| |
To tell or not to tell, that is the question. So far, I’ve talked to mum about my futile job hunt, the keema curry I made under her careful instruction (via video call) whilst in London, which turned out to be quite successful, and the new winter coat I bought which needed to be both thick enough for the great outdoors, yet light enough to travel on the underground without melting. It wasn’t easy but I found one with a detachable inner layer.
Then, of course, whilst we were having dinner, mum caught me unarmed.
“How was everyone at your in-laws? Your mother-in-law well? I heard your father-in-law no sleeping good.”
You’d think that would be the first question mum would ask, as soon as I got through the door yesterday afternoon. However, it’s one that she saves for when we run out of things to talk about. More to the point, do my mum and mother-in-law speak on the phone? Without my consent?
“Yeah, something about his feet being swollen.” I don’t look up from my plate. Instead, I massage the rice and potatoes into a ball. Mum is going to tell me off any minute, as she has real issues with me messing with my food when my mouth is empty. She’s got this thing where she wants me to be constantly chewing. A mouth should never be empty at the dinner table, she believes. How she doesn’t have permanent indigestion, I’ll never know.
“You done? Have some more,” mum tells dad as he gets up off his chair. He is having increasingly smaller portions these days.
“Na na, I finish.” He takes his plate into the kitchen. I wait for the sound of washing, then an obligatory post dinner cough, then footsteps into the front room. Finally, the familiar, dramatic opening music for the nine ‘o’ clock news, which is always a bit too loud.
Now I can speak. I have to. “Also, things got a bit tricky yesterday,” I say.
“Tricky? How you mean tricky?”
Here we go then. The whole sorry story falls out of my mouth. It’s all one big stream-of-consciousness vomit of nosey cousin, annoying teenage sister, and mother-in-law who shows her love through food. No sooner have I said the latter, than I realise I’ve pretty much described every Bengali mum, including mine.
“Oh dear,” mum replies after digesting my story. “You only go there sometimes, not like it your house. Can’t you be nice, just for lit-ool bit?”
“I was being nice!” I try to hide the offence in my voice. “It’s just really hard, having to always show my best face even when I’m feeling crap. You wouldn’t know, you’ve spent most of your married life in this country, minus the in-laws.”
“Not true. I had to do things. So much you never know.” Her tone changes from preachy to melancholy. “I always tell you this, in life, it will be women that have to make com-per-mise. That do hard work. So much easier for men.”
I’ve heard this so many times my whole life. So much so, it is hardwired into my thinking. I didn’t bat an eyelid about M’s brother being away for the weekend, yet I couldn’t help but stir the pot about his sister staying out late. Thinking on it, I have been a few times when M’s brother has come in, smiley and happy-go-lucky as always, and asked: ‘What ya making?’ and it didn’t bother me.
When M’s little sister asked for soy fita, I blew my top. It’s like she didn’t care about the inevitable, that I’d end up making it. It’s like she didn’t consider that I might be tired from the night travelling from the bottom end of the country, not to mention having finished a week of work. It didn’t occur to her that I might want to keep things simple. Maybe it didn’t occur to her that I’d have a hand in making it? I don’t know. It’s not like she asked me, she asked her mum. Actually, it was after my mum-in-law asked her what she wanted. Now I think about it, I remember M’s mum suggested it, along with a menu of other options. I think I heard samosa somewhere in the list. That changes things a bit. Should an 18-year-old be expected to consider the implications of a food request? I don’t really know. I hadn’t thought about it that deeply. I wasn’t able to unpack why I’m offended by her actions and requests, yet I’m fine with her brother’s. I hadn’t been the bigger person, as mum would’ve liked me to have been. I was too tired. Tired and angry.
I can’t share this with mum. I’m too ashamed. Too ashamed that I’ve become so conditioned to thinking in the sexist ways my parents did, and their parents before them.
“The daughter be lit-ool bit cheeky asking for lots of things and no help but,” mum is not done with dishing out her golden advice, “all children be that way.”
Children? She’s not a child. Then again, I have ten years on M’s sister.
“You were same,” mum adds.
“ I wasn’t!”
“Yes! Buleev! Quick to ask for samosa, never think about effort. Hmmph! Now you know how it feel.” Mum gets back to her rice with a barely concealed smile. Perhaps, nearly 30 years later, it’s her mother’s revenge.
“Speak of teenager, can you call your sister? I shouted too many times for dinner. She want room service?”
I guess little sis has taken my position of being the one that’s henpecked by mum.
***
My little sister didn’t come down for dinner until 9.45pm. What a brat. Now she’s snoring away in the single bed next to me, belly full and content, while I can’t sleep.
All these thoughts pop into my head, like when Julia once casually said: “I do most of the cooking. I don’t mind that, really. Miles is terrible in the kitchen.” Or when Fiona from my old work said she did all the cooking, cleaning and childcare, despite holding down a full-time job like her husband. It seems it doesn’t matter what race you are, inequality is everywhere. So what was I getting upset about? I wasn’t a trailblazer before and I’m not about to turn into one now, rebelling against the matriarchy-in-laws.
I can just imagine the thoughts of my nearest and dearest on the subject.
Big sis would say: ‘Oh lady, it’s kind of the deal when you marry someone in the UK, isn’t it? It’s expected that you’d help out in the kitchen. At least you don’t live there and you didn’t have to cut fish.’
Middle sis’ view might be different: ‘Little cow, expecting all these different dishes then buggering off when it’s time to cook! Leaving you to slave away! It’s not fair, is it? I didn’t have to do that with my in-laws.’
Julia would probably say: ‘That’s what I was worried about all along! I hate to say it but my biggest concern was you being a housewife as I know that’s how it can be in... your culture.’ This would be accompanied by an awkward grimace as she steps on cultural eggshells.
Naila might say: ‘Cheeky bastards! I told you! Didn’t I tell you it would be like that? That’s why I married out. Anyway, forget them tossers, take some selfies of me to take your mind off it.’
As for Sophia, she probably wouldn’t get back to me as she’s too busy with baby Imran. I’m not bitching, I’m just stating facts.
Of course, all this is conjecture and I might be totally wrong about what my family and friends would make of the weekend’s fiasco. One thing is for sure, I won’t find out as I won’t ask them. I may suck at navigating this married life at times, but I know that too many opinions can blow a small matter out of proportion.
I’m going to have to figure this one out by myself.