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After a few days at home, I am both sad to leave and glad to get away.
I’m no longer a blubbering wreck like when I was newly married (I guess I’m getting used to my new normal) but it’s always emotional saying goodbye, especially when it’s a full house. There’s nothing nicer than having all my sisters and nephews and nieces around.
However, I’m glad to not be sleeping on an air bed on the floor in my own room, while my big sister snores away in my bed, and I get kicked and elbowed in the ribs by my niece who is sleeping next to me. At one point her foot was on my face. It seems my married newness has worn off and I am no longer important enough to sleep in my own bed when guests arrive. Yet somehow my 18-year-old sister is seen as a baby with a growing body that still requires nurturing, so she gets the comfort of her usual bed with its pocket sprung mattress. Not fair.
There is another reason I’m glad to go back. I won’t hear the daily questions from mum of: ‘Have you called your mother-in-law?’ ‘Did you call your mother-in-law?’ ‘You know, you should call your mother-in-law!’ Followed by: ‘If not, it be rude.’
My answer was always the same and I got sick of saying it. No, I haven’t called her. I don’t know what I’d say. We hardly left as besties. I salaamed, she returned. I hugged her, she hugged me back; however, it wasn’t the usual press against my front. She reached with her arms and kept her shoulders back, leaving her body out of the equation.
“It’ll be fine.” M senses my tension on the drive to Droylsden.
“Has anyone said anything about me?” I ask.
“No, nobody said anything. They wouldn’t say anything to me, anyway.”
The last sentence didn’t really help.
“Should I mention anything?” I ask.
“About what?”
“You know. The argument you had the day I left?”
M laughs, though I don’t see what’s funny. “No! There’s no need. We don’t hold grudges. Talking and bringing it up will only make things worse. Everyone’s forgotten about it, anyway. It’s not that big a deal.”
“It is for me.”
“So I guess we won’t be having soy fita today?” M laughs.
“It’s actually nothing to do with the soy fita.”
“I’m joking!” M raises his hands in surrender, though I’d rather he kept them on the steering wheel.
“I know you are but...” I guess I’ve got to say it. “It was just everything at once. I’ve been losing sleep over losing my job, your old cousin calling me out on not having babies and everything else, and then yes, the soy fita... it all got me thinking. Is this my lot? Am I done with work? Have I reached the next level in life, being a vessel to carry kids and a kitchen appliance?”
M turns the music down on the radio. He’s about to say something profound. “I didn’t realise how much this redundancy thing has stressed you out.”
I wish he wouldn’t use the ‘R’ word. “I didn’t want to stress you out by talking about it. But this time up north has really messed with my head... it’s like if I don’t have a job, people will just say: ‘It’s the perfect time to have kids.’ But I’m not ready yet. Then again, I am getting on...”
“Remember when I told you to stop worrying?” asks M.
All our deep conversations seem to happen in this car.
“You’re not too old. It’s no one’s business when we have kids. And as for work, don’t stress about it. You’ll find something easily, and you’re not doing this alone. But you have to tell me this stuff. Didn’t we have a talk one time when I was worrying about covering rent for a new place?”
“Yeah, it was about a year ago.”
“Well, it’s the same thing. Tell me what’s on your mind. If I don’t know, I can’t help.”
“True. Your old cousin annoyed me big time.” I can’t shake that comment off.
“Forget her,” M says. “You’ll always get people like that.”
“And people will always talk,” I add.
“Then let them talk.”
As we get closer, I feel a heaviness in my heart, as though my insides are welling up, weighing me down, deep into my seat, telling me: ‘don’t get out.’ It’s a familiar feeling that usually begins when we hit the road on a Friday night, leaving behind the bright lights of East London, which is bustling with bars, noise, and life.
I need to suck it up. This is my world now. The sound of the key turning the stiff lock hammers through my brain. As M pushes the unusually weighty front door, which has expanded in the cold, it feels like an extra effort. The mat gets caught under the door and denies us entry, like a bouncer manning a club. It recedes under M’s sheer force, causing it to collide against the runner rug, which gives way to us by creasing up in little hills, creating an obstacle course.
There’s no one in the front room, which isn’t unusual, so we head to the kitchen.
His mum is there, overseeing a series of bubbling pots, each one emitting a different fragrance. I can tell there’s fish and chicken and lamb on the menu. She cooks a lot. She needn’t, it’s too much.
“You’re here!” It’s her usual response, accompanied by her usual hug. I’m relieved as it feels like we’re okay, we’re good. It’s a comfort to not come back to tension, even if it’s just for show. I guess all Bengalis are the same, we don’t hash it out. We don’t talk about these things. We just move on. Then again, maybe it’s not just a Bengali thing. Maybe it’s a family thing.
“Glad you’re here,” M’s mum says as I take my coat off. “We got jobs.”
Oh great, what is it today, a truck load of samosas? Boatloads of curry to feed the street?
My mother-in-law doesn’t reveal any more. She pops the kettle on. “You have tea?”
“Yes please,” I reply, grateful for anything that will delay the start of my shift work.
“Eh? You want tea?” she shouts to M, who’s left us and is now sat in the living room on his phone.
“Nah, not for me,” he replies.
She fills two mugs with boiling water, adds milk to mine, and a sprinkle of brown sugar to hers. She settles the mug in front of me and sits on the opposite chair at the kitchen table. I gulp down the tea and wince as it burns by tongue.
She notices my pained face. “Let it cool.”
I usually do, to the point that it’s lukewarm. Nerves got the better of me this time.
I ask the inevitable. “What are we making today?”
“Making?” She laughs. “Nothing! I already cook. You no see?” She points at the series of pots and pans steaming on the cooker.
“But you said there was work.”
“Ah ha, yes. We got shopping job. Very important.”
M joins us. “Erm, so Jam messaged. He came up last night and wants to meet. Apparently he’s met a girl.” He looks at me for permission. “What should I do?”
I’m very sure of my answer. “Just go.” There isn’t a hint of bitchiness, bitterness or sarcasm in my tone.
“You sure?” M stares at me as though he’s searching for a different answer written on my face.
“Yeah, mum’s taking me out on the town.”
***
The town in question is mum’s old hometown of Oldham. There are more shops there, she reasons. M drops us off outside the main shopping centre, glad to get out of a day at home with us ladies.
She walks with a slight limp. I never noticed that before. In the time I’ve been married, my mother-in-law and I have been on a couple of shopping trips but, beyond that, we’ve never really walked at length together. I don’t know if it’s a new thing, or she’s always struggled like that. I guess I never paid attention before.
“Arth-itis got me.” She saw me looking at her left leg. “It come and go. Usually no bother, but now little bit worse.”
There’s not much conversation to be had at the textile shop. My mother-in-law strokes the coarse fabric of a very granny-like pair of net curtains, which she tells me will have to be shortened at the tailors.
The next stop is a department store, one of her favourites. I follow her to the jewellery counter, which is glistening with sterling silver and cubic zirconia pieces under the bright lights in the cabinet.
“I want to get something for you,” she says.
“No, there is no need,” I say, though I know how this will end. We do this game when we go shopping. She insists on buying me something. I protest. She persists, I give in. Then we do the same thing in reverse, I become the gift giving oppressor while she is the reluctant recipient.
She points to a necklace adorned with crystal flowers. It’s not really my thing but today is not the day to be choosy.
“There... something to remember your mother-in-law by.” She presses the freshly purchased pink velvet gift pouch into my hand.
“You like anything?” I ask.
“Nah, nah, nah! I old lady. What I wear?”
I see her looking at a thin, gold-plated snake-like bracelet wrapped around a stand on the counter. It would go perfectly with the real gold bangles she wears every day. Next to it, I spot a similar bracelet, with some additional crystals giving it a more youthful look. I make an executive decision.
“I never wear that one!” she declares, as the sales assistant unclasps the jewel-encrusted bracelet from the stand.
“No, this one’s for you, mum,” I put the pouch containing the snake-like bracelet in her hand. “The other is for someone else.”
As we leave the shop, I hear a beep in the distance.
“Pakis!”
I turn around. The white Ford Fiesta speeds away. The cowards. I’m stunned. It’s been years since I’ve heard anything like that. My heart races.
“You no listen,” my mother-in-law says as though it’s nothing.
“Do people often do that?”
She smiles a sad smile. “Not often. Maybe sometime.”
I want to give her a tight hug but I don’t. That would be weird.
“Sod off, you bastards!” A voice shouts from behind us. No, it can’t be. Not two bouts of racial abuse in one day. I’ll have to say something. I’ll have to overcome my fears and say something.
Unlike the time I ran away from the person who threw a plastic bottle my way, this time I slowly turn around. I have to. I have to face up to this, if not for myself, then for my mother-in-law. She can’t see me scared.
I see a woman in her late forties with bleached blonde hair and black roots, wearing a pink vest that shows off her generous arm tattoos of skulls, crosses and roses. She seems unfazed by the biting cold, with only a half-smoked cigarette in one hand for warmth. She must be tough. I wish I’d carried on walking.
“Are you alright, love?” she asks, which honestly wasn’t the first thing I expected to here from a racist thug.
I don’t say anything. My thoughts are frozen.
She comes closer, with a look of anger. “They’re absolute scum. Scum of the earth. We’re not all racist like them scumbags.”
Wait.... Oh, I get it now. She was shouting at the people who called us pakis. The one’s in the car.
“We’re ok, thanks,” I finally say. “Just a bit shook up.”
Up close, I see the woman wearing an expression I never see in such circumstances. It’s the look of rage. Pure rage and disgust. She’s angry for us. There’s not a shred of pity in those ice blue eyes.
“I’m not surprised. It’s awful that. But honestly, love, we’re not all like that. Not in these parts.” Then she looks at my mother-in-law and puts her hands out. “You’re very welcome here.”
I’m not sure what’s funnier, the fact that the woman bowed in submission, or the fact that my mother-in-law has been in the UK for about 40 years, so I’d bloody well hope she’s welcome.
Then, the blonde lady with black roots and M’s mum join their hands together, perhaps a nervous reaction if nothing else. Two people that could not be more different, holding hands for a brief moment. Then they unclasp their hands and the lady takes another drag of her cigarette and bids us farewell. My mother-in-law and I walk on as if nothing happened.
***
As M is out with Jam, the taxi duty for the journey back befalls M’s younger brother. He didn’t manage to find parking near the shopping centre which means we have a bit of a walk.
As we make our way back up the hilly road to his waiting car, she says to me: “I never tell you why we moved here.”
I’d heard various asides about how their old town was full of gossips but never really heard an official story. I was about to get it.
“When your big brother-in-law went university, everyone say: ‘Why you send him? Too expensive! Better for men to work. What will degree get you?’ He was the first to go. Everyone talk. Years later, everyone copy. Then, when he move away for work...”
I’m assuming the he in this case is M.
“Everyone say: ‘Your son living away! Get him wife first!’ Then, people start talk of my daughter. What she wear in town, those things. That be when your father-in-law said enough. Let’s make different for her.”
Just like mine, M’s dad is a man of few words. It looks like he makes those words count.
I think the moral of my mother-in-law’s story is don’t stir shit. I should’ve known better, really. I just let the feelings of anger and resentment bubble over a bit too long. That’s the danger of brooding and not sharing. There’s only so much you can internalise.
I never used to be like this. Or at least I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure I was a girl who’d consult everyone about everything. When I was meeting M, middle sis, Julia and Sophia were my confidantes. When I wasn’t sure about the watch I bought for M, both my sisters chimed in with opposing and unhelpful advice. For everything in between, it would usually fall on mum’s ears. That’s the thing, for my first 27 years, I had a rich tapestry of people in my circle - a caring and nosey family and friends from different walks of life. They were my go-to. For the last 18 months, I’ve shrunk this circle, reshaped it to fit one person. Yet my emotional needs are still as varied, messy and expansive as ever. It was impossible to expect the people who filled my world to be replaced by one. It wasn’t fair on M. Or me.
Once we’re back in Droylsden, M’s mum steps out before I have a chance to go around and help her out of the car. As we reach the front garden and climb the smooth, slippery steps, I instinctively take her hand. She holds on tightly, squeezing and adding pressure as she uses me as a handrail to help her across. Her black slip-on shoes scuff the first step and she stumbles slightly. I hold her hand tighter and reach my other arm around, holding her at the elbow. She didn’t just take my hand out of politeness, she needed my support. I’ve never done that before, I’ve never offered my help in that way and she’d never asked. Perhaps she felt she couldn’t. Now I hope she knows she can.
We get through the door, put down our bags and head to the kitchen. M’s little sister is there. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since that day. Is she going to bolt out the door?
“Do you wanna cuppa?” she asks, before repeating it in Bangla to her mum.
Was the first offer aimed at me? There’s no one else in the room.
“Errr... no thanks. I had one earlier. Have you eaten lunch? There’s fresh curry,” I say, referring to the food I had no hand in making therefore can’t describe in any detail.
“No, I’ve not eaten. I’ve only just had breakfast,” she laughs as it’s gone noon. “I’ll have a bit, if you’re having some?”
As tea and curry rarely go together, I applaud M’s sister’s commitment to having a chat with me. My mother-in-law refused the tea and went upstairs to change her saree, read her prayers and likely leave us to it.
“So, how’s college?” I go into grown-up sister-in-law mode.
“It’s okay. Looking forward to finishing now.” She looks down at the half plate of food she loaded out of politeness. She’s been rolling one ball of rice around for two minutes. That would drive my mum mad.
“It’s uni next. Have you decided where to go?”
“Dunno. I’ve put a few options down but I’ll probably go to Manchester.”
“Cool. There are good one’s here. Are you happy with that?” I dare ask.
“Yeah, I suppose. It would be nice to go somewhere else, like your sister’s planning to, but I don’t think I’ll be allowed.”
I wonder if that option was taken away by anything I might have said.
“Parents do worry but, if you want,” I say, gulping down a surprisingly hard clump of rice that was probably the crust from the bottom of the pot, “I could speak to your mum. I lived away and turned out okay.”
She looks up, her dark brown eyes alight with optimism. “Would you?”
I nod, though I should do some expectation management as I don’t hold much sway with M’s mum. “Wherever you go, university will be the best time of your life. You’ll absolutely love it. Plus Manchester’s got some awesome food places. Way better than London!”
“Really?”
Now that’s got her interest. We launch into a conversation about where to get the best chicken burger, Rusholme vs. Brick Lane, which restaurant has the best buffet and whether a chocolate sundae beats a Belgian waffle. M’s sister is the most animated I’ve seen her. It’s nice.
I then realise M’s little sister knows more about my little sister’s uni plans than I do. Since I’ve moved away I’ve not asked her about her studies, what she plans on doing, or where she wants to go. I’ve been so wrapped up in my stuff that I couldn’t make space for anyone else.
My days in Droylsden are numbered. I should make them count. I’ll give M’s little sis the gold and crystal bracelet on my last day here. She’ll love it. I won’t whinge if the kitchen activities get a little too intense, which they likely will one day, now we’re all friends. Actually, I probably will moan. I’m only human, after all.
My days in Manchester are also numbered, as I’ll be staying with my parents for a couple of days before heading back to London. I shall make those days count, too. I’ll take out little sis, scour the New Year sales, find out about her university plans and impart some big sisterly advice.
Then, it’s time to get back to my life. My new life. That’s where the real work begins. I need to get me a job.