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My face is still smarting though I’m glad to say that, two weeks after the wax from hell, I’m only left with slight pigmentation where the beastly beautician burnt my skin. She did try to redeem herself by getting one of her minions to administer a facial. I was just glad she wasn’t the one doing it with her big meat cleaver hands and sharp pointy claws.
Why do we women do this to ourselves? Men don’t have to go to such great grooming lengths. Yet we have to pluck, wax, epilate and exfoliate using instruments of medieval torture, under the guise of self care. There is nothing caring about it. They say women are the fairer, gentler sex. Well, I’d like to see a man use an epilator to pull out his armpit hair. Then we’d see about that.
I wonder when all this extensive beautifying began. My mum’s generation didn’t do half the things we’re expected to do now. Mum has never threaded her eyebrows, she doesn’t wear any makeup, either. Whereas I reached for the tweezers aged 12. At the time, girls started wearing makeup to school and shaving their legs. Once we went down that road, there was no turning back. It’s like HD TV. After you’ve watched one programme in high definition, anything else looks old, grainy, dated. However, it’s not the non-HD stuff that’s dated, it’s our perception and view of the world that’s changed. We’ve been conditioned.
It’s even worse for my younger sister’s generation. While I had to keep up with facial hair removal, she’s growing up in a world where it’s not what you take off your face, it’s what you inject into it that counts. Fillers and filters have become the norm. At what point of distortion do we say enough is enough?
Anyway, I’m certainly not going to be the trailblazer for an anti-grooming revolution. After all, I’m hoping to get married. So it’s a good thing my face is pretty hardy. If I suffered with sensitive skin, like middle sis, I’d probably have to skip the engagement party.
Though I wouldn’t mind missing the cini paan of Hassna, who is six months younger than me (why did mum insist on having kids at the same time as auntie Jusna? It’s like they were in competition or something). Just like her baby brother Iqbal, it looks like she’ll be beating me to the marital post, too. Or at least she’s getting a sparkly rock on her finger before me anyway.
What’s worse is that, just like at the wedding of her brother, every nosey parker who comes into conversation with mum probes her on my single status. Though this is a small, intimate affair (I mean intimate by Bengali standards, there’s still upwards of 60 people here), the guest list seems to be made up of the most meddling members of our extended family.
Annoyingly, I will be getting married - likely at the end of this year - but as nothing is formalised, we can’t even talk about it. Typical. Just typical.
Still, they’re serving samosas. Silver linings and all that.
Auntie Jusna has hired out the entire top floor of a restaurant in Rusholme. It must’ve cost a bomb. My poor uncle, I bet he didn’t have a say in the matter. Like my dad, he’s not one to get involved but as a simple pious man, I’m sure he would have preferred a more low-key affair. Especially as word has got out about their oldest daughter Rashda’s divorce. Our lot can be terrible stirrers. Then again, maybe that’s auntie Jusna’s new strategy - show everyone that the show must go on. And what a show. There are black and gold his and hers thrones on the main stage. Fresh fuchsia flowers adorn each round table and they obviously couldn’t settle for just a chocolate fountain (which is currently being massacred by my nieces and nephews), they’ve even got a cheese grazing table. Well, that’s a complete waste of time. Bengalis don’t care for cheese and we certainly don’t graze. Those crackers will go damp before they touch anyone’s lips.
What’s more, there’s no gender segregation, which means dad, dressed by mum for the occasion yet again, has to sit amongst us while we slate his side of the family. He looks small and resigned, like he’d rather be anywhere but here.
“Hmmph! Cheese! Who is here to eat cheese?” Mum obviously read my mind.
“Maybe they’re trying something new?” Middle sis is surprisingly diplomatic.
“Oh-ho! If you think it’s okay, why don’t you go over there and have some cheesy grapes like strange lady?”
Middle sis winces. “You’re alright, mum. I don’t think I fancy eating anything right now.”
Mum’s still not done moaning. “Rashda maa is wasting her time. Who eat cheese when there be samosas on the table? Grapes? Still with the stems? I bet they’re not even washed! Oh ho! I think I even see figs. But I don’t have my glasses. Is that figs over there? Who having toilet trouble that they need so many figs? She must be going through funny lady change. Does she look red to you?” Mum attempts to elbow my big sis, who is the closest to menopause of all her daughters, but she’s too late. Big sis is making a beeline for the cheese.
It’s a far cry from engagement parties of yesteryear. Both my older sisters had their ceremonies at home. Big sister’s engagement was held at our house in Bangladesh, which is pretty grand by UK standards. Middle sis’ ceremony was a bit more modest as it took place in our three-bed semi. We made it nice though, with plastic flower garlands adorning the entire front room. We even erected a mini marquee in the garden, which was a nice touch (the only downside was that we were unlucky with the weather). Nowadays it’s pretty unheard of to hold such ceremonies at home and I feel I have no choice but to roll with the times. I wouldn’t mind hiring Hassna’s venue out for my engagement. Or at least scope out the prices on the down low.
Mum is on form today. Not only has the cheese platter offended her no end, Hassna’s grand entrance has only served to piss her off even further.
“Oh my my!” she mutters to nobody in particular. “Look at the shy bride! Or not so shy! I can’t believe she sat on the stage talking on her phone! Who does she need to call on her own cini paan day!”
Little sis looks up from her phone for one second: “Mum, why do we call it cini paan? I guess it’s cini as in sugar, and the paan is... well, paan?”
None of us know the English translation for paan. Is it an exclusively Bengali delicacy? I’ve never understood the appeal of chewing on a leaf and betel nut. Not to mention the nasty red stains you get on your teeth that even the strongest of whitening toothpastes can’t get rid of. It’s like a mark of honour for first generation Bengali immigrants.
Mum laughs at our inquisitive teenager like she’s been caught off-guard. “Yes, that’s right. Sugar and paan to you English kids.”
Little sis isn’t done yet. “But why though? What’s that got to do with an engagement?”
“Well... I guess sugar is to sweeten your in-laws. Which is why the groom’s family bring mishti sweets.” Mum then reaches for some paan for herself, pulling a carefully folded leaf apart from its delicate display beneath the flower arrangement at the centre of our table. She never has paan. We don’t even keep any in the house since dad kicked the habit years ago. I guess it’s the equivalent of social smoking.
I’m as confused by the tradition as little sis. “I never cared for those syrupy sweets anyway. They’re too sickly. Unless it’s gulab jaman with ice cream. I just don’t get the paan bit, though. If you’re sweetening the in-laws with the mishti, what’s the paan for?”
“Dooro! Why do you need to know everything? Not everything need to be life lesson! Something’s we just say because we do. We always did! No need to make sense!” Mum has a hacking cough, no doubt brought on by the paan and being put on the spot.
I can’t help but think that had little sis asked that question instead of me, she would’ve received a more considered response.
The mobile phone isn’t the only thing covering Hassna’s face. She’s wearing a trowel of makeup. Her cheeks are illuminated with reflective highlighter to match her pearlescent saree. Her false eyelashes look spidery and she’s sporting a dramatic sweep of mocha-coloured blush, providing a harsh contour. Even her real hair isn’t detectable beneath the other person’s mane she’s wearing. Those extensions, a dirty blonde shade, are nothing like her natural black. And the crowning glory is a heavily jewelled headpiece fastened to the side of her fake, overly back-combed hair. She’s become a caricature of herself for a day. I’m begrudged to say it but Hassna’s naturally pretty. She didn’t need all this.
Is this how I’m going to have to look on my engagement ceremony? Surely not. If I did, M wouldn’t approve, he’s all for minimal makeup. Then again, it wouldn’t be for him, would it? Such exaggerated ‘beauty’ is not for men, it’s for the female gaze. But then which woman thinks this looks good? Or is it less a question of good and more a question of appropriate? Should we be wearing our wealth? I think that’s what it boils down to. Bling and bronzer equal prosperity.
While I’m deep in thought, Hassna’s older sister, Rashda, sidles up next to us, wearing a loud look-at-me burnt orange gown. I notice that gowns are all the rage these days. Sarees are seen less and less at weddings and parties, which is kind of sad. Nothing quite matches the regal elegance of a saree so I hope it’s not a tradition that completely dies down. I’d at least like some guests wearing it for my wedding.
That said, I’m glad for Rashda’s bold choice of colour. At her brother Iqbal’s wedding she wore the dullest of green outfits. It was as if it was an obvious attempt to dim her shine, downplay her beauty and fade into obscurity. She was in the midst of going through her divorce, so I wonder whether it was whispered in her ear that she shouldn’t draw too much attention to herself to avoid unnecessary questions. Even though we’ve been bitterly jealous of her and her perfect family most of our lives, I didn’t want to see her in such a resigned state.
“You look nice, missy,” she tells me.
I notice I’m getting a lot more compliments these days. Could it be that secret bride-to-be glow? Usually it’s middle sis that gets the lion’s share of praise when it comes to beauty. Big and little sis get the leftovers and I usually get nothing as all reserves are depleted by that point.
“Thanks. I thought I’d make the effort.” I sit up a little straighter from my slumped slouch, very aware that I am in rather attractive company.
“Well, I said it before and I’ll say it again, blue really suits you.”
Damn! I thought I’d get away with wearing the same saree that I wore at Iqbal’s wedding but she obviously noticed, unless it was a genuine compliment.
“How are you getting on, Rashda, all things considered?” Big sis is as subtle as a brick, as always.
“I’m okay. Actually, I’ve never felt better. Why do you ask?”
Ooh, is she challenging my big sis to probe into her divorce? Maybe she wants to talk about it? Or she’s just peed off with etiquette and wants to show the world that she isn’t bothered at all about her single mother status.
“Oh, no reason, just asking.” Big sis doesn’t take the bait.
Auntie Jusna, no doubt terrified that her seemingly unruly divorcee daughter will spill the beans on her broken home, plants herself between us, shuffling her generous behind next to my poor niece, who is now nearly falling off her chair.
“Come on princess, there’s room for both of us, you’re only tiny.”
My niece slides off the chair and makes a run for the chocolate fountain for seconds, with the used wooden skewer from her last visit in her hand.
“Shundor oyse?” auntie Jusna asks mum, before translating for us: “Nice?” as though we don’t understand Bengali.
“Hmm, yes very nice. It’s a lovely venue,” says mum.
“Thank you. It wasn’t cheap but we thought, let’s spend on our last child to get married. Let me know if you need the details of this place when it’s your one’s turn.” She nods in my direction.
“Insha Allah we’ll need those details soon. Except we will have waiters. No one wants to get up and get their food. Especially not me with my bad knee,” says mum.
“What you mean? Everyone has buffets these days,” argues auntie Jusna. “You could do with exercise, too,” she gestures towards mum’s midriff. “Anyway, do you have news? Have you found someone for her?”
I love how auntie Jusna doesn’t even use my name.
Mum realises she said too much and does her lip grimace thing. “No, but of course we are looking. So, Insha Allah, any time now. Make prayer for us.”
“You know I will. I’m always praying for your lovely girls. I only hope you find someone as good as we did for Hassna.” She rests her elbows on the table, giving us all a good view of her new shiny gold bangles. “We’ll have two doctors in the family. Well, three if you count Hassna. He’s a junior doctor you know, like my boy. Training to be a register.”
I think she means registrar and Hassna is a pharmacist. So no, she doesn’t count.
“The family are very good Masha Allah. Very respectable. They say they treat Hassna like their own daughter. The mum will do all the cooking as Hassna will be working. And did you see the gold they gifted? I tell them, why so much? Save some for wedding day! I never dreamed of finding such a good family.”
I see Rashda give a wry smile, which doesn’t go unnoticed by her mother.
“Anyway, I just came to collect my first born who keeps disappearing. We need to cut the cake.”
“Do you really need me for that?” Rashda asks. “Can’t the bride and groom get on with it?”
“Don’t be silly. How will it look? Anyway, wouldn’t you rather be on stage with your family for this especial occasion? Or would you rather just sit here and miss out again?”
“Okay, just start without me. You don’t need all of us to cut one cake. My boy wants to go to the chocolate fountain. I’ll come after that.”
As she leaves, middle sis can’t resist a bit of gossip. “Rashda seems a bit feisty these days? Do you think she’s got another fella?”
“Dooro! As if! With three kids, it unlikely.”
“Mum!” Middle sis, the more modern of my two older siblings, balks at mum’s out-dated view.
“Don’t mum me! I no make the rules. You know how hard it is for women to move on after divorce. It’s hard enough without children but with three... Life is always worse for a woman. Husband on the other hand, will have no such trouble getting remarried.”
“That much is true,” big sis chimes in. “Hubby told me there’s a rumour that he’s getting remarried.”
I know my sister is well connected with the Bengali community but even I’m surprised that she should be privy to this unofficial news all the way from Bristol.
“How does he know?” I ask.
“One of his partners in the restaurant has family from Manchester. He found out through them.”
“Blimey,” says middle sis. “Maybe that’s what’s got Rashda’s back up.”
“Okay stop talking about her business! Can’t it wait until we get home?” mum whispers.
It’s funny how Mum is now taking the moral high ground despite being the one that stirred the pot in the first place.
We finally get to the business end of the long, drawn out engagement party. Hassna’s fiancé, a lanky fella whose pearl coloured tie matches that of his bride to be, takes to the stage to claim his prize. Or in Bengali terms, to sit quietly next to his fiancée and avoid eye contact. Though these two seem to be doing their own thing. Despite auntie Jusna strongly suggesting that they ‘found’ the groom and it was very much arranged, Hassna seems terribly familiar with her husband-to-be.
He slips a sparkly ring onto her delicate third finger and clasps her hand tightly. They hold the position for a photo call. He looks at her adoringly. If I wasn’t so envious of this whole shindig, I’d find this all rather sweet. I hope M and I can have these kind of photos at our engagement ceremony. Though looking around me, I don’t think that will happen.
I can sense the atmosphere heating up with the boiling blood of all the aunties who disapprove of this very public display of affection. They’re already mightily put out by the fact that they had to get up for their own food at the buffet. And who’s the most offended by all of this? My mum, of course.
I squint for a better look at Hassna’s hand.
“Ooh, do you think that’s a real diamond?” asks big sis.
Middle sis laughs. “It probably is, her fiancé is a cash register, as auntie Jusna says.”
That was a good one.
“It makes a change though, from the Bangladeshi boat rings that we both had.” Middle sis looks down at her ring finger, which is decorated with a 22-carat gold canoe shaped ring. Middle sis is perhaps the last generation of our women to be given the fabled ring. Nowadays, the boat ring is ditched in favour of the more western appropriate half-carat brilliant cut sparkler.
“What are you complaining about?” says mum. “That’s what everybody got then, before girls become show offs and want to be white. You forget groom family spend thousands on gold necklaces and earrings and bangles. You no get that in English culture. So no wonder they give diamond ring. I mean, what else do British groom pay for?”
“The honeymoon?” I helpfully add.
“Oh yes. The honeymoon. While poor girl family pay for everything. If we were British, we would be beggars by now, with only four girls and no sons to marry.”
Despite mum’s protestations, I bet she’d be miffed if I didn’t end up with a diamond engagement ring, especially now the daughter of her arch nemesis has one.
Just as were judging the old school way of doing things, Hassna spoons cream frosting in her fiancé’s mouth. He laughs as some of it misses and it smears across his very thin lips. She wipes a bit off with her thumb. Ooh, salacious.
I’m waiting for a delicious rant from mum in 3... 2... 1...
“Oh ho! Feeding each other now, are we? And look at how they laugh! They think they Pakistani or something? Holding modern party like this! Next they be dancing at wedding! Jusna so two-faced. Remember when you dyed your hair?” she shouts at middle sis, who nearly jumps out of her seat. “When Rashda dye her hair, it no problem. ‘Oh it fashion’, Jusna say. Hmmph!”
I’m not immune from this either: “She talked so much about us when you went to uni-barsiry, too. Everyone bad until her kids do the same. Then it be okay. Always got bad to say about other people’s life but look at her house! If she lifts her arm, she think her armpits don’t smell, too? She wrong!”
I do love a Bengali analogy.
“Eh-heh, so what if they eat cake?” Dad, who’s been so quiet all this time that I almost forgot he’s here, finally sticks up for his sister.
“You no talk! You always listen to her stirring and no see in front your own eyes. That’s it! We’re going home. I speak to this Droylsden mum tomorrow and get some dates sorted. Next time I see your auntie Jusna I’ll have news to share... you’re getting married! To banker boy with big job! And you be living in London all by yourselves. See how she likes that! Her cake-feeding princess move with in-laws in Bradistan!”
“Hey mum!” says middle sis. “Bradford isn’t that bad!”
“Oh, you know it is! More Pakistani than English! Anyway, my girl done much better. Because I modest woman I don’t talk these things. When things be official, I no be keeping quiet.”
I can’t resist asking: “Can I feed cake at my engagement then?”
“Dooro no! What will people say? People will know you were especial friends.”