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They’re rolling out extra tables. How many people are here exactly?
In the sea of guests, I try to spot any familiar faces. It’s like a Bengali Where’s Wally.
“Have you eaten enough?” asks my big sis.
I can’t very well say no as they’re already clearing up the plates around me. We’re at the final frontier now, where I’ll be making my way down the makeshift wedding aisle, flanked by my cute honorary bridesmaids and their homemade bouquets. To give myself a sugar hit, I pull open one of the drawstring favour bags I was so stressed about, and unwrap a peanut brittle. Bad choice, as I feel the caramel melding itself to my teeth. There’s one chocolate left in the bag so I fold it into the band of my bouquet of roses, just in case I get hungry later.
“I’m good,” I say to big sis between awkward, un-ladylike crunches of peanut. “I need a wee, though.”
“Erm... okay, let’s see how we’ll do this,” says big sis, acutely aware that my wedding lehenga does not come with a pee hole.
Mum’s chatting with my mother-in-law (I can legitimately call her that now as I’ve just said I do to the Imam officiating our wedding). They seem to be smiling, almost giggling even. That makes me happy.
It dawns on big sis that she’s going to have to take one for the team. “Come on then lady, let’s do this.”
There’s something strangely intimate, humorous and undignified about squatting over a toilet as your sister holds onto the hem of your lehenga for dear life to avoid any overspill. We both laugh, mainly to drown out the trickling sound.
“It’s nice to see you laughing, lady. You’ve been a bit of a miserable so-and-so of late,” she says.
“I know. I didn’t mean to be. I’m sorry if I’ve been giving you grief.”
I don’t think I’ve ever apologised so much in my life.
“So how am I going to... wipe?”
“Gosh lady, I don’t know. I wore a saree at my wedding, this is all a bit new to me.”
“Just do a jiggle dance to get rid of any droplets!” shouts a more experienced voice from outside the cubicle.
“Erm... thank you!” big sis shouts back, before whispering to me: “Who was that?”
“Well, there’s 600 people here so I have no idea whatsoever,” I reply.
Peeing in pairs, sleeping in carrier bags... it’s been a week of firsts, and lasts. We both know it as between the giggles big sis sheds a tear.
“Right, are you ready?” she asks, dabbing at her eyes with a square of papery toilet tissue.
“Yes.”
***
STANDING BETWEEN THE two pillars of the pretend altar, I can get a good look at everyone attending. They’ve all stood to attention. We’ve totally copied this from the church weddings we’ve seen in movies.
“Right, don’t walk too quickly!” whispers big sis. “And don’t stare at him as you’re walking,” she says, gesturing with her jewel tikka adorned head to the stage where M is stood, waiting like a prince for his princess (or at least that’s what I’m envisioning. I can’t blooming well tell as I’m now nervously looking down).
As we take slow and steady steps, with some false starts as I bump into the kids in front of me who are taking the instructions to walk slow to a whole new level, my eyes dart furtively from side to side at our guests. All whilst trying to remain coy and covert. It’s not easy being a nosey bride.
To my surprise, Naila’s here. I wish she’d have come over to say hello. She wasn’t at the mehendi, so did she drive up by herself just for my wedding? She’s stood next to uncle Tariq and auntie Rukhsana. I don’t see her hubby there. Correction - I don’t see a white man next to her so assume he’s not here. That’s okay. Baby steps.
Word passes that I must stop walking. I think they’re taking more photos of us standing in procession.
“He’s not ready yet,” whispers middle sis, assumingly referring to M. I’m not sure what he has to get ready for. He’s not walking anywhere. Still, at least this gives me more time to be nosey out of the corner of my eye.
“You look gorgeous!” shouts Fiona, with an enthusiastic thumbs up. It’s the best kind of heckling.
I see Julia, with whom I’m guessing is Miles by her side. I raise my eyes for a better look and Julia smiles at me, nodding to confirm my assumption. It’s like we’re telepathic or something.
“Okay, come forward, very slowly,” Rashid instructs us.
I take his advice to the extreme, taking such ridiculously slow steps that I might as well be going backwards.
Then I spot Sophia. She’s come with her hubby Adnan, who’s cradling baby Imran, though he’s grown so much since I’ve seen him that he now looks more like a toddler. Sophia, clad in a simple navy blue salwar kameez devoid of any decoration, smiles widely at me as our eyes meet. We’re metres apart so can’t speak, but in the moment it seems like we both have an understanding - that there’s much to discuss.
I’m instructed to take a right, along with my entourage, to climb the four steps onto the stage. I’m inching closer. I’m now glad my skirt is a little shorter than it should be. If it flowed past my feet, I’d probably trip on my heels as I climb the stairs. Instead, I can move more elegantly than I ever have before.
And then, for a moment, I look up. M is looking at me, trying to hide his smile. That’s when I realise, none of this really matters. The taals. The bloated guest list. The chocolate fountain that never was. The sodding favour bags. The lehenga. Okay, maybe the lehenga matters. But definitely not the favour bags.
Because at the end of the day there he is. And here I am.
***
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Thank you for reading my book. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you’d like to see where our heroine heads next in life, you can pre-order the follow-up, The Secret Diary of a Bengali Newlywed, below. After the amazing response to this book, I just had to write about her new life as a married woman. As one reader said, the story doesn’t end at the wedding, that’s kind of where it starts.
I’m sharing the blurb below and the links for you to get your copy.
Blurb
I found a man, now I just need to figure out how to live with him...
New husband. New in-laws. New home. New city. New colleagues.
Welcome to my new life as a Bengali newlywed. Let the nosey pregnancy questions and family politics commence.
From award-winning author Halima Khatun, comes the latest instalment in The Secret series, where the glass half-full heroine navigates some of life’s biggest changes with her unique blend of self-deprecation and acerbic humour.
The Secret Diary of a Bengali Newlywed explores race, identity, belonging and family in the way only Halima Khatun knows how.
Pre-order Bengali Newlywed from the store of your choice here: https://halimakhatun.co.uk/books/