the coffee table.”
“You don’t! I do! Where the fuck am I going to eat?”
Now Jam’s not laughing. He steps away from the scene, saying: “Right, so I’ll be off, then. I’ll message you later.”
“Yeah. See you in a bit,” says M.
As Jam slides his long, grey socks clad feet into his well-worn canvas shoes, M pulls a face which suggests he’d like to head out with him. The apartment fire door slams shut.
Avoiding eye contact, M says: “You didn’t need to do that.”
“Do what?”
“What you just said in front of Jam. You could’ve just told me to move the speaker and I would’ve done it.”
M and I never argue. And I wasn’t about to start now. And neither was he. We don’t say anything back to each other. He slowly untangles the wires behind the speaker and rests it on the floor next to the TV.
***
It’s weird. This current climate is weird. When I’m in a mood, I tend to be passive aggressive. You know, make the other party feel a bit shit about themselves but not outright explain what my problem is. It’s worked for me thus far in life.
M is different. He’s not being aggressive at all. In fact, he is being super kind and thoughtful. I suddenly came down with a sore throat after our kind-of-mini-argument-but-not situation. He’s given me some cough syrup. He brought me a glass of water to bed. Heck, he even walked to Whitechapel to get me a burger and chips, because we hadn’t cooked as I’d been out after work with Naila the stirrer while M was back home turning our living room into a cinema.
We ate our takeaway burgers in silence whilst watching TV, which in hindsight did seem rather quiet since he’s planted the seed about surround sound. He didn’t dare turn on the speakers lest I should have another fit.
He’s now gone to bed without saying a word. Lying next to him, I’m not sure if he’s asleep. There is no loud breathing, just the occasional clearing of his throat. Should I talk to him? What would I say? Sorry I swore in front of your friend?
Sorry but I’m not really sorry, Exactly what am I apologising for? After all, he was taking the piss. Letting a speaker live on the table. I can’t do that balancing thing he does, resting the plate on his fanned-out fingers. I need to rest my hot plate of rice and curry on the table, like a regular person. I don’t have asbestos hands.
I’m sure other wives have blown their lids more spectacularly over a lot less. I just uttered one eff word.
I don’t know what to do. M isn’t angry, he’s not aggressive. He’s killing me with kindness. I’m not sure if that’s worse.
Its weird. M and I don’t do this not talking business. This isn’t us.