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Oh, bloody answer your phone, Julia. That girl is never free when I need her. I know she’s a busy lawyer living in central London, helping divorced, wealthy couples mediate. However, it would be nice if she could be on standby just sometimes. Just for those moments when my potential future husband is due to arrive with his family, except they’re running so late that my nerves are kicking in big time.
I know this one is in the bag. At least I think it’s in the bag. M and I are sure of each other. We’ve been seeing each other since last April. By Bengali standards, that’s like the equivalent of two years of dating. Even so, this will be the first time I see his family. And I really, really hope they like me. In fact, right now, I hope they actually turn up.
Meanwhile, my mum, from 2pm in the afternoon, has made a truckload of samosas, all freshly fried. She even diversified her standard starter plate for the first time ever. Instead of samosas, samosas, and more samosas, mum has thrown spring rolls into the mix. This was my middle sister’s influence. She’s just started making them herself and insisted that mum broaden her range.
She came over from Bradford early in the morning to give mum a dry run.
After examining the thin, crispy, tubular pastry, mum looked decidedly unimpressed. “Aren’t they same thing? I mean, with same keema filling. So why not make more of my samosa?”
Middle sis had a brainwave, which was scary for all of us. “Well, if you like, we could make a different filling, like spicy vegetables? Or we’ve got time to defrost some chicken breast so we can make some chicken spring rolls instead.”
Mum looked nervous and did her lip grimace thing. She should’ve seen it coming. Middle sis is known for making a mountain out of a molehill when it comes to cooking. What may start as a modest meal, suddenly turns into a five-course tasting menu. The problem is, we’re the mugs left with the lion’s share of the work and the washing up, as middle sis is more of a sous chef than a head chef. She’s great with chopping, prepping and stirring. However, in terms of seeing something through, she’s usually missing in action. Whether it’s to tend to a crying child or a ‘quick’ call to hubby that lasts for 45 minutes, middle sis finds a way to walk away from the mess she created. Starter-finisher she is not.
However, she knows how to get to mum. She played on her weak spot, which is a deep-seated desire to get me married. “Look, first impressions and all that. You don’t want her prospective in-laws to think we’re stingy or we can’t cook, do you?”
And with that beautifully executed money shot, the chicken breast was hastily defrosted. More onions were finely diced. Some sweetcorn was deployed. The whole thing was then bundled together in a spicy coating and sheathed tightly in a spring roll pastry.
Mid fold, middle sis got an urgent call from upstairs: “Mum! I tried to pooh in the toilet but I missed!”
Just like that, middle sis left mum and I to finish up the spring roll mess she started, while she tended to her daughter’s mess upstairs.
***
MUM’S TETCHY. SHE was expecting an after lunch visit. Then 2pm became 3pm, which then became 4pm. Now the clock says 5.30pm. Mummy dearest is getting into a serious flap.
“They are coming, aren’t they?” Mum inadvertently plants a seed of doubt in my mind.
“Of course they are, they wouldn’t suddenly cancel. He messaged me this morning to say he’s looking forward to meeting everyone.”
“Okay dooro! You don’t need to make obvious that he be your especial friend. Have some shorom. Show some shame! Your dad will hear.”
Mum is a trailblazer in many ways. She encouraged me to go on a date with Shy-boy. Heck, she made me go to after work drinks because her Bangla paper said networking would advance my career. Yet she still feels uncomfortable about me talking openly about M.
She examines the fruits of her labour. “What will I do with all the samosas now? And those silly Billy spring rolls?”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “They won’t be wasted. They’re still coming. They’re just running a bit late.”
“A bit late! Bit late, you say? I know Bangla timing is bad but this is terrible. I heard that people who live in Asian area are always extra late. They have lunch at 4, dinner at midnight. No sense of time. Just like Rashda maa.”
Mum can’t help but make a sly dig. M’s family used to live in an Asian area but have since moved to Droylsden and are as much the only brownies in the village as we are. However, as mum’s already miffed that I’m talking openly about my special friend who’s missing in action, I’ll keep that bit of info to myself.
Instead, I head upstairs to examine my makeup. En route I bump into middle sis on our small square landing.
She puts her phone down. “Did you lay out the cushions I brought over?”
“Yes, we did.”
“Good. Does it look better? We really need to break up the beige downstairs. Wooden laminate, beige sofa, brown rug. It’s all so bland down there. I told mum ages ago to change the curtains. There was a sale at Dunelm, but it’s too late now. Everything is back to full price. Anyway, while we’re on the subject of beige, are you sure you want to wear that gold number? You might blend in with the walls.”
“Well, I’m not getting changed now. I’ve matched my eyeshadow and everything. And you could’ve helped us tidy up downstairs. Mum’s been doing my head in and she’s been henpecking dad, even more so than usual. I’ve never seen him hoover so quickly. All while you’ve been on the phone to your fella.”
“All right, all right. Well, I wasn’t only on the phone to him. Big sis called, too. She wants to see how things are going as she’s on her way. Do you know when they’ll be coming?” Middle sis edges closer to mumble. “I think mum’s being a nervous Purvis. That’s probably why she’s a nightmare.”
The last thing I need is another reminder about my potential future husband’s lateness.
Middle sis reads my anxious face. “Anyway, I’m sure they’ll be here soon. You just top up your lipstick. It looks like most of it has gone on that samosa you had earlier.”
The doorbell rings. Thank God. However, instead of hearing the polite salaams which would signify the arrival of M and his family, I hear the dulcet tones of my eldest sister. “Oh golly! Are they not here yet?”
***
I’M NOT SURE WHAT TO do with myself. I’ve reapplied my lipstick. I’ve written in my iPhone notes the places in the Far East I’d like to visit, based on what I see on my sister’s world map. Little sis herself, who is normally a permanent fixture in our bedroom, is nowhere to be seen. Typical. Julia’s still not got back to me, silly cow. I daren’t bother Sophia. She was my constant go to for all things boy related. I confided in her when Tall-boy and his family went quiet. She gave her ruthlessly honest appraisal of Shy-boy and Tight-git. She’s basically a cooler, more liberal, older sister. I could really do with her conversation at a time like this but she’s got bigger fish to fry. Life with a new baby is probably pretty demanding given her lack of contact and she gets curt when she’s stressed or out of patience.
Should I message him? You know, just to find out where he is? This morning he texted me saying he can’t wait to see me and he’s really looking forward to the next step. For once, he didn’t add to be honest with ya. For once, I wish he did.
My phone pings. He must have read my mind: We’re just around the corner. Can’t wait to see you :)
***
M ARRIVES WITH A MODEST entourage of his mum, dad, younger brother and teenage sister. As I make my way downstairs and check my reflection in the hallway mirror, I can hear the muted conversation of my dad and M’s in the front room. They’re breaking one of the polite dinner party rules.
“I’ve always supported the BNP,” says my potential future father-in-law.
Thankfully, he is referring to the Bangladeshi National Party, not the racist British equivalent. Though this presents another potential ticking time bomb... they’re both on opposite sides of the political fence. This could get tasty.
After a long silence on my dad‘s part, he mutters: “We’re an Awa-Malik family.”
Another silence.
I can tell dad’s trying to be restrained because if there’s one thing that gets him riled up, it’s politics. One time, when I was younger, I heard him shout ‘bash-tard’ at the TV, at whom I came to realise was a politician from the BNP.
His declaration about our politics as a family is a bit strong. I know nothing about the Bangladeshi corridors of power. It took me years to realise that dad was actually saying Awami League, not Awa-Malik, who are currently in charge according to Wikipedia. Dad doesn’t tell me anything.
It seems like M’s brother is sitting this one out. Sensible.
“Hurry up!” hisses big sis as she breaks my internal stream of consciousness / earwigging, which I attempted to disguise by slowly adjusting my scarf in the mirror.
I do as I’m told and head to the dining room. The first family member I see is arguably the most important - the matriarch.
For a woman in her early 60s, his mum is very well put together. There is none of this muted tone that my mum often goes for. She is wearing a vivid silk sea green saree. Plus, she’s got the bling to boot. The bangles are jingly, her earrings are dangly. However, despite the glamorous get-up, there are some hints of hard work and a life lived. Her hands are weathered and dry and underneath her black flowery scarf, I see a full head of grey hair. My mum reached for the bottle of dye years ago.
Overall, I’m rather impressed with M’s mum. I just hope she feels the same about me. I really wish I’d changed from my gold salwar kameez in favour of something more festive. I’m hoping this hue doesn’t make me look dark.
Middle sis and big sis are decked out in light blue tones. They didn’t tell me they’d be matchy matchy. Little sis has opted for a chic white number with black beaded embellishments. It’s like they’re all trying to upstage me.
God, I need to stop being so paranoid. M has come to see me. His family has come to see me. Yet I can’t help but feel that his mum has seen my elder sisters and expected the same. No matter how hard I try and regardless of the fact that I’ve met somebody of my own accord, I just can’t shake off this deep-rooted belief that fair is beautiful and I am, therefore, not.
His mum is looking right at me. She’s not quite smiling. Is that disappointment I detect? Or maybe, like me, when she’s not smiling she has something of a scowl. I wouldn’t quite call it a resting bitch face. That would be disrespectful, especially if she may go on to become my mother-in-law.
Her unsure face changes as the corners of her mouth curl up into a smile. “Kitha khoro?”
This roughly translates into ‘what are you doing?’ in Bengali. Though what she really means is ‘how are you?’ Don’t ask me why.
“Jee koontha nai,” I reply, quite literally saying, oh nothing much.
M’s mum reverts back to a confused face.
That was stupid. I think I was meant to say something like ‘oh I’m well’, or ‘how are you?’ I am so very crap at this. The two-and-a-half decades of speaking in broken Bangla to my parents really hasn’t paid dividends on this important occasion. Some people find it endearing. I know of many a Bengali immigrant mum who boasts about the fact that their child can’t speak fluently. My family, however, are different. Mum has always been a little mortified about my poor command of Bengali. The tutor she employed when I was younger soon gave up, citing irreconcilable differences. What she meant was that I was a smart ass and questioned EVERYTHING. I wish I’d paid more attention during those lessons rather than giving attitude.
Mum rescues the situation by introducing two plates of samosas and spring rolls. I bet she’s glad of the variety now.
Mum and M’s mum exchange a few pleasantries, which are punctuated by a tonne of awkward silences.
“Have you always lived in Droylsden?” It’s rhetorical, as mum knows the answer.
“No, we moved there three years ago. We used to live in Oldham.”
“Oh. What made you move?” Mum is undoubtedly secretly wondering why M’s family would move from an Asian area to a town that is possibly as white as ours. Like me, mum has always dreamt of living in a place where we’re not the only ethnic minority.
Mummy M hesitates. “Oh... just, we thought good idea for getting bigger house.”
Big sis, who’s taken a back seat so far, assumes the role of umpire, darting looks from mum to mum during this most unnatural exchange.
I can see mum’s face. She has a follow-up question.
“But bigger house when you have smaller family now?”
M’s mum let’s out a stifled, uncomfortable giggle. That’s her answer.
The pleasantries continue on like this, awkward and stilted. I guess it’s understandable as our two families are thrown together and may potentially be wedded together forever. Yet here we are, having to chat like casual acquaintances. The funny thing with meeting the in-laws is that everything is short and sweet. After a few polite words on my part and an exchange of nervous smiles, my briefing with the mother-in-law is over.
I’ve not seen M yet. I’m assuming he’s the last item on the agenda, just like every other rishtaa meeting I’ve had. Instead, his younger brother and teenage sister come into the room. I’m guessing the brother was with M in the front room while the sister chatted in the kitchen with little sis. It’s not that we’re backward like that but on occasions like this, we do like to create a pretend gender divide of sorts.
His brother looks like a miniature version of M. A couple of inches shorter, slightly more rotund and also sans hair. There must be some male pattern baldness going on. He’s dressed visitor casual, with dark jeans and a black hoodie. His face expresses pure bewilderment as he realises he’s outnumbered in a room chock-full of women. Each dining chair has been utilised and our brown sofa is creaking under the weight of so many bums. Thankfully, I’m not adding to the pressure. As the delicate, prospective bride-to-be, I have my own seat further away from everybody else, near the safety of our curtain.
His brother flicks his head towards me. “A’right?”
“Yeah, I’m good. How are you?” I ask.
“Yeah a‘right.”
That’s about the extent of it then.
His little sister smiles but doesn’t say anything to me, though I’m not offended. From the sounds of things, she’s bonded with my teenage sister, who has followed her into the living room to continue their conversation about whatever crap they were talking about.
M’s little sis is quite the opposite of her brothers. She’s small and petite, probably a size six and no taller than five foot. Like her mum, she seems to have made a real effort for the occasion. Her red-highlighted hair is curled and she’s sporting a pair of rather obvious false eyelashes. Even I’m not wearing falsies and I’m the one on show. I wonder if I should have made more of an effort. Maybe it’s something girls do when they’re from Asian areas. She definitely looks more at ease in her maroon salwar kameez than my little sister is in her outfit. Her usual uniform is tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie.
Then big sis suggests something unorthodox. “Do you want to go to the other room?” She raises an eyebrow as if she’s suggesting something scandalous. So instead of M coming to visit me in my living room chamber, I’m going to him like the independent woman I am.
She goes on ahead, my big sis leading the way in this big step in my life. Before she opens the door, she shoots me an enthusiastic grin. She is so excited about this.
Big sis pushes open the door to reveal M, my potential husband, sat looking rather fetching in a black suit and pale pink shirt. He threatened to wear something casual like his usual uniform of chinos or jeans, paired with a shirt and V-neck jumper. Thank God he dropped that idea. I love the pop of pink and I adore the fact that he wears colours. On our first date he wore a sky blue jumper under his brown leather bomber jacket. I’d grown tired of seeing navy, khaki, black and more black adorned by other boys I’d met or been introduced to. His clothing choice was as bright and hopeful then as it is today.
Big sis clasps her hands together, like a proud matchmaker. “Right, well... I’ll leave you two to chat.”
As I sit down on the very far corner of the opposite sofa to M, I suddenly feel a wave of awkwardness. This is like our first meeting in Caffe Nero. It’s much more formal then our lunches at Nando’s and far less fun than our bowling date. Without realising, I go into resting bitch face mode.
“You look nice,” says M.
I stare at him with a furrowed brow. He knows what I mean. My eyebrows are ushering him to keep his voice down. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
“Are you okay?” M now looks just as unsure as I do.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Why am I being so frosty?
“What have you been up to today?”
Waiting for you guys to bloody arrive, I think.
My niece bursts into the room. “Can I have a samosa? There’s no more left in the kitchen.”
Middle sis isn’t far behind her. “Hey you, I saved you one, come back here. Sorry, it’s my daughter’s favourite snack. Enough to make her overcome any shyness among strangers.”
I actually don’t mind the distraction of a little person. “It’s fine. She can stay if she wants.”
My niece comes in and perches herself next to me, pleased as punch that there is a plate of three samosas in front of us.
“Shall I put the TV on for you guys? It will give you something to... watch?”
It’s a rhetorical question, as middle sis grabs the remote and furiously starts punching in some numbers. The first thing to come on is EastEnders and we find ourselves faced with a full-on kissing scene. I can see in the corner of my eye M is looking at me with an embarrassed smirk. My sister quickly changes the channel to a much more respectable episode of the Great British Bake Off.
“I want Tiny Pop!” My niece looks as though she’s about to have a screaming tantrum.
“It’s not on now. It’s too late,” says middle sis.
“It is mum! We always watch it at night time so you and dad can watch your programmes in the other room.”
Middle sis lets out a nervous laugh. “That’s not true! We only let you watch it on the weekends. Anyway, let me find the channel.”
Unfortunately, the next channel middle sis finds is not Tiny Pop. In fact, it’s not child friendly at all. Instead of the bright, colourful cartoon characters we were all expecting, there’s a woman in a state of undress sat on the bed on the phone, staring into the camera while saying things I daren’t repeat. I forgot to mention to middle sis that we recently ended our Sky subscription and changed internet service providers for a better deal. As a result all our channels are mixed up.
Middle sis is dying to laugh, while nervously trying to change the channel. Luckily, my niece didn’t notice the dodgy channel we stumbled upon as she’s busy tucking into a crispy golden samosa. I can’t help but laugh and neither can M. If nothing else, it’s broken the ice and thawed my frosty mood. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, whether or not the meetings with rishtaas are successful, they always provide shit loads of comedy material.