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“So what colour should we go for?” asks M.
What colour? What colour indeed.
It’s occurred to me that in my 27 years, I failed to make my mark on anything. I don’t mean figuratively, like making a mark in the world of work, I hope I’ve done that pretty well. I’m talking literally. I’ve not marked my territory. I’ve not put my stamp or aspect of my personality into any building, room, or heck, even a wall. Even little sis managed to inject some of her personality in our bedroom with a giant world map (though I question which part of her personality as she doesn’t study geography, nor has she travelled anywhere beyond Bangladesh). But at least she did something. I’ve done nothing. I’ve personalised nothing.
Sophia’s house, pre-baby, reflected her personality, carefully curated, minimal and no nonsense.
Julia’s room at her parents’ house hinted at her ladylike sensibilities even as a teenager. She was all reed diffusers, glass jewellery box, crushed velvet cushions.
Naila, my errant cousin, hung posters of her latest boy band or footballer crush on the wall. There would be a different man every summer. How that got past Auntie Rukhsana, I’ll never know.
I, on the other hand, have never put anything of my own on any wall. I’ve never decorated beyond helping paint the walls magnolia at mum’s. Maybe that’s something I inherited from my parents. They, or rather, mum - who was in charge of the household upkeep, opted for renter’s magnolia despite owning their home. My dad, like many Bangladeshi dads, expected that he’d eventually retire back home in Bangladesh, in a huge mansion built off the back off his hard work here in the UK. Like many other well-intentioned men, money was pumped back home, while we lived modestly here. Sadly, like many men, that ambition was never realised. The house was never built. The money was never returned. The dream of retiring back home was just that - a dream, but it was better than facing the reality for them. The reality that they were stuck here, forever the funny foreigners with a poor grasp of English and a love for fermented fish. The reality that they’d never really belong. Anywhere. They couldn’t and wouldn’t ever retire in Bangladesh. They didn’t make the UK their home. They kept one foot in both lands and never settled anywhere. Maybe I’ve got that in me. The displacement. The lack of belonging. The feeling that life, or at least this lifestyle, is temporary. Don’t get settled. Don’t get too comfortable. Don’t make your house a home.
It’s even true for me now. We’re renting in London, with a question mark over when we’ll return back up north, but a very real belief that it’s not a case of if, but when.
It’s not that we are living in a cardboard box or sleeping on mattresses on the floor. Yet, at the same time, despite my initial intentions that we jazz up the place immediately, a month has gone by and we’ve done nothing. I guess that’s one of the downsides of having a buzzing social life and never really making time for home-making.
We’ve got the crappy rental furniture that comes with a basically-furnished flat. There’s the electric blue corduroy sofa that’s bobbly all over. It is so well sat-in that there’s an arse groove on each seat. I can only assume the landlord rescued it from a skip. There can’t be any other reason for it being here.
Then there’s the creaky coffee table, where one leg seems shorter than the rest. The bedroom drawers, where the top knob is slightly loose, the standard magnolia wall, and don’t get me started on the metal bed. Why would anyone choose to sleep on a metal-framed bed? Even my promise of frequenting the Colombia Road flower market hasn’t been realised as M and I spend most of our Sunday mornings either in bed or out for breakfast. Plus, I don’t have a vase. Apart from one sad bowl I bought and filled with pot pourri, we haven’t bought anything for our flat.
Maybe I need to switch this up. After all, that’s the reason for today’s outing. I might be displaced but I must make the best of it. I have to make this home mine, even though I know it’s not.
As we stand in the department store which boasts every type of trinket that serves no real purpose beyond adding personality to a room, I’m confused. The row of cushions lining the wall next to the trinkets boasts every colour of the rainbow. They sit in a neat line like a giant Pantone strip, with corners peering over the edge of their metal rack precariously, willing to be plucked from their technicolour prison.
What colour to choose? M defers to me with a shrug of his shoulders. Despite being a very modern man, he feels it’s my place to deal with delicate matters like the colour scheme.
After some deliberation, I make a political choice. I’m a Bengali girl. Our flag is green and red. I don’t like the colour green, so I think I’ve found my answer.
“Red?” M repeats after me.
“Yeah, why not? Let’s go for red. If nothing else, it will match the pot pourri pot.”