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We end up having a bit of a lie in. Well actually, 11am isn’t really a lie in. Not in my book. Not considering I didn’t go to bed until 1am after having spent the evening travelling across the country to get here and I barely got to sit down after getting home from work before we hit the road.
Nonetheless, it’s later than I’d expected. I wish M had woke me. He’s still snoring himself. I wish I set the alarm. It didn’t even occur to me that I’d sleep so long, or so well, at M’s parents’ house. I’m usually a bit of an insomniac when staying at a new place. M, I’ve come to learn, is the opposite. He can sleep anywhere, at any time.
I don’t think it bodes well that my first official morning at my in-laws (apart from the getting married bit, when I was so nervous I got up at 6am) is such a late start.
“Wake up!” I shove M by the shoulder.
He lifts his head up, startled. “Mmm? What?” He briefly blinks his eyes open. “Yeah. I’ll come down in a bit.” He closes his eyes again, clearly unaware of who he just spoke to or where he is.
Never mind, this might be a good thing, as I can go downstairs before him and act the dutiful wife, preparing breakfast for him like I’ve seen in so many Bollywood movies. I’ll earn some serious wife / daughter-in-law brownie points.
As I head down the wooden stairs and into the living room, I see my father-in-law for the first time since I left after our wedding day.
He is huddled by the fire wearing a chunky knit cardigan. The Bangla TV is on, this time with a much more appropriate news programme. The saree-clad woman is dressed in the red and green of the Bangladeshi flag. She reads out the headlines, accompanied by a dramatic chorus of music. My father-in-law turns to look at me.
“Are you up?” His voice is even quieter than my dad’s.
I don’t think he’s asking in a rude way, though there might be some judgement behind the question. It’s always hard to figure out, as I’m not good at reading the room. I overthink and over-worry and, right now, my new father-in-law has got me worried that he’s thinking I’m a lazy cow.
“Salam Alaikum. Can I get you tea?” is the first thing to spill out of my mouth.
“No, I’ve just had tea. Make sure eat breakfast.”
That was quite cute. I feel a bit more reassured now. Before I can say anything else or be asked anything else, I run into the kitchen.
My mother-in-law is there, already heating up curries.
Shit.
I offer another awkward hug. She reciprocates with equal awkwardness. I’m not sure at what point I can drop this whole hugging thing but right now it feels like the best greeting.
She repeats the same question as my father-in-law. I reply with the same ‘yes, I’m up’ and ‘can I make you tea?’ She’s already had her tea, too. I lean over the foil-covered cooker to see what’s cooking. They’re not new curries, rather she is heating up the food from last night. Phew. I’d feel all kinds of guilty if she’d started cooking while I was snoozing away upstairs.
“They go bad if not heated up in morning.” My mother-in-law must have sensed my concern that she’d started cooking already.
“Do I need to do anything?” I ask, my stomach rumbling. What I really need to do is eat.
“No. There be nothing to do. You eat. Will do some cooking later.”
That’s my cue. My chance to redeem myself for getting up so damn late. I will bring my A-game. I will show her I’m not a spoiled girl who didn’t learn to cook. I’ll show my mother-in-law that I, too, know my way around the kitchen. I’ve got this.
***
It’s been two hours. Two full hours on my feet in M’s mum’s kitchen. I’ve descaled a fish for the first time in my life, getting up close and very personal with a big piece of boal fish. I’ve learnt a new skill, peeling the skin back and forth until the little scales escape all over the sink, along with a few spots of fish blood. I was enlightened to this fact after spending 20 minutes poking and prodding the defrosted fish with a fork to no avail.
I used to moan that mum would never let me do anything in the kitchen, that it was her refuge from us girls. Now I realise she was saving me. Saving me from all manner of smelly, funky unpleasantness. I’ve become the chief sous chef. Or should I say the only sous chef. I really wish we picked a weekend where M’s sister-in-law had come down. At least I would’ve had a kitchen buddy. I’ve peeled and chopped an onion and watched patiently as my mother-in-law dipped plastic spoons into plastic tubs that previously housed gigantic cooking sauces, to retrieve the various spices needed to bring this curry together. I listened obediently as she told me how much of each spice is required, though her eyeball measurements were a bit off (she’d add a half teaspoon, then a bit more. So is that one full teaspoon or three quarters?). It was a technicolour montage of red chilli, yellow turmeric, brown garam masala. Kind of like a festival, only much less fun.
To be fair to my mother-in-law, she did the lion’s share of work. She only delegated tasks to me because I was being such an eager beaver and hovering around her. I assumed that was the right thing to do. It’s not like I’m there all the time doing it day in, day out. However, I had underestimated her cooking abilities. I assumed that as a mother of adult children she’d be more interested in taking it easy these days. I hadn’t anticipated three courses of different fish and meat.
“You put noon in?” my mother-in-law asks.
“Noon? What’s that?” I know my Bengali isn’t great but I understand most of the kitchen stuff. Never heard of noon before, except the midday version.
“Noon? You know, noon?” As if repetition would suddenly cause a breakthrough in my noon knowledge. “You add it?”
I look at her with my best poker face. “Yes,” I reply, hopefully with conviction.
Having spent the last couple of hours in M’s mum’s kitchen, I can only conclude one thing. She is a workhorse.
Nobody’s said anything about lunch. It’s gone 3:30pm. When does everybody eat around here? I look at M as he occasionally comes in and out of the kitchen, checking on my welfare. No signs of hunger in his face. Then I look at my mother-in-law to see if she’ll be putting the rice cooker on. No, she’s not. Anybody? Really? Nobody is hungry?
Then it occurs to me. When I came downstairs, M’s dad was having tea and toast. My mother-in-law was having toast with a boiled egg. M, who sauntered downstairs at 11.30am like a prince, had a fried egg on toast with beans. What did I have? Cereal. Note to self: next sleepover, I am going all out with a full English breakfast, minus the pork sausage, of course.
Just then, M’s brother walks into the kitchen. “Alright?”
“Yeah, I’m alright,” I say in return, unintentionally mimicking his happy-go-lucky address.
He looks at the sink, which still has discarded fish scales strewn all over it.
“Lots of cooking going on,” he mentions the obvious.
“Yeah, it’s got to be done. Are you a fish fan?” I ask him.
“Not really. Chicken all the way for me.”
I have an ally.
M comes in. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” I say, while wiping the debris off the sink with a sponge. I’m not sure if that’s the general cleaning sponge I’m contaminating with fish blood but I’ve committed now, so I keep wiping.
“Are you sure?” He’s searching my face for some deeper truth.
As if I’m going to complain in front of everyone. “It’s fine,” I say, trying and failing to sound upbeat.
M’s brother sidles up to him: “Guess where I’ve booked to go on holiday next year?” he says, like a young kid trying to impress a teenager.
“Where?” asks M, while focussing on me and my fishy task at hand.
“Turkey,” M’s brother replies, standing tall with pride.
“Can you afford it?” M is still looking at my face for signs of distress, hunger or any other negative emotion. “I mean, it’s not like your work’s paying much.” This time he looks squarely at his younger sibling.
M’s brother becomes small, almost hunched. “Yeah, it should be fine.”
“Should be?” asks M.
“I mean it’s fine. That’s why I booked so far ahead. I got a deal. Plus, my work might promote me soon. I’ve got my appraisal next month.”
“Good,” says M. “If you need me to have a word with anyone in your team, let me know. I still know the managers from when I worked there.”
“You could do, thanks,” says M’s brother, though his voice doesn’t reflect his words. I think he may have appreciated more enthusiasm about his holiday. He turns to me: “Have you been to Turkey?”
“I haven’t been anywhere beyond Bangladesh,” I say, laughing. “Hopefully that will change soon.”
“Ah, right.” Now M’s brother turns to his mum. “Is the food nearly ready?”
“Eh heh, you hungry? Not long now,” she says, before finally uttering the words I’ve been so desperate to hear since about one ‘o’clock in the afternoon. “I put the rice on?”
“Yes, maybe.” I nod. “Probably worth eating soon.” I’m completely ravenous.
“Okay. Could you get pot of rice from drum in store room. Under stairs.”
Dodging cobwebs in the dark, I pull open the plastic, industrial-looking drum to reveal the life blood of Bengalis - basmati rice. There is also the obligatory empty can of beans in there, too, which has now taken on the important job of measuring the rice. I scoop out two tins full of rice into a silver bowl.
“Now can you grab pan from cupboard?” she asks.
I’ve barely put the bowl down. What does she need another pan for? Not another curry, surely?
My mother-in-law reads my mind. “We cook rice in there.”
It seems she does rice the traditional way, boiling in a pan before discarding some of the starchy, frothy water from the top and returning to a low simmer on the cooker. Of course she’d be a purist. Minutes earlier she was squatting over a pestle and mortar, bashing the life out of fresh ginger. My mum hasn’t done that in years. She never even used a pestle and mortar. I vaguely remember her using an empty can (those things are so handy) and rolling pin to do the job but it never quite broke the ginger down. We had a few too many bitter bites in our curry before mum discovered the convenience of batch blending and freezing ginger and garlic. As for rice, mum converted to a rice cooker years ago, after nearly burning the house down multiple times when cooking the traditional way as she’d forgot she had a pan on the stove.
My mother-in-law expertly tips the heavy pan into the sink to release some of the boiling water. Good, I was scared she’d ask me to do it and I’d end up with third-degree burns. I’m relieved that’s the last job before we eat.
“You want to make salad?” she asks, somewhat rhetorically. “We got onion and tomato.”
Okay, second to last job.
Just like last night, we eat in front of the telly, with Bangla TV providing the entertainment. My mother-in-law sits on the brown armchair. M and I occupy the long sofa bed, taking an end each. We don’t want to appear overfamiliar.
Unlike last night, there’s an addition to our lunch party. M’s dad is sat on the other armchair, slowly eating his small portion of rice. A few sample dishes from today’s cooking session are laid out in white and green striped ceramic bowls on the rickety coffee table in front of him. It seems futile, as my father-in-law slowly picks at the sautéed green beans and onion, paying no attention to rest of the small spread. I was hoping he’d try the fish as I had some real input with that, descaling the smelly bugger.
My mother-in-law asks if I’ll try the fish. It’s normally something I’d avoid but I bite just to fit in. I get up to head back to the kitchen for my portion.
“There be fish here.” My mother-in-law ushers me back, pointing towards the bowls laid out.
“It’s okay, they’re for dad,” I reply.
“I no eat all that,” my father-in-law says. “Come. My food is your food now.”
That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. I look at him, small, quiet and kind. I suddenly feel a longing for my dad. I know I’m going home today and when I do, I’ll barely talk to dad. He won’t even sit in the same room but at least I’ll know he’s there.
I go over to get some fish from the stripey bowl. Some pieces have still got scales on them. No wonder M’s dad didn’t touch them. That aside, it actually tastes good. The fish is meaty, substantial, rather than the smelly nothing-ness I’ve had before. Maybe fish always tastes good but I’ve never given it the chance. Or maybe my taste is changing with age. Or marriage.
The deep ridged porcelain plates decorated with blue flowers look familiar. Every Bengali household has them. Designs may vary but the function is always the same. The rim is used to assemble balls of rice, mixed with whatever curry is on the menu. It’s an art of sorts, which I was taught from the age of four. You scoop the rice with the ends of your fingers to create a mound against the rim of the plate, before sliding up into your mouth. Without the high edge there’s nowhere to scoop, so you end up fashioning balls of rice with your fingers and thumbs. That’s what we’ve been doing in London in Greg’s flat. It’s not the same.
We didn’t take any kitchen utensils or other basics with us on our maiden voyage down south. It didn’t make sense without a proper abode that was our own. Instead, we’re using his work mate’s cutlery. It’s a bit grim. As a bachelor, he’s hardly got a fully equipped kitchen. Food must be fuel for him and nothing else besides that.
When we do get a flat that’ll be the first item on the agenda. Get Bangladeshi plates. I’ll insist on it. And a rice cooker.
M’s sister comes into the dining room, with the same deer in headlights look she sported the night before. Surely she’s not forgotten already that we are staying over?
It’s funny how nobody said anything about her whereabouts this morning, or what time she got up. This is the first time I’ve seen her face and it’s gone 4pm. I guess the old saying rings true. It’s one rule for the daughter-in-law and another for the daughter.
“Have you eaten?” M’s mum asks her before she even gets through the doorway.
She’s beginning to sound more and more like my mum.
“Yeah. I had a McDonald’s when I was out. I’ve got your medicine,” she says.
Okay, maybe she hasn’t just rolled out of bed.
“Hiya,” she smiles at me. “I didn’t see you this morning.”
Ooh, touché. I’m not sure how I feel about this girl.
***
I’m trying to put the situation with M’s little sister behind me. She is a teenager. I’ve got one of my own. I know what it’s like. They’re perpetually shitty between the ages of 13 and 19. Yet, I can’t shake off her comment.
Was she being sly? No, surely not. Maybe she didn’t even realise she made a dig about my late start? I don’t know. Anyway, mustn’t moan. Yes, there may be a potential pot stirrer in the family. However, it’s not like I live there. It’s not like I’ll be constantly judged, day in, day out. It’s not like I’ll always be doing a cooking marathon then eating lunch at 3pm. In the grand scheme of things it’s the occasional weekend, where I put my best face forward. I’ll let any sly digs wash over me. Life with M is good. Life in London is great. Who cares if M’s little sister and I haven’t exactly hit it off? I don’t. Well, clearly I do because I can’t get it out of my mind, despite the fact that there is something more exciting coming up.
I’m on my way to my mum’s, where there is another teenager at home and I’m sure she’s been missing me terribly. She did cry at my mehendi, after all. That means my concerns about her hating me on the down low were unfounded. Or, perhaps her previous dislike of me has been transferred to another teenager...
Oh, stop it! Stop moaning right now.
***
“Yalla! You’ve lost weight!”
“Mum, it’s not even been a month.”
“So? If you be this skinny now, how be you after Ramadan? Look, your face be broken!”
It’s a funny Bengali expression which I’ve only recently come to learn. It means I look gaunt.
I’ve barely seen M since I got to mum’s as he’s been ushered into the front room to be waited on hand and foot, while I shift for myself in the dining room. He’ll be heading back to London while I stay here for a few days to work from the Manchester office. I’m not sure how I feel about it. It’s the first time we’ve been apart.
Mum continues her brutal critique of my appearance. “You’ve become like child! No shape!” She grabs hold of my apparently adolescent wrist.
“Well, if you wouldn’t stand in the way of me and that plate of samosas, maybe I wouldn’t be so skinny! And why have I only got three when he had a plate full?” I’m referring to my new husband.
Mum smiles. “He’s come here like new. How it look if we be stingy with samosas? And did you give him water?”
“Yes, I passed it to him when I gave the samosas.”
“Good, good. Now he can have juice. Or should we give mishti first?”
“Shouldn’t we save the sweet stuff for after dinner?”
Mum nods. “Yes, yes. But I cut fruit for him first. I got grapes today from shop. Or should I make tea? Dooro! Where’s your sister? She no help now she all big.”
“You mean pregnant?” I ask my insensitive and politically incorrect mum.
“Same thing,” she replies. “Anyway, I think let’s give him tea as rice still cooking.”
For a fairly laid-back family, we love creating a gender segregation when entertaining outsiders. Yes, even though he’s my husband, he’ll always be something of an outsider who’s wed into our family, rather than an active member. So while white people may say ‘he’s like a son to me,’ about the boy who joins their family, we don’t entertain such rubbish. M is a guest in our house, being offered copious cups of tea and samosas on the nice plates, given a bowl of water to wash his hands before eating rice (God forbid he uses the sink like the rest of us skanks), and he’ll always, always be ushered to the more formal front room on arrival. It’s like the equivalent of upstairs downstairs back in the day, except we have less space, so the servant quarters are the kitchen and dining room.
Mum backs away from examining my boney visage to let me attack the samosas.
I’ve missed this. The oil soaked kitchen tissue. The crispy filo pastry. The fragrant cardamon (which some unlucky sod ends up biting into when it’s accidentally left in the mince meat mix). The exact spice proportion that only mum can master. Despite this being a recipe that she has never been formally taught, she knows how to get it just right.
Truth be told, I’ve even missed mum’s fussing around me. Her constant concern for my welfare, her irrational appraisal of my weight, her bossy nature. I’ve missed it all. I’ve missed her. My mum does mothering the way only she can.
“That didn’t take long, you stuffing your face!”
I turn around to be greeted by a protruding belly. I look up and see said belly belonging to middle sis, who looks ready to pop.
“We can’t keep you away, can we? Always coming back like a bad smell.” She continues to snigger.
“Actually, I’m here for work. I’ve got an excuse now. Anyway, you can talk. How long is it you’ve been here now? Two, three days? Mum must be eaten out of house and home with three, no sorry, that’s four mouths to feed.” I playfully prod at her stomach.
“Quiet you! In Bangladesh, girls stay for 40 days at their mum’s house after they’ve had a baby. They do nothing, while everybody else runs around them taking care of everything. Pakistanis do the same.” Middle sis loves to impart that little aside, as she knows best, living in Bradford, or Bradistan as we affectionately refer to it.
I get up to hug her, though only manage to get my hands around her shoulders on account of the bountiful belly between us.
My nephew and niece run into the room, narrowly avoiding a collision with our dining table as they dodge past their mum to grab me around the waist and hug for dear life.
“We didn’t hear you come!” says my niece.
“That’s coz you were too busy doing a stinky pooh!” My nephew teases her.
“Your poohs are stinkier!” she shouts back.
These kids. I hope they remain unfiltered, always.
There’s only two more people I haven’t received an embrace from, though I’m not holding out for either.
Dad’s upstairs, finishing his prayers. He’s not one for hugging. It’s just not something Bangladeshi dad’s dish out. Or at least not mine. Yet, when he comes into the living room and I see him, all bulbous nose, henna tinted beard and softly rounded belly, I feel an overwhelming urge to break with formality and throw my arms around him. I won’t, obviously. That’d be weird. I can’t remember the last time I hugged dad. I was probably about five. Or maybe six. I don’t know when I stopped hugging him, or who instigated the end. Maybe he felt I’d gotten too old. Or perhaps I felt too grown up to need cuddles and he wasn’t one to demand them.
Why do I feel so emotional about dad? Why have I got this pull, this magnetic force that’s drawing me to him? It’s like I want to be a little girl again. Safe in his embrace. Safe from the world of being a grown up.
I usually feel this way about mum. Dad is just, well, dad. He’s always there, not doing much. But the truth is, while his contributions to my life aren’t as obvious as mum’s, dad had his moments.
When I lived away at university, dad would walk me to the train station every weekend, pulling my noisy, squeaky suitcase up the hill. He never drove, therefore couldn’t give me a lift to my halls of residence like the other dads did for my uni friends. So he did the next best thing. Despite my protestations, he’d insist on walking me right up to the train platform and wouldn’t budge from his position until my train would depart. Sometimes this took around 10 or 15 minutes, by the time everyone had got onto the train and the conductor had blown his whistle. Dad would still wait, quietly, patiently. As the train would slowly pull away, I’d see him wave and shed a tear. I never understood why. After all, I’d be back the following weekend, squeaky suitcase in tow, and we’d do this merry train dance all over again.
This time it’s been three weeks since I’ve left home. This time my transport has been upgraded to an Audi TT. This time no one’s dragging along a squeaky suitcase. This time I’m the one that wants to shed a tear but I won’t. Instead, I stuff those feelings down deep inside.
Upon seeing me, he poses the obligatory question of: “When did you get here?”
He then enters our now-crowded dining room to ask: “Have you eaten?” even though I have a ketchup-dipped samosa in my hand.
Satisfied with the situation, dad then says: “Okay, okay, good. You staying here?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“Okay, good.” Then he heads to the front room to ask M the exact same questions.
Except M has a different answer to the final question.
“I better head back. It’s getting quite late,” M tells me after he’s eaten round six of today’s tasting menu - lamb curry and rice.
It’s that time. Gone six and getting dark outside. Time for M to make the mammoth trip across the country, leaving me behind.
It’s awkward. Everyone’s come to see my husband off at the door, which means we can’t hug. Public displays of affection are a no no, especially with my dad standing on ceremony.
“Okay, I’ll see you later,” says M as that’s the most he can do with so many eyes on us.
“Call me when you get there,” I say, dutifully.
As I turn the key to let him out, he offers a pat on my belly. I’ll take it.
Dad goes back to the front room, one man down, to watch the news alone. Poor thing. He only just started to come out of his shell around M, emboldened by the male presence in a house occupied by women. I bet he can’t wait for my nephews to come of age and offer more conversation beyond bowel movements.
“Where’s the unsociable one?” Nobody even needs to ask who I’m referring to. It’s a universal truth that little sis is hardly the life and soul.
“She be upstairs in room. Probably on phone talking about college.”
Standard.
***
Little sis is doing her baby rhino snore in her bed next to mine. Things are familiar yet so different. Little sis’ world map is still dominating the magnolia wall. The bedside alarm clock is still useless as the dead batteries haven’t been replaced. In every other room in the house, there’s all manner of contortions going on as each family member, bar my very pregnant sister, has to bend themselves to make our humble semi-detached three-bed house accommodate three extra bodies. It’s a familiar act when either of my older sister’s stay over.
That’s all the same. Yet there are some subtle signs of change afoot.
I see my hanging canvas shoe storer has less of my shoes in, and the gap left behind has been hastily filled with little sis’ trainers and gold strappy shoes.
When I left, I emptied a shelf in the wardrobe and relieved some hangers of my work blazers. Upon examination, I noted the hangers had been repurposed. There’s a denim jacket in place of my tan blazer and a fake leather jacket, peeling at the creases, occupying the place where my real one once lived.
My bedding feels new and freshly changed, like a hotel, albeit a budget one with low thread-count.
Back home in Bangladesh there are often stories - recounted by big sis who’s most in the know thanks to her husband - of people’s land being constantly in danger of encroachment.
My big brother-in-law has been embroiled in a long-standing battle with squatters who are, slowly but surely, building on his family’s many acres of land in the village. Little by little, brick by brick, these squatters are taking over.
It’s only been three weeks but this room doesn’t feel like mine any more. I’m losing my foothold. Little by little.