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My wardrobe is being picked apart by the most ruthless of stylists. Mum has decided that this rishtaa visit needs to be planned like a military operation. And first plan of action? Get an outfit together that WILL get me married.
This matriarch has folded and fried too many samosas for the families of boys I didn’t end up marrying to risk this visit ending in anything but a wedding. No amount of insisting that M likes me and I like him and this is just a formality, will make mum ease up. She is determined to at least feel like she’s project managing the whole affair.
It was bad enough having to go through the whole photo ordeal with her first time round. I still remember posing in the park in my pink salwar kameez, ignoring the advances of barking dogs and their intrigued owners, while trying to capture the following in one single shot:
I’m pretty, marry me.
I’m slim, marry me.
I’m modest, marry me.
I’m religious (but not overly so), marry me.
I’m a homemaker, marry me.
But I’ve got a degree (which I may or may not put to use after marriage), so marry me.
I might not be fair-skinned, but I’m not too dark either, marry me.
I can cook! So please, please marry me.
I have a newfound respect for the contestants of America’s Next Top Model, who are constantly harangued by Tyra Banks to portray a million different emotions while smeyes-ing. In my life, mum is Tyra and there isn’t a modelling contract at the end of it, there’s (hopefully) a husband.
There is one saving grace. As the imminent rishtaa visit is just days away, M and I (or rather our mums) agreed that the biodata and photo exchange could take place after we’ve met. I question the point of this if both families will have met in the flesh but what do I know? Plus, M’s mum seems as keen as mine to follow arranged marriage protocol and send my details to her oldest son, who isn’t able to attend the grand occasion.
Mum takes this opportunity to do an inventory check on my saree collection.
“Why did you bother buying these cheap sarees online?”
“Well, if you remember mum, it was big sis who goaded me into getting them and £70 isn’t cheap by most people’s standards.”
“It is for a saree that’s covered in stonework! If you got something simple, it probably would have been fine, but no. You have to get especial sparkly-sparkly to get more bargain for money. So, of course, they cut corner with cheap quality. These stones... they’re not even crystal, they be plastic!”
Mum tosses the emerald green saree onto my single bed, which is now covered in discarded clothing. Looking at it now, it is pretty hideous. The coloured stones are like sweets scattered all over the green polyester. That’s the problem with online shopping, you really don’t know what you’re going to get until it arrives and if you don’t like it, good luck trying to get a refund. That’s why my Asian outfit collection is woeful. Forget ex-boyfriends, I have other skeletons in my closet, the clothing casualties of buyer’s remorse.
I have a lightbulb moment. “How about using a photo from Iqbal’s wedding last year? I think I looked pretty good that day, if I do say so myself.”
I was wearing a blue saree with gold thread work on that occasion and impressed both standout beauties in our family, middle sis and Rashda, Iqbal’s now-divorced sister.
“Yes, you looked lovely that day, Masha Allah.”
That’s the highest praise I’ll get from mum.
Then she does her bottom lip stretching grimace thing. “But maybe you should send a photo with your hair covered. Otherwise you might look rude.”
I should have known the compliment would be backhanded.
Mum gazes out of the window as if she’s deep in thought. This won’t be good. “Ah, I got idea. Why don’t you wear that saree again? And we’ll take nice picture at home.”
I wonder if it’s just my life that keeps coming back full circle or this is an affliction of every Bengali girl getting married? I’ve never known deja vu like it.
***
WHO KNEW SIX YARDS of material could cause such conflict? Mum and I clashed on how loose my saree should be draped, what jewellery to accessorize with and, crucially, how much of my hair should be showing in the photo.
I don’t wear a hijab and mum doesn’t expect me to, either. Living in a white area, we stood out enough as it is, so my parents never asked me or my sisters to cover our hair. The downside, however, of not being well-versed in hair covering means that on those rare occasions I’ve had to, I’ve not worn it well. My hair is a let-down at the best of times. So pair that with a loose covering of cloth and, well... it’s not good.
As I get ready in the full-length mirror, I twist my hair up in a crocodile clip. Mum then pops behind me with a hair grip.
“Very nice,” she declares after pinning the end of my saree over my head, leaving me hooded.
“No mum, lets pin it back a bit further.” I loosen the grip, revealing an inch of hairline.
Mum’s not impressed. “What’s the point in covering your hair when most of it is showing?”
“Oh, come on mum, we know this is all for show anyway.”
“Dooro! You always have answer for everything. Sometimes mum knows best.”
Little sis walks into our room. This is my chance to enlist an ally. “What do you think of my hair like this? I still look modest, right?”
Sis examines my hairdressing efforts. “It’s a bit messy on top. Here, let me fix it.”
Little sis gives my crown a backcomb. I’m surprised at how quickly she can get to work. Someone’s obviously been watching YouTube tutorials when they should be revising for their A-levels.
She then takes the grip out and reaches for a gold encrusted brooch of mum’s that I borrowed once and never returned back to her room. She expertly feeds it through my hair and the saree achal. It holds my hair much better. I’m not sure why mum didn’t try that. She should have known as she’s the one who wears a headscarf outside the house.
“There. You’re more presentable now.” Little sis smooths down my side-parting. “I’d almost say marriage material. Until you open your mouth, that is.”
I’ll let that little dig slide as sis has done a pretty good job with my mane. I’m impressed by how much she has changed over the last year. She’s morphed from moody, mono-syllabic teen, to someone who actually adds value to a conversation. Just a few months ago, I resented having to share a room with her. I lamented the lack of privacy. The fact that most girls my age had either moved out of home (well, my white friends anyway), or owned their own room at least, didn’t help. Heck, Reena even owns her own house. Though she doesn’t actually live in it, she bought it as an investment with her older sisters and she makes a pretty decent rental income. Though that’s not the point. She has her own room and a bloody house. I, on the other hand, must make do with a solitary single bed next to a nearly 17-year-old. I have zero personal touches in my own room. It’s all magnolia walls, cream carpet, and whichever bedding comes out of the wash. Even little sis has managed to make her mark with a giant world map on the wall, which is apparently for her studies. FYI, she’s not chosen geography as a subject.
Happily, all of the stuff that used to really grate on me doesn’t bother me in the slightest anymore. I think I’ve reached a good middle ground, both in my life and with my sister. She is no longer the little shit she used to be. In fact, I think my newfound sunny demeanour after meeting M, has made me easier to live with and, as a result, she is easier to live with, too.
So now that the youngster and I are getting on so well, I can drop her into one aspect of this onerous rishtaa preparation.
As she’s about to head out of our room, clutching the mobile phone charger that she originally came in for before being distracted by my fashion failings, I harangue her for one more job.
“I don’t suppose you want to take some photos of me, do you?”
***
IT TURNS OUT THAT ENLISTING an Instagram-obsessed teen to take my photo is possibly one of the best decisions I could have made. As she snaps away on her phone, that has a much better camera than mine, I look passably pretty and little sis introduces me to this great thing called the golden hour. She moves me towards the best lighting in our living room, giving me this natural glow. I’m oozing warmth, with the sun hitting all the right angles.
“You know, you could add a little filter. Just to make you look a little... prettier?”
“You’re alright. Filters go against my very nature. I want to still look like me.”
Sis rolls her eyes. “God... You’re such a bra-burning feminist. Everyone uses filters. I bet the guy coming round is probably no stranger to a bit of retouching, so you should do a little something. First impressions and all that.”
Bless her, she really has no clue.
“Even so, I think I look pretty good in these photos as it is.”
“Okay, your potential husband, your choice. If you do change your mind, there is a great new filter that will chisel your cheekbones. It will make your face look less egg-shaped.”
What is it with my family and sly digs? With that, sis leaves with phone and charger in hand.
Even Mum is impressed with her creative photography work. My only regret is that I didn’t use her earlier instead of mum, when I first posed for those corny pictures in the park. I probably would’ve been married by now.