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“Four months?” asks middle sis. “That’s loads of time! How much longer do you want? I was married to your brother-in-law three months after meeting him! You’ve known this lad for how long?”
I feel sheepish. “Since last April. In between his parents went to Bangladesh for two months though, so naturally nothing was going to progress at that point.” It’s as though I have to justify our obscenely long relationship.
“It doesn’t matter where his parents went! It’s not like you stopped talking to each other in those two months, is it? So basically you’ve had a longer relationship than some English people before they get married. I think you’ve had long enough to figure out if you want to marry him.”
“It’s not that,” I say. “Obviously I want to marry him. It’s just that there’s not much time to make it nice. Did you know, when most of my Indian friends get married, they get their outfits tailored back home and then get them shipped over. Some people even fly over for a shopping trip. Then there are all the other things I need to think about -”
“See, that’s your problem right there. You’re always comparing and never happy. Always looking at how your Indian or English friends do things. Newsflash – you’re not Indian or English! You’re bloody Bengali so accept it. This is how we roll. Stop trying to keep up with everyone else.”
My sister is ever so feisty today.
“I’m not trying to keep up. It’s just that I’ve worked all my life, so I wanted to have a nice wedding and I had a vision in mind. This wasn’t it. There won’t be enough time to do anything.”
I can hear middle sis huffing and breathing heavily through the phone, as though she’s run a mile to the nearest telephone box.
“What exactly do you want? Do you not know how we do things? You can’t have it all ways. You want to get married. You moan when things are moving quickly. He must have the patience of a saint dealing with your dithering.”
Ouch.
“What am I going to tell work? What will they think?” My voice becomes small.
“Who gives a toss pot? Once you’re married you won’t care. You’re focusing on completely the wrong things. Do your colleagues tell you everything? Do you get a heads up if Jean or Tracy or someone is about to get divorced? Anyway, you’ll be leaving the place soon enough, so who cares what they think?”
I don’t work with a Jean or Tracy but middle sis has a point, even if her delivery is a bit aggressive. A lifetime of being the odd one out seems to be the way it’ll always be for me. And for once I wanted it to be a little different.
A minute after sis abruptly hangs up, she pings me a message: Sorry if I was harsh. Hormones x
I’ve heard people say, I’d marry you tomorrow, when referring to the person of their dreams. It’s a strong dramatic theme that runs in Bollywood movies, where the love-struck couple run away to a temple and have the equivalent of a shotgun wedding (minus the pregnancy – the Indian film industry might be progressive with its scantily clad actresses and kissing scenes but I think a child out of wedlock is still a stretch too far). The eloping couple often get married without any guests. The hero will cut his own finger to apply sindhoor on his bride. I never really understood what that red line signifies. I must bring it up with Reena next time we meet up.
It’s a very romantic notion that love will conquer all else, including the need for a fancy wedding. However, that rarely translates into reality. I’ve seen enough episodes of Don’t Tell the Bride, where said bride-to-be will forego having anything to do with the planning of her big day and leaves it all to the groom (incentivised by the fact that the BBC will pay for the whole sorry shindig), to know that when it comes to the big day, every girl has a vision.
Now I didn’t picture a fairytale per se. I’ve been living in my own skin long enough to know that I’m not a princess that you read about in books but... I at least knew what I didn’t want. I didn’t want a rushed job where we’d cut corners, hire a crappy hall - or God forbid a school gymnasium. That was actually a thing back in the day. I’ve been to many a Bengali wedding where I’ve had tandoori roast chicken in an indoor basketball court. Sometimes they didn’t even bother putting the equipment away. As though the waiters were going to shoot some hoops after a hard day serving 300+ guests. I never knew why weddings would take place in school halls. I guess it was cheaper? Or maybe in the olden days, before the emergence of banqueting halls catering specifically for weddings, they were the only venues that had capacity for so many hungry people.
I just wanted something better. Better than I’ve always had. My whole life, I’ve been second rate. At school, most of the kids had two working parents. The double income meant they had better trainers. Their phones were the latest version. Mine would always be a hand-me-down when middle sis was due an upgrade with her mobile contract. Even hers was outdated, so the one passed down would be ancient. Everyone noticed. They always noticed. I remember buying a pair of Adidas trainers for £20 in the sale. I was so in love with them and so proud to show them off on sports day at school. My new trainers, a long overdue replacement, certainly got attention, just not in the way I would have liked.
“You’ll be wearing them for the next twenty years!” joked Carly, the only other ethnic minority in our year, who made it her business to make me stand out even more, so she’d fit in better.
I laughed along. After a lifetime of this, I want people to talk about my wedding for the right reasons. Though it seems that it’s not finances that may jeopardise my dream day, it’s the timescale.
If my life were a Bollywood movie, this would be the bit where I say:
‘Yes, I’ll marry him in four months. In fact, I’ll marry him today, wearing this salwar kameez that big sis bought me from Bangladesh 12 years ago and I still haven’t managed to part with. I don’t need the fancy lehenga, I don’t need a big venue. I don’t need the samosa starters. All I need is... love.’
And if we’re going really Bollywood, I’d be the daughter of some aristocratic Asians living in London. My house would be a frigging castle and I’d have numerous outfit changes throughout the day and drive a Lamborghini where the door opens upwards. That’s a mash up of a few movies I’ve seen in my time. It’s not about subtlety.
Anyway, I digress.
I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it until I’m even browner in the face, this isn’t a Bollywood movie, it’s my life. And that shit doesn’t happen to me.
If I say to my mum “all you need is love”, I’d get two slaps, a “dooro” rebuke, or at the very least a nervous laugh. Love is not a word us Bengalis throw around easily. Or at all.
Second, I want to have a decent wedding. I think I deserve it. And you better believe I’ll be getting a chocolate fountain.
***
BUSHRA AND EMMA DON’T know I’m about to get married. I really should’ve started planting that seed sooner. More to the point, my manager is none the wiser. Bernadette, who needs to sign off my annual leave, is responsible for my appraisals, or in this case has to accept my resignation, doesn’t have a clue that I’m even seeing someone. She’s never asked, so I’ve never offered up the information. Not that I wanted to keep it a secret. For the first time in my life I have a relationship. For the first time I can talk about dates (even if they’re day dates, they still count). For the first time, I’m part of that conversation.
However, though Bernadette is incredibly amiable and enjoys a laugh, she’s chalked a clear line between work and life. It’s a line she doesn’t seem willing to cross. In this over-sharing world in which we live, this makes her something of an anomaly, which has made her vulnerable to office gossip. There was a rumour swirling that she’s a lesbian, based purely on the fact that there’s never talk of a man. When I think about it like that, I realise what a sad state of affairs we’re in as a society. I wonder what fodder my single-and-living-with-parents status created back in the day. I imagine people just boxed me in with the traditional Muslim girl category. Which wasn’t that far from the truth.
With Bernadette’s disinterest in my personal life, I’m at risk of being the weird one at work, yet again. The funny Asian, as opposed to Bushra, the cool one. I’ll be known as the one who is getting married to someone she barely knows. I bet they won’t even believe it was a proper courtship to begin with and I made him up and I’m actually having an arranged marriage, to a stranger. It would all seem rather odd.
Truth is, I’ve managed to make an oddity of myself even when it’s not been my relationship. When middle sis got married, I decided to leave it until four days before the big day to request that weekend off work. I remember the awkward phone call with Paula, my manager, like it was yesterday:
Paula: “I’ve received an annual leave request from you, to take this coming Saturday off. I just want to check I read that correctly?”
Me: “Yes, that’s right...”
I was a teenager so I really didn’t know how to make conversation and fill the void like I do now.
Paula: “Right, okay. It’s just that normally we like a little more notice. Saturdays are our busiest days and when we’re shortest staffed. Of course you can have it off for an emergency. So I have to ask, is there a real need?”
Me: “Well, yes. My sister is getting married on Saturday.”
There was a long silence.
Paula: “Oh, right. I see... well (scoffs)... well of course I’m not going to stop you from attending your sister’s wedding. It’s just you never mentioned anything before so... right... not to worry though. I’ll find some cover, or arrange something. Well, I guess I won’t see you before then, so... I hope your sister has a lovely wedding. Oh, and in the future, if one of your family gets married again, just give me a bit of a heads up.”
Short notice aside, you could argue that it wasn’t really anybody’s business about my sister’s personal life. Yet it’s so intrinsic in the working culture that you talk about your life outside the office – your weekend plans, your boyfriend, your family – that, like Bernadette, my silence spoke volumes. I didn’t want to bring the topic of my sister getting married to the table. Honestly, I didn’t want the questions. How lovely, how did they meet? Are they living together? What’s your brother-in-law like?
The answers would’ve made me stick out even more – “they met through my family, when he came to my house for samosas with his parents. No, of course not... we don’t live together before marriage. And honestly, I don’t know what to tell you on that front. I’ve only met him twice and exchanged a few pleasantries, so I don’t really know what he’s like, though he seems nice.”
So I did what I usually do – avoid the issue. Don’t offer up any information, so I need answer no questions. I put it off as long as I could, until I needed a day off for the wedding. I cringe looking back at this.
Now I think of it, if a white colleague had a quickie wedding, nobody would think anything of it. Nobody would question the girl’s welfare or the authenticity of her feelings. Perhaps it’s one rule for us and another for them. Or maybe it’s all in my head. I don’t know. What I do know is that there’s a TV show called Married at First Sight and I hear it’s pretty popular. If the same exact show featured only Bengali Muslims, would it get the same response?
Work weirdness aside, there’s another niggle. I’m not mentally prepared to get married in less than four months. I’m beyond glad and embarrassingly grateful that my perfect guy has come into my life. There is no question that I want to marry M but, at the same time, this seismic change involves leaving my little world. I know I complain a lot about my life set up. When I was ostensibly single it felt like everyone around me was moving on with their lives. While I felt like I couldn’t wait to start this next exciting chapter, in reality I can wait a little. Just long enough to tidy any loose ends and get myself in order.
Of course mum has no idea what I’m talking about.
“What is the problem? I thought you wanted to marry this boy? Is it so bad to get married this summer?” she asks, stirring a steaming pot of a very pungent and unmistakable substance. She hasn’t even bothered to crank open a window in our very narrow kitchen that barely has space for both of us.
“I’m just worried we won’t have much time to plan anything properly and make it nice,” I say, trying not to scrunch up my nose.
“Oh, you no worry,” says mum, continuing to stir her pot. “We make it nice. We no be stingy with your wedding. People get married in much shorter time and it be still nice. I got wed weeks after meeting your father just once. You lucky that way. So you can’t say you no time to prepare. Anyway, if you no get married in July when you want to?”
Mum turns her attention to her coriander-topped chopping board. I don’t know why she’s bothering. No amount of herb-age could disguise the smell of dried fish.
“I don’t know. Not much later. I just thought... I don’t know,” I say, stepping further away from the noxious-smelling pot.
I’m not usually one to procrastinate but it’s all just come so suddenly. It’s stupid really. I feel stupid.
“In life you not always meet a boy that’s good, that you get to know, and most important likes you.”
“Alright mum, I’m not that bad, am I?”
“No. That’s not what I say. I mean, not everybody marriage end well. Many people make big compromise. No big compromise here, so I don’t think we should delay too long. You don’t want to upset in-laws before they your in-laws. You know how our people are. When auntie Jusna hear, she be calling everybody she knows in Droylsden to see what stirring she can do about us. She no want to be only one with smelly armpit.”
“Speaking of smelly, do you want to -”
I stop myself before I say any more. It’s a test. Mum is forever saying I’m the reason she stopped cooking shutki. Maybe it’s the conversation with M’s mum that’s inspired her to cook it again for the first time in years. She’s deliberately kept the windows closed on this mild April day, trapping the smell inside the confines of the kitchen. It’s like she’s taunting me, willing me to complain, so she can take comfort in the fact that she was right all along and I was the one who got in the way of her and her precious dried fish delicacy. I won’t take the bait.
“Our armpits aren’t that bad either. What could they say about us?”
On that note, I really better do an audit on my Facebook account to ensure that there’s nothing from my uni days that could be discovered, manipulated and misconstrued.
“Not just us. It take two people to get married. Who knows what that woman will find out about your in-laws. It not worth the trouble. Anyway, I think finding a date is getting tricky. We need someone else involved. Just think, if we can’t even agree on a wedding date, what else will we disagree on?”
Having planted that massive seed of doubt, mum heads out into the garden to retrieve the washing as she’s seen one dark cloud form. She has no idea how, with a single comment, she can throw my whole life into a calamity. Can disagreeing on the wedding date cause so much trouble?
***
I’M ON A MISSION. I’ve got my appraisal with Bernadette in ten minutes and my main aim is to segue a conversation about M into the mix. It won’t be easy.
To make matters worse, our usual safe confines of the marketing office is out of bounds due to an office refurb, so we have to hold our appraisal in the smaller staff kitchen which offers zero discretion, with its packed in seating arrangement of round tables of four. Even more unfortunate is that we’ll be in the company of Ahmed, one of the IT geeks.
Asian colleagues are like buses, you wait for ages for one to come along to make you feel less of an oddity and then you get two. Though Ahmed and I aren’t in the same department, we share the same pokey kitchen, one of four located throughout the building. From what I’ve seen so far, there may be more kitchens than ethnic minorities in this company.
Ahmed is possibly the whitest brown person I have ever met. I don’t mean Bushra’s level of coconut, where she’ll drink on the weekend with the other execs. Ahmed is another kind altogether. The specific breed of brown person that will act like every Tom, Dick or Harry at the work social, or basically any environment where he is a minority. He’ll largely ignore me in such circumstances. However, when he catches me alone in the kitchen, he acts like a brother from another mother.
I’ve arrived ahead of Bernadette to find Ahmed chomping loudly on a burrito, which I can only assume is a second lunch as it’s gone 3pm.
“Are you looking forward to Ramadan?”
I would bet the budget of my upcoming wedding that Ahmed would never ask me anything about Ramadan in front of anybody else. After all, that’d totally give the game away that he is Muslim.
“I haven’t thought about it yet. Isn’t it in September or October this year?” I ask.
Ahmed shrugs, no doubt realising that it’s such a ridiculously desperate attempt to find common ground. He gets back to crunching his burrito, dripping salsa and shredded lettuce onto the table in the process.
“Anyway, I’ve got bigger fish to fry,” I say.
“Oh really. Is everything okay?”
Well, I guess I must start making it common knowledge that I’m in a relationship so my impending marriage doesn’t sound so weird. Ahmed can be my dry run.
“Actually yeah, I’m fine. I’m getting engaged so Ramadan hasn’t been at the front of my mind.”
Nice segue, if I do say so myself.
“That’s brilliant! I’m made up for ya.”
He barely knows me.
Ahmed stands up from his chair, leaking burrito still in one hand, as if he’s about to give me a congratulatory hug. Then he stops short and instead pats me on the arm in a brotherly manner. Wise move.
“Do you know him?” he asks as he returns to his chair, stepping on his burrito juice en route.
“Who?”
“Err... your soon-to-be fiancé?”
I’m shocked at the line of questioning. Then I remember, despite his best efforts to act otherwise, Ahmed is in fact Pakistani so he knows my world well.
“Of course. We met through friends.”
Yeah, that’s my lie. And I’m sticking to it.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. Nothing wrong with it if it was an arranged marriage. My parents are in Pakistan right now, looking for me.”
I did not expect such an admission. He’d never ‘fess up to that at one of our work socials.
“Oh. Well, good for you. I hope you find someone suitable. Or I hope they do.”
Bernadette comes through the door, signifying the end of our conversation. She’s accompanied by Amy, a business development manager who has just finished her appraisal. I don’t know Amy very well as she’s recently got back from maternity leave and she only pops into our office every couple of weeks or so. She’s usually on the road, visiting the different hospitals under her remit.
“So sorry to have cut it short, Bernadette,” says Amy. “It’s such a nightmare having to work to a pumping schedule. If I don’t express now, my boobs are going to explode.”
“Of course love. You do what you gotta do. At the end of the day, baby comes first. We need more women like you balancing the mum and work thing and doing a great job of it. Anyway, we’re all ladies here -”
Bernadette stops mid-sentence as she notices a small trail of salsa on the floor leading to a burrito besmirched Ahmed.
He looks sheepish. “Sorry Bernie, I’m nearly done. As soon as I’m finished eating I’ll clear my mess. Then you women can get back to your gossiping.”
Bernadette doesn’t dignify him with a response. Rumour has it she hates being called Bernie.
“Anyway, it really is great to have you back, Amy,” says Ahmed.
I doubt Amy even knows him, however Ahmed wants to make his presence felt.
Amy reaches in the fridge for her handheld breast pump and an empty baby bottle. “Thanks Ahmed. It’s good to be back, even if I’ve got to do this every two hours.”
Ahmed pushes his round Harry Potter-style glasses up against his brow. “More power to you, I say. And it’s a win-win for all of us as we’ve just ran out of milk for our tea. Hehe.”
Nobody else laughs. Amy’s mouth gapes open in horror. She clutches her pump close to her chest and dashes out of the door. He really is the worst.
“Right, well, shall we crack on missy?” Bernadette opens up her folder as she settles down in the chair opposite me. “So, as you no doubt know, you’re getting on six months here. It’s crazy as it feels like you’ve been here forever.”
“I know, it’s been great being part of the team.”
I think Bernadette picked up on my past tense, as her next question is: “So what would you like to achieve in the next six months? Are we doing everything we can for you here?”
I’d like to get married and move to London, goes my inner monologue. I figure I must say something more meaningful and relevant to the job though.
“I’m not sure really,” says my outer monologue. “I guess, just more media outreach. Some more national campaigns. I’ve got some great stuff in the Daily Mail for the Scottish hospitals but I’d like some more of that and do something a bit more strategic.”
I sound vague as hell, largely because I know that this job is coming to an end.
“Anything else?” she looks at me directly.
I know Bernadette doesn’t suffer fools. Her eye contact, which she uses sparingly, is unnerving.
“Well, to be honest, I wasn’t sure how much further I could go, as there isn’t a PR person that’s senior to me. I figured this is the peak in this role?”
“No, no. There is room for growth and there is definitely room for you to develop. In the time you’ve been here you’ve made yourself an invaluable member of the team. You’re always bringing solutions instead of problems and speaking of which, while we’re on that note, I just wanted to address the elephant in the room.”
Huh? There’s an elephant? Does she know I’m about to get married? Has Bushra already leaked news of our relationship? Am I office gossip fodder? It’s a good thing if I am, actually, as it makes my segue into talking about M and my future plans all the easier.
It seems that Ahmed is equally as paranoid about her remark, as he proceeds to mop around us with a paper towel, wiping up the salsa remnants. “Alright Bernie, I know I’ve got a bit of timber but that’s a bit harsh.”
“Sorry Ahmed? What was that?” asks Bernadette.
“You said elephant in the room?”
Bernadette looks at him, bemused and unamused.
“I’m just playing with ya. Anyway... I think that’s my cue. I’ll leave you ladies to it.”
Poor try-hard Ahmed. He was never with us to need to excuse himself in the first place.
“Okay, so now the one-man comedy tour has hit the road, I wanted to address the actual metaphoric elephant. You’re probably aware that Mel is under review.”
I’m clueless. As always, clueless. I love how Bernadette assumes that what she knows in management trickles down to us minions.
“Actually, I didn’t know.”
“Well, perhaps what you do know is that she’s been missing vital events and then getting you to cover up by creating PR stories, which then impacts the rest of your work. I appreciate your initiative and willingness to help. One of your strengths is that you bring solutions instead of problems but don’t feel like you have to cover anyone else’s backside. I don’t want people taking advantage of your conscientiousness.”
“Sorry, Bernadette. I just didn’t want the story to pass. So when she called me the day before the event saying she needed a press release, I had a window of time so I just wrote it.”
“Look, I’m not blaming you at all. You’re a true professional who ensures that the show goes on but, when your colleagues aren’t pulling their weight, you shouldn’t have to carry them.”
I’m flattered by the high praise. That’s something I’ve always received everywhere I’ve worked. Though the truth is, it’s not just because I care about the show going on. I always oblige because I feel that’s my only real offering. A lifetime of trying extra hard to fit in means I really struggle to say no when there’s an opportunity to prove myself invaluable. It’s not for more money. It’s not for recognition. It’s to make up for the fact that I’m different. Since I don’t go to the piss-ups on the weekend, I can’t bring gossip to the table, so my value is based on being wholly reliable. And a bit funny with it. Though not quite at Ahmed’s level of being constantly switched on to the point of annoyance.
“Onto more exciting things,” says Bernadette. “There are lots of opportunities for you that I hope will help achieve your objectives. This isn’t hugely common knowledge yet, but as the company is expanding there will be a big PR campaign to go with it. Head office have already planned to make a song and dance about the office move from Kew to Liverpool Street and I reckon there’s room for the regionals to tap into that momentum. It would be a great opportunity for you to get involved on a national level. I know that’s what you want to get your teeth into.”
I knew the office in London was moving but I didn’t realise where they were moving to. This takes on a whole new significance.
This is my opportunity. I’m going to say it. Going to bring it up. I’m going to bring him up. Though I don’t know how to refer to him. Boyfriend just doesn’t feel right as I don’t see him like that. Partner seems far too grown-up. Special friend is just ridiculous.
Bernadette taps the page on her notepad with the end of her pen. I need to jump on the subject before she moves onto the next point.
“Oh, are they moving to Liverpool Street? That’s where my boyfriend’s from.”
Ooh, that sounded weird.
Bernadette looks up and smiles. “Lovely. Anyway, as I was saying, there’s lots of room for development. Right, shall we talk about your targets for the next six months?”
“Okay, so... national campaigns sound good. Perhaps getting more strategic level project work under my belt rather than ad-hoc press releases would be great,” I say, scrambling for something substantial to add.
“Yes, I agree. I think you would be really good at strategic stuff. Also, we do have a small budget if you need any external training. It doesn’t have to necessarily be directly related to your role as we’re really into professional development.”
“That would be really good. I was just talking to my boyfriend as he works in finance and he often deals with company turnover and it sounds so interesting so maybe... something along those lines.”
I have no idea what I’m talking about.
Bernadette scribbles ferociously. “Yeah, that could work. Brilliant! I’m going to be thinking about this.”
“Oh, definitely. I don’t wanna be in the same position for sure. In fact, I was having a conversation with my boyfriend -”
“Sorry, if you don’t mind... it’s just... I’ve got another appraisal straight after you, so if we could...” Bernadette winds her hand up, signalling for us to move things along. I’ve obviously taken M-planting too far. If I could dissolve into my chair, I really would.
“Oh yes, sorry,” I say, running my hand along the binder of my notebook. It’s like giving myself a scratchy hand massage.
“But I’d love to talk about your overall aims later, we just need to keep to the points on this rather long agenda.”
At least I got to put in a few words about M. So hopefully when she finds out I’m getting married, it won’t be such a shock.
***
I DECIDE TO USE THE commute home wisely and call M.
“So I had my appraisal today and I found out something pretty interesting. The London office is moving from Kew to somewhere more central,” I tease.
“That’s good. It will be easier for us to meet up when you’re next in London for your meetings. Does that mean you’ll be getting the train in from now on? Not that you’ll have many more meetings, I guess.”
“Well, here’s the thing, it’s pretty crazy really. Of all the places in London that they could move to, the office will be relocating to your neck of the woods. Liverpool Dock.”
“Erm, do you mean Liverpool Street?”
I am such a dingbat. “Oh yeah, of course. Liverpool dock is in Liverpool I guess. Or is that Albert Dock? I never understand why London has other city names. Don’t get me started on Scotland Yard. Anyway, yeah, they’re moving to Liverpool Street.”
M laughs in disbelief. “That’s brilliant! What are the odds? Do you think you could get a transfer? I know you like your job.”
We really are kindred spirits. “I was thinking the exact same thing. I’m not sure if they’ll go for it. I don’t know if, as a regional PR, I can be based remotely in the capital. But Bernadette loves me so I’m figuring it will be worth an ask. I don’t wanna get excited though so let’s see.”
Glass half empty, glass half empty. This is too important to jinx with optimism. I’m as shocked as M at this latest development with work. Sophia would always say to me, if it’s meant to be with a guy everything will fall into place. Surely this is another sign that we’re right for each other?
“How do you feel about it all? You know, the potential wedding in July,” I ask.
“You know me. If I could, I’d marry you tomorrow. I just want you here.”
I knew he watched Bollywood movies but I didn’t know he lived by their extra dramatic rules.
“What have you told your work?” I ask.
“Nothing much yet. I mean, I obviously told them about you. They knew about us from the beginning. Once we get engaged I’ll obviously tell them but they don’t need to know the ins and outs of our business.”
“Don’t you think they’ll find it a bit weird how one minute you’re seeing me and within the blink of an eye you’re getting engaged and then married?”
“No,” says M, rather confidently. “They’re pretty open-minded so they understand that we might do things a bit differently. They’ve had enough conversations with me to not be surprised by a quick Bengali wedding.”
“What about your flatmate? What does he make of all of it?”
“I mean, he thinks it’s pretty quick. So I explained to him how things work and now he can’t wait to meet you. Though he is a bit gutted that I’ll be moving out. Which reminds me, I’ve been keeping an eye on the flat rental situation and I’ve seen some nice apartments near where I’m living. I’ll send you some links. Would you be okay if we stayed around Liverpool Street? I think it might be easier as it’s familiar.”
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. We have to figure out where we’re going to live, too! This is mental. There are so many details I haven’t even thought of. I’m not sure why this surprises me. Of course we have to live somewhere.
“Yeah, Liverpool Street way will be fine,” I say, like I know any different. Beyond the East End, I don’t have much of an opinion on the boroughs of London.
”Anyway,” M continues, “to be honest with ya, I don’t really care what anyone thinks. The only thing that really matters in all of this is that you’re happy. And you are happy, right?”
“Yeah, of course. I just worry that things will be rushed. It’s basic things, like I won’t be able to order customised outfits in advance for my sisters. I probably won’t be able to order a lehenga that’s custom made from India.”
“Would you have expected to?” asks M. “I thought most people buy them from the UK?”
He’s got my pretentious arse there. It’s only my Indian and Pakistani friends that have outfits custom-made from their respective motherlands.
“I know you’re a bit apprehensive,” says M. “It’s understandable, as you’re the one that’s going to be coming here having the big life change. For me, I guess, it’s kind of business as usual, except I’ll have you in my life every day. But I said it before, our wedding will be great. I’ll make sure of it.”
He really is a keeper. My Bollywood–esque hero.
“But I have to go,” he says. “I’m heading to the gym just now. Better get my wedding bod in shape. Plus, I didn’t wanna say, but I can barely hear you. The reception is really bad. Have you got me on hands-free?”
“No, sorry. I’m rubbish with technology. You’re on speaker on the passenger seat. Full marks for persevering for this long, I had no idea it was bad on your end. I can hear you fine.”
“Well, if you’re happy to, I can coax you out of your technophobe ways. Only if you’d like to.”
“Hmmm, not sure I’m ready to commit to learning a new skill like that but we’ll see,” I joke.
“Fair enough. Just commit to me for the rest of your life instead.”
Every conversation with M helps me learn something new about him. This call has taught me that the difference between his upbringing in an Asian area, in contrast with mine being the only brownie in the village, is palpable. He’s just so much more comfortable in his own skin. M’s not bothered if our hastily arranged marriage seems weird to anybody outside of the community. He has those awkward conversations that I avoid like the plague. He’s basically more at ease being Bengali in the UK than I have ever been. I applaud his confidence but it also makes me a little sad. I think I’ve been white washing my culture my entire life. Speaking to him just reminds me of that even more.
When did I became so desperate to be anything but Bengali? One memory sticks out. One time in school, when I must’ve been about four or five, we were all told to paint a picture of our mums as a Mother’s Day gift. I proudly painted one long rectangle, the shape of a thin cupboard, in red. I dipped the brush in the red again and painted a diagonal sash across the top. Then, I took the brown paint and drew a circle for a face and long, strong arms.
There. My mum. Like no other.
“What’s that?” asked a classmate whose name I no longer remember.
“It’s a saree.” I was pretty proud of my recreation of mum, my muse.
When I looked around me, I could see that everyone else’s picture was different. Their mums didn’t wear a saree. Some had painted two vertical stripes for the legs. Others had painted triangles, with two L-shapes underneath, pointing outwards for feet. Nobody used brown paint. Most used the palest pink for their circles. Others opted for white.
By the time the next Mother’s Day came around I didn’t use the brown paint. I drew a triangle skirt and did my best attempt at a T-shirt.
My mum, who has been used to a life of difference ever since she moved to the UK as a newlywed teenager, never said a thing. The new painting took pride of place on the fridge, replacing the old her.
I doubt M would have painted his mother in anything but a saree.
The second thing I’ve learnt about him is that his priorities are so different to mine. I’m being really anal and asking for the impossible of:
a) Getting married and progressing a relationship.
b) Taking enough time to ensure that I get to have all the little things I’ve dreamt about.
c) Beating Hassna to the marital post.
He doesn’t care that we’re getting married sooner, he doesn’t care what our wedding day will look like. He just wants... me. I’ve learnt that, perhaps for the first time in my life, I am enough.
I should say the same thing about him, but who am I kidding? I still want a better wedding than Hassna’s. Even if I have to run around like a mad bitch to execute it in record time.
***
AS I OPEN THE DOOR to my home, mum is already in the hallway waiting to greet me like an eager beaver.
“I spoke to his mum today...” she says.
We’re at the stage now where we don’t even need to explain who ‘his mum’ is. It saves a lot of preamble.
“And?” I’m hoping it’s promising.
“We’re going for an end of June engagement. I’ve checked with your sisters and that works out. Obviously you free as you never busy. You’ll be happy as now there be more time for wedding. We’ll go for after the school holiday and I think the best thing is...”
Mum does her lip grimace thing. Bloody hell, what’s she going to come up with now?
“It’s better if we get someone else involved in the wedding planning. You know, someone between boy family and ours. Just to avoid any tricky talk or argument.”
As if our wedding wasn’t convoluted enough. I guess in our culture, there is no such thing as too many cooks spoiling the broth. The more kitchen help the better.