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I’m nervous. It’s so ironic that I’ve been waiting for this day... the day when a boy I like feels the same about me and, more to the point, he’s marriage material. The right race, right religion, with a good job and his own space in London. It’s all so... perfect. That’s the scary thing. Is it too perfect? Am I being foolish filling my half empty glass up? Do I deserve such luck?
Things went from our own little secret, to a full-blown family affair within the space of a phone conversation. Just yesterday I spotted that he’s shut down his online profile. I should be excited, relieved and glad things are moving forward. That fuzzy feeling should outweigh any nerves but I’m a worrywart and I can’t help it.
The visit next weekend will be unlike any other. This time, there’s no third party matchmaker involved. The boy isn’t a stranger, our families won’t be second guessing each other and there shouldn’t be crossed-wires. However, though I set up this rishtaa visit myself, mum will treat it like a traditional arranged marriage introduction. Right down to the abundance of samosas she’ll fry ahead of the meeting. All the trimmings, all the formalities. Yet the stakes are so much higher. The stakes involve the boy I think I’d like to marry.
Middle sis was the first person I called after he dropped his bombshell visit request. She was the obvious confidante.
“Awww, that’s great news!” She was practically gushing down the phone. “See, I told you not all blokes off the internet are weirdoes or serial killers. After all, I lived to tell the tale!”
“True. But what if his mum doesn’t like me? What if our mum doesn’t like him? She was already a bit gutted when I told her he was bald. She keeps telling me about these hair transplants she’s read about in the Bengali newspaper. Like he’d go for that!”
“Oh, you know what she’s like, she wants a trophy groom as much as the next mum. But who cares? If he’s as nice as you say, she’ll be won over by him and not care about hair, or lack of. Let’s just hope his mum’s nice.” Sis pauses before hastily adding: “Though I’m sure she will be.”
Middle sis isn’t entirely convincing, or reassuring. However, with her personal experience of finding a boy online and palming it off as a traditional introduction, her counsel is needed.
She continues: “The one thing I would say is this: don’t act like you’re already dating him. Keep up appearances and don’t be over familiar. You don’t want his mum thinking you’re a flooze.”
I didn’t realise middle sis had such low expectations of me. What does she think I’d do? If funny business was off the cards during our dates, it wouldn’t suddenly appear on the itinerary when we meet the parents.
As we say our goodbyes, middle sis has a parting warning: “And remember girl, nobody knows I met your brother-in-law online, so don’t let the cat out of the bag with mum or your fella.”
“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. As mine is with you.”
Naturally, mum is the next person I tell about this impending rishtaa visit. It’s only polite, as it will be taking place at her house, with her acting as hostess.
She’s unsurprisingly elated that this slow-moving vehicle is picking up the pace. “Masha Allah, that’s great news. Good girl!”
I didn’t get such applause when I graduated with a 2:1 degree in English and Marketing.
“So... when shall we have them round.”
I’m tentative about this bit. “Well, they’ve asked if they can come next weekend.”
“Next weekend?!”
***
ONE THING IS FOR SURE, us Bengali’s can club together and make things happen when needs be. We simply get it sorted, like a brown mafia of sorts.
With less than a week’s notice, mum has secured the attendance of both my big and middle sis to come from Bristol and Bradford respectively. It helps that my older sisters already know I’ve met someone. Perhaps they, like mum, were waiting for this day.
While middle sis and I bonded over our mutual secret online dating efforts (though her escapades were years before I entered unchartered digital territory - she really was a trailblazer), big sis was in the dark. She’s 14 years older than me and had an arranged marriage back home in Bangladesh. I’ve always said it felt like there was a huge generational difference between us. She’s much more prim and has that lovely Bengali knack of giving out passive-aggressive criticism when it’s both unnecessary and unfounded, so I was holding back on sharing my news with her.
When mum and dad were away at Hajj, big sis stayed over for a week with the kids. It was the half-term holiday so the kiddies got to spend time with their coolest auntie (me) and the most annoying one (little sis), while we came home to freshly cooked curry every evening. It was a win-win and I appreciated her presence. It was like having another mum around in lieu of our absent one.
One evening, little sis ditched us in favour of going to the cinema with her friends. She was clearly making the most of being free of parental curfews. I got in from a late shift at the office to find my two nieces and nephew asleep and big sis in full domestic goddess mode, cutting up a cucumber, onion and tomato salad as the rice cooker pinged to say it’s done.
“Do you want some cake? I bought a Swiss roll on the way home.” It was the least I could do as big sis had even hoovered mine and little sis’ shared bedroom the day before.
She contemplated my offer before shaking her head. “Nah, I’ll leave it. I’m supposed to be watching the sweet stuff. I want to drop a dress size by the summer.”
Big sis would say this every year, despite rarely fluctuating from her size 16 frame. Her willpower is non-existent and she has the curse that inflicts all the women in our family. We’re skinny fat. We breeze through our teens and twenties, eating whatever we want and never going to the gym, then age catches up and the metabolism slows. It hasn’t happened to me yet but I suspect things will head that way once I hit 30. Big sis was a petite size 10 throughout her 20s. Middle sis, who at 33 is six years older than me, was super skinny but is now hovering around a size 12. While that’s by no means big, it’s a reminder that nothing lasts forever and is perhaps nature’s way of telling me to enjoy the Swiss roll while I can.
As I sliced into the chocolate sponge and spiralled cream, big sis had a change of heart. “Oh, go on then, I’ll have a small slice.”
Like I said, no willpower.
“What’s happening this summer, anyway? Don’t tell me you need to be burkini-ready?”
“Don’t be silly. I don’t even own a burkini, or bikini. I can’t even swim. But I’ve got two weddings to go to on your brother-in-law’s side, before he goes to Bangladesh. Without me for the first time.” Big sis took comfort in her Swiss role.
“How come he’s going without you this year?”
“Bangladesh stuff, to do with our house over there. It can’t wait until the school holidays, apparently.”
I don’t know why I even ask. I never understand what’s going on with my sister’s other life back home. There seems to be a constant thing about land inheritance, making sure their house doesn’t get encroached by squatters and who knows what else.
“Well, at least you’ve got two weddings to look forward to before he goes. Which means more shopping in Rusholme, no doubt.”
“I was hoping it would be three but there doesn’t seem to be any sign of you getting married.”
Oh, and we were getting on so well.
“You need to get your skates on, little lady. Rashda’s sister is getting married and she’s a bit younger than you, isn’t she? You’re going to be 27 this summer. Isn’t it time you sorted yourself out?”
And there it was. The passive-aggressive cow-bag.
“Well... if I had met someone, I wouldn’t tell you anyway.”
“Why, have you met someone?” Big sis threw me a knowing look and raised an over-plucked eyebrow. If she was doing some reverse psychology on me, it bloody worked.
“That’s none of your business.”
“So you have?”
I tried to stifle a smirk but I couldn’t. As my best friend Julia would say, my poker face was terrible.
Seeing my smugness, big sis jumped on it. “So you have met someone!”
“Maybe I have.”
“How exciting!” Big sis clasped her hands together in glee, just like she did after that first failed rishtaa came to visit me and we all thought it went well. “Gosh, little lady... you better tell me all about it!” She casually cut herself another slice of Swiss roll, throwing dietary caution to the wind.
“Well, I wasn’t going to say anything as I wanted to tell mum first, once she got back from Hajj... but yes, I have met someone.”
“So go on... who is he? What does he do? He’s Bengali, right?”
“Yes, he’s Bengali, don’t worry. Well... he’s from up north but he works in London, as an investment banker. He’s a couple of years older than me and basically really nice. I’m not sure what else to say.”
“It all sounds good. How did you meet?”
Big sis was the first family member to hear my fictional tale. “We were introduced through mutual friends. It was kind of like a blind date. Though we only met for coffee. And dinner, a few times.”
“How exciting! Are you serious about this boy? Do you think I’ll get my summer wedding?”
“Well, I’m not sure about that yet.”
I said all the good stuff. All that was left was the filling in the shit sandwich, which I knew wouldn’t be to big sis’ taste. “So there’s something else. He’s really nice. A genuinely good guy and kind person... but he’s bald.”
Big sis clutched her head as though she was trying to stop her own hair from falling out in shock. “Oh no!”
“Don’t say that!”
“I’m sorry! I just can’t... oh no! I didn’t see that coming! Like properly bald?”
“As bald as a baby.”
“Receding?”
“No. Like really bald?”
“So does he have hair on the sides and none on top, like Mr Burns from The Simpsons?”
“What? No! Why do you think of this stuff? Actually, I don’t know. If he did have side hair, I guess he shaves it off. I mean, who’d keep their hair like that, apart from dad? Anyway, when I tell mum, I need your full backing. Don’t make out like the baldness is an issue.”
“Oh lady, as if I would! I’m just happy you met someone. And if he lives on his own that’s a bonus. At least you won’t have to deal with in-laws.”
“True. Plus he’s exactly like me. He’s outgoing, got a good social life and nice life in London.”
“How lovely! If I got married in the UK, I’d have loved to have lived in London. There are so many saree shops there. Much better than Manchester. Anyway, I’m glad he’s sociable. That’s what I would have hoped for you. I’ve always said this, you’re the most modern and career-driven of us girls. I envisioned you with a boy who was tall, dark-skinned and that would always be going out. Just like you.”
I’m not sure where the skin tone came into it but big sis couldn’t help but make a reference to my brown disposition.
She had almost devoured her second slice of cake when she stopped and put her spoon down to muse. “To be honest, I always thought that first rishtaa that came for you... you know, the tall and dark one, was your perfect match.”
Why, oh why did she have to dig up the ghosts of rishtaas past? “I think you were more upset than I was that his family, or our shit matchmaker auntie Fatima, ghosted us. Anyway, can’t you just be happy for me that I’ve met someone decent of my own accord? You said I should start looking.”
“No, I am. I’m really happy for you. And of course I’ll back you up when it comes to telling mum.”
“Good. And no making a big thing of his baldness.”
Big sis raised her hands up in surrender. “Okay... okay. One last question. Does his lack of hair make him look like an old man?”
***
WITH BOTH SISTERS PRIMED to attend the big event, there was one elder that was yet to be informed - dad. As always, he was the last to know, along with my teenage sis of course. Though her knowledge isn’t paramount. She simply needs to show her face on the day, which would involve looking up from her phone for a millisecond.
Mum managed to have that delicate conversation with dad, where she explained how his precious daughter has eschewed the traditional arranged marriage in favour of a boy that she’d met through a friend of a friend.
Dad was surprisingly chilled about the whole thing. Perhaps he was more modern-minded than I thought. Or maybe he, like mum, was just glad I was possibly getting married. Either way, I was surprised and relieved that everyone was rolling with the situation. I also felt a bit silly about hiding in the bathroom while mum told dad the news. It wasn’t as if my gentle pot-bellied father was suddenly going to rule with an iron fist and chase me round the house with a rolled up newspaper.
Now the formalities begin. This is where, as middle sis foreshadowed, the line between the online dating and arranged marriage world would become blurred.
To make it as legit as possible, I still have to submit my biodata to his family, and vice versa. Yep, I thought we were done with that crap, too. I figured that the whole point of meeting a guy through my own hunting efforts was that I could dodge some of the technicalities, with the biodata - or marital CV - being one of them. Alas, no.
Mum is taking this just as seriously as the first time I curated one, when I was genuinely single and relying on busybodies to find me a man. She corners me after work one evening when I’m hungry, therefore at my most vulnerable to go along with her whims. “We should check your biodata to see if it needs changing at all before we send it over.”
I was about to tuck into my plate of rice and chicken curry. “What? Why? I already know this boy, so what’s to change?”
“Oh, I doh-no. It’s been a while since I looked at it. We might need to update.”
“Nothing has happened between now and the last time we dusted it off.” I lower my voice as dad comes into the room and switches on the Bangla channel to watch the news. “And again, I already know him, so I don’t think anything on my CV will put him off.”
I realise I’m sounding awfully cocky and glass half full. I hope this doesn’t blow up in my face.
Mum mirrors my hushed tones, though her hoarse whisper is louder than her normal voice. “Yes, but it not only about boy. You need to impress mum too and you know how tricky Bangali mums can be? They be crafty and usually bossy. Except for me, of course.”
Dad turns his attention briefly away from the news. “Eh-heh. I trying listen to election result. What you talking about now?”
“Nothing of your business. This women business. TV loud enough!” mum scowls before looking at my lukewarm plate. “Right, your rice needs to cool down, it’s too garam. Get laptop in meanwhile...”
***
LIFE HAS A FUNNY WAY of coming full circle as I find myself adapting my biodata once again. It’s a pointless exercise but I kind of get mum’s logic. She wants to keep up appearances and shoehorn this very modern union into the arranged marriage mould. From what he’s told me, his mum wants the same, in a bid to stop people gossiping and speculating about how we met. Given that I’ve also told a few fibs about our online introduction, I go along with this whole charade. However, I didn’t expect mum to go this method with her acting. She’s got me immersed in the role of my 25-year-old self, stressed over creating this make or break CV, while she’s stepped back in time to be a pushy matchmaker. She relishes such exercises. It’s the closest to an office job she’ll ever get.
So once again, we run down my biodata basics:
- Name: nothing to change there.
- D.O.B: as above.
- Parents’ village in Bangladesh (and that all important town address back home to show that we are prosperous urbanites, not backwater bumpkins): as above.
- UK address: as above.
- My vital stats: I still inwardly cringe at having to write this.
“Mum, this is pointless. It’s all the same as before.”
However, mum’s all seeing eyes spot a fatal omission. “Heh, you didn’t put in what you got for your degree. And you should underline the word ‘masters’!”
I examine my education section. She’s right. Not sure how I missed that out. I work in PR after all. Bragging is my main skill.
“It’s fine. I doubt anyone noticed all the times before and it doesn’t matter now. He knows I’m well educated so I’m sure that bit of info will filter down to his mum.”
“It doesn’t matter? Of course it matter! You should have checked better. We sent this out to Mr Choudhury without it saying you did well in your degree? Not making your masters look bigger? No wonder we -” mum stops herself mid-rant.
She was about to say something like no wonder we didn’t get anywhere through the formal introductions route. I’m sure that’s what she meant. Though I doubt that two numbers and a colon would have made the world of difference. I basically didn’t have many options, it was as simple as that. In contrast to middle sis, who had eligible bachelors practically forming a queue for her hand in marriage, I wasn’t so popular.
However, as mum is so concerned that not putting my pass grade will mean I’ll fail to get past this first rishtaa meeting, I meet her halfway. I don’t highlight my masters (that just seems silly and not something a girl with a masters degree would do) but I punch in 2:1 after my degree. Mum lets out a sigh of relief. Quietly and inwardly, so do I.
“Good girl. Glad that’s sorted.” Mum rubs her hands with satisfaction. “Now all we need is nice photo to send with the biodata.”
My relief turns to resignation.