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“So... has there been talk recently with this boy?”
Oh mum, you modern minx, probing me about this boy I’m seeing. Oh, and when I say seeing, I mean in the very prim, Bangladeshi sense with absolutely no funny business. Still, it astounds me that I can tell mum I’m kind of dating a boy without getting two slaps across the face. Middle sis was right, mum is the mistress of discretion and nosiness.
Then again, mum knows this isn’t some flash-in-the-pan halal fling. When I told her about this boy two months ago, she knew I was serious. It wasn’t a leap of faith like it was with Shy-boy, whose name (affectionately coined by me) pretty much sums up the entire issue with our one-date courtship. This time, it’s much more than that. We’ve been on over a dozen dates. Most of which involved food. On one such occasion, I even paid the bill, though thankfully it was a Costa Coffee rather than a three-course meal. So, essentially, this is the real deal.
Mum doesn’t really care when we speak, or what about. It’s her way of asking if there’s any progress on the marriage front. Which, by the way, she’s been asking me every single weekend since she found out about him.
“No mum, there’s nothing to report. I wish you’d stop asking. I told you already, if there’s anything new, you’ll be the first to know.”
“What problem here? Can’t a maa ask these things?” Mum always throws a bit of broken English into the Bengali mix when she’s annoyed or on the defence. “You want be sure it be heading in right direction.”
I’d like to head out of this conversation. “Like I said, I’ll tell you when there’s anything to tell. I better go, I’m getting late. Reena’s nearly at the restaurant.”
As I sit on the stairs to zip up my new, fresh-leather-smelling brown boots, mum leans over the bannister. “There’s a rishtaa’s details come through.” She comes closer still to raise her eyebrows and whisper: “This boy be dentist. He got lots of hair.” Mum rubs her head in a circular motion to emphasise her point.
Oh come on. Why do all the decent rishtaas come when I’m sort of off the market? I had a motley crew when I was single and looking. Yet, since meeting this boy, I’ve had to turn down a meeting with a surgeon (not even joking) and now this dentist. Where were they hibernating before, when mum was embracing the idea of a pizza boy from Bangladesh as a prospective son-in-law? Sometimes timing can be a right bitch.
“Mum, we’ve talked about this. Now’s not the time to put rishtaas my way. Anyway, where did it come from? Are you still paying Mr Ashraf to find us boys?”
“Yes, I still use him. But this one from Mr Choudhury. He called to say sorry no rishtaa come good but he got new boy details and can send for smaller fee. Just £15.”
“So you’re paying two people to find me a husband when I’m no longer looking?”
For someone who once bemoaned the cost of hiring these professional busybodies when I was truly single and desperate to mingle, mum’s behaviour is just confusing. Plus, her timing is terrible.
“It was especial offer and I thought it best keep these people in hand.” Mum does her bottom lip grimace thing. “You know, just in case.”
As I climb into my Ford Fiesta, I begin to wonder... why hasn’t he told his parents about me yet? I told my mum as soon as she and dad had got back from Hajj. I’ve been paying the price ever since with mum’s regular requests for a status update. I even told him my mum knows about us. I thought he’d do the same in return. Yet his parents don’t know anything about me. Could it be that he’s not as serious about me as I am about him? Is he still looking around? Maybe I was too hasty in telling my parents.
Bloody mum, she’s infiltrated my head and is messing with my thoughts.
My phone rings. Crap! I bet Reena’s already at the restaurant. This is embarrassing, as it’s a 90-minute train journey from Birmingham and short cab ride for her but a quick 15-minute drive for me. I shouldn’t be the one running late.
I’m getting my apology lined up but then I realise it’s not Reena calling me, it’s him. Him that I’m thinking I may marry. Him that makes frequent trips from London to see me. Him that will travel over an hour from the city to Heathrow Airport after work for a quick cuppa with me, while I wait for my domestic flight back home after a day at head office. Him that does all the legwork and never expects me to come down to see him on the weekend. Though to be fair, he comes up north to his hometown and visits his family when he sees me. If I went down to London just to meet him, I’d have to fork out on a hotel. This might also plant an unnecessary seed in the boy’s head. So I keep it halal and keep him on his toes. Who knew I’d play such a blinder with my limited boy experience?
I’m not sure if I should answer his call and delay myself even further but I’m desperately keen to talk to him. My annoying mum has cast a shadow of doubt on this precarious union and I need to prove her concerns are unfounded.
“Hey, how are you?” I don’t mean to sound so high pitched and enthusiastic.
“I’m good. What you up to?” He almost echoes my tone, out of solidarity I guess.
“I’m just about to meet Reena. You know, my friend from uni? She’s got a hen weekend in Manchester but is squeezing in some lunch with me beforehand.”
“Nice. How is she?”
“Well... I’ll soon find out. Though I’m running late.” Ooh, why do I sound so snarky?
“Ah... I’ll leave you to it, then. I just called to see how you were,” he trails off, sounding deflated.
“Oh no, it’s okay. I can speak for a couple of minutes.” I really can’t and shouldn’t but I’m slowly turning into one of those girls who prioritises their Misters over sisters.
“Nah, it’s cool. You don’t want to leave your friend waiting.” He’s obviously a more loyal mate than I am.
I still can’t shake off mum’s doubts. I must bring it up later. But then my words follow a different agenda: “Okay, but I just wanted to ask you, have you spoken to your parents about us?”
Me and my verbal diarrhoea. It is not the time for a deep and meaningful conversation. I have no filter or sense of timing.
He hesitates. This won’t be good.
“Err, no I haven’t, to be honest with ya. I’ve been meaning to but I’m waiting for the right time. If I tell my mum, she’ll be printing out wedding cards the next day.”
What does he mean, “if”? Surely it should be “when”?
“So I just want to be sure, to be honest with ya,” he adds, making me now very unsure of our status.
“Are you not sure?”
Again, I have no idea why I’m bringing this up now. Not only am I late, there’s also a real chance I’ll be greeting Reena with ugly tears.
“No... no... no, I don’t mean I’m not serious. I... Don’t worry. I’ll speak to mum. Anyway, you should go and meet your friend. I don’t want her thinking I’m already taking you away.”
I feel a faint sense of relief. My timing was terrible but I’m glad I asked. I just hope he tells his mum sooner rather than later so my mum can stop teasing me with the biodatas of very eligible bachelors.
Before I go, I have to do something. Yes, I know I’m already really, really late but to put my mind at ease, I go on the dating website to see if he’s still online. It’s become a weekly ritual of mine, to stalk the boy I’m seeing. It’s astounding how this website allows you to look at profiles without even logging on or being a member. Obviously data protection pales in significance compared to enticing prospective singletons with the vast array of talent on display at this halal meat market.
My slow, buffering phone, which is groaning with too many photos, finally wakes up. Right there, his profile is still very much live, for all and sundry to see...
***
IN TRUE SELFISH FORM, I picked a lunch venue that’s super convenient for me. My trusty Italian restaurant is an easy drive and serves the best rustic pizza. It’s even got parking, which is a saving grace as I always get in a fluster when having to find a space on the street. Yet I still managed to be 40 minutes late meeting Reena.
Plus I’m distracted. Why is he still online? Each time I’ve had a snoop I’ve hoped, prayed and whispered positive thoughts. Today is the day... today is the day he’ll take it down and I’ll know we’re meant to be. Glass half full... glass half full. Each time, my heart would sink a little and I’d curse myself for daring to dream.
My profile is still up too but that’s different. It’s free for me to be on this website, so it’s actually more hassle to make the effort to close it down. It’s not like I’m taking advantage of this by hunting for guys.
For him, on the other hand, every single month he’s registered with the site costs him the princely sum of £30. Surely it wouldn’t make sense to stay online unless he was still looking? Was he chatting to other girls? Could I ask him to take his profile down? Is that too possessive?
Luckily, Reena’s not overly aware of my distraction, or my lateness. She whiled away the time talking on the phone to Himesh, who she describes as her latest Mr Oh-you’ll-do-I’m-bored-of-this-shit-now.
“This whole finding a man business is really starting to get on my tits.” Reena is as charmingly unfiltered as ever. “But I have to tell you, Himesh is turning out to be the best of a bad bunch. I’m actually glad he slid into my DMs. I’m telling you, going online isn’t actually that bad. You should try it.”
I haven’t told Reena I’m sort of no longer single. And I certainly haven’t mentioned that I met the guy I’m sort of dating online. So far, only three people know about my Internet dating history:
I’d like to keep the way I met him confined to this small group. I don’t know what mum would think if she found out and, as my sisters say, it’s not how you meet someone that matters, it’s who you meet. Also, despite my best efforts to be glass half full, I can’t quite shake off my cynical nature. I’m scared of jinxing things with this boy by shouting about him from the rooftops. So my Facebook status is still single and I don’t have any photos of M on my phone because I live in a home where privacy holds no value.
Though the temptation to share my news with Reena is huge. We rarely catch up these days. Our calls are sporadic and we meet once a year at most but each time, the manhunt is the hot topic of conversation. I’m usually put to shame as Reena always has something to report and is never not meeting/dating/being introduced. I’m always the one listening in awe at her ballsy, unrelenting determination to find a man. It’s beyond annoying that the one time I truly have something to talk about, I feel it’s too soon to divulge.
Our mains arrive. Reena gets to work lacing her pollo pizza with chilli oil. I suspect she’d rather have opted for a restaurant that serves up some spice.
“So what’s new with you? How’s the boy hunt going?” she asks the inevitable.
To tell or not to tell, that is the question.
I can’t even look Reena in the eye so I start cutting at my vegetarian pizza. The crust is too crusty. I might lose a filling chewing on this one.
“Oh... it’s not really. Mum’s still paying a busybody to source suitable guys. But so far the pickings have been slim.” In my defence, that bit is true.
Reena furrows her brow. “What’s a busybody?”
“Oh, of course, I forget that your lot do things differently. It’s basically someone who does matchmaking as a side-gig. Except they’re as unregulated as they get and they only have a spreadsheet of about ten single guys to offer. None of whom are usually anything to shout about.”
Reena, who comes from a community where the best things are free, is unimpressed. “So the cheeky bastards charge you for what nosey aunties have been doing since time began? That wouldn’t fly with my mum. You know how tight us Gujis are!”
“Us Bengalis can be stingy too. However, in this case, mum thinks it’s worth the expense. Who knew you could put a price on love? In our case, it’s £30 a month.”
“That’s ridiculous! It costs me the same every month to be on the dating website. And I get to meet guys of my own accord. It cuts out the middleman. Or middle auntie. Though my one’s exclusively for Hindus... but I bet there are sites for Muslims.”
If only she knew. I spent half of last year on a Muslim-only dating site and courtesy of some slightly sexist rule, girls don’t have to pay a thing while boys are charged a monthly fee. If I told Reena this, her stingy Gujarati heart (her words, not mine) wouldn’t be able to take it.
Within minutes, Reena has managed to eat her way through half her pizza. Still chewing, she declares: “I really shouldn’t be eating this.”
“Why?”
“This stupid hen do is a spa weekend. So that means swimwear. The hen, Rakhi, is on some crazy Japanese diet and she’s gone proper skinny. Do you remember her from my sister’s wedding? The girl who tripped on the stage as she got her six-inch heels caught in her saree hem?”
“Oh yeah, that was the highlight of my day.”
“Mine too. Well, she used to be a size 14 like me. But since her wedding diet she’s literally shrunk. She’s not much bigger than you now.”
I could not imagine possessing such willpower. Luckily, my fast metabolism means I don’t need to. “It’s the bride’s prerogative to crash diet and why should you care anyway? You look fab as it is. You’ve lost loads of weight since uni. Not that you were ever big. So you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Yeah right. It’ll be a long time before I’m bikini-ready. I might pretend I’m on my period to get out of Jacuzzi time.”
She’s splashed a drop of oil on her khaki blouse, which she hasn’t even noticed. I think a speck of flour has also landed in her short, choppy hair. I love her lack of self-awareness. It makes me feel better about my un-ironed jumper with a crease down the front.
“Anyway, back to my main point. You should look into online dating. It’s worth trying everything. A guy won’t just fall into your lap.”
Ooh, now I really want to smugly rebuff Reena’s pearl of wisdom. My phone flashes with a new message. It’s from him.
“Or maybe you have got a secret man.” Reena glances at my phone from across the table before I snatch it away.
“Yeah, right, it’s probably my mum.” I scan the message quickly. It says something about his mum and if I can call him back. I’ll have to deal with it later.
I put on my best poker face to stop myself from smiling. Every time I get a message from him I feel a flutter of excitement.
With a shared profiterole dessert obliterated, Reena and I grab the bill.
“I’ll get this,” I offer.
“Nah man, lets go halves.”
“I insist, it’s the least I can do for making you wait so long.”
“Oh be quiet! We can still split the bill. You don’t have to pay.” Reena reaches for her purse.
This bill-fight goes on for a while. Despite us being from different countries and practicing different religions, Reena and I have many of the same Asian sensibilities. One of which is that we constantly argue over the bill. This same pretend fight was played out whenever I’d visit a relative’s house when I was younger. The elders would always insist on giving me £10 as a thank you for coming over. My mum or dad would flatly refuse and sometimes it got into a full-on tussle. I, of course, would stay quiet and hope that I get to keep the money, which inevitably I would. I think I saved up for my first pair of proper branded trainers with the money from distant relatives whom I barely knew.
As Sergio the waiter arrives with card reader in hand, we’re still arguing the toss.
Reena points her card at him. “Could you put half on this?”
I pull out my plastic too. “No, ignore her Sergio. Put the full amount here.”
Sergio laughs. He’s probably confused as I never insist on paying the bill when I’m with my usual company of Julia. I’m sure he’ll figure out that it’s an Asian thing.
Reena has the final word: “Right, don’t be such a polite brownie and just go halves!”
I stand down, secretly pleased that I’m not £15 lighter of pocket.
As we hug and part ways, Reena seizes the opportunity to make fun of the fact that I’m on first name terms with the waiter. What can I say? I love pizza and pasta. Next time she’s up I’ll take her somewhere else.
I head to my car and call my boy. I didn’t realise that all the fighting over the bill meant it’s been about 40 minutes since he messaged me. I hope everything’s okay.
He’s a dead cert, and answers my call after two rings. “So I spoke to my mum, and I basically told her about us...”
That was quick.
“I didn’t want to faff about any longer and since you’ve told your mum about me, it felt like the right thing to do.”
“Wow, okay. And... how did she take it?”
“She took it well. In fact a bit too well, I think. She wants to know what you’re doing next weekend?”
Shit.