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I’m getting engaged in seven days. That’s mental.
I feel like I’m pulling off a feat of unimaginable proportions. I know that reality stars often get married in a matter of days but they have a whole TV crew to help. I just have an un-merry band of sisters, an overbearing mum and a gentle yet vacant dad.
M’s watch arrived a few days ago. I was bricking it on two points. First, I was worried it wouldn’t even arrive as it was taking its sweet time. Then, when the brown jiffy bag finally made an appearance, I was terrified that it would be obvious that I’d cut corners on the price. Would it come without a branded box? Perhaps it’d be missing a manufacturer’s guarantee? Or maybe, just maybe, it would be engraved on the back with the message: Enjoy your knockoff timepiece from your cheap bitch wife, you sucker!
Thankfully I could breathe a sigh of relief. There were no such tell-tale signs. It looks like, to all intents and purposes, a regular Armani watch.
Today is also the last day I’ll see M before our engagement. On this rare occasion, he’s not coming to Manchester, nor are we meeting at Heathrow Airport. My work seems to be rooting for us, as I’ve got a PR meeting in central London. Head office finally decided that it would be more equitable (and cost-effective) for us regionals to get a train into central London and meet at a nearby hired venue, rather than getting up at the crack of dawn, taking a flight from Manchester Airport (or a train, two tube trips and a taxi ride for Michael, my midlands-based equivalent), spending hours in security on either side, only to be at the head office for one hour.
Instead, we’ve got a day of internal training. I’ll be meeting M after work and staying at uncle Tariq’s that night. It’s far too long a day not to stop in the capital. Plus, it’ll be nice to stay with my family for the first time in years. We used to go there every summer and my cousin would regale me with her stories of debauchery with any Tom, Dick or Harry (there was never a Syed or Bilal in the mix). I wasn’t sure whether to believe her stories but then she went and married a white guy. As she’ll be stopping over too, I’m looking forward to catching up and hearing the gossip as her wedding was very hush-hush.
The funny thing is, I’ve not told my colleagues in HQ that I’m even seeing someone. So it’ll come as a bit of a surprise when they find out I’m about to get engaged and I’m hoping to book a seat at the new head office.
***
I CAN’T WAIT FOR THE work day to be done. Delilah, the head of PR, has taken it upon herself to hire an external trainer to teach us how to deal with journalists (it’s not like that’s what we do every single day).
“The nationals love a good human interest story. Especially ones about hospital openings,” says Damian, the trainer, as he reaches for an avocado and sun-dried tomato sandwich, the last meat-free option. I guess that’s me done for lunch, then.
Jamie, my south region equivalent, speaks for us all when he takes issue with this.
“In our experience, the only time the national media is interested in our stories is if there’s a breakthrough treatment, which we hardly ever have.”
“Or a bad news story like medical negligence, or gross misconduct, which we have quite a lot,” I chip in.
Damian disagrees. “Anything can be a story. Context is everything. A big focus is on the BAME community. The number of times I’ve been approached to give comment from the perspective of a ‘man of colour’,” he does a finger quotation wiggle, “I’ve lost count. If that’s what the media want, I’m happy to oblige. So, if you have any medical voices that are black or Asian, and I suspect you have a few Indian doctors, you should use them.”
He looks directly at me for his last point, as though I’ve been assigned every single ethnic minority medic in the business under my PR portfolio.
Jamie leans towards me and whispers: “Am I a minority? Being gay?”
“I don’t think that counts. You’re not brown enough. Sorry,” is my educated response.
Damian’s not done dishing his pearls of wisdom. “Oh, and blogs! I’d definitely look at blogs but choose them wisely. I write a technology blog and beauty PRs are always reaching out to me. It’s great but there’s only so many nail polishes my daughter needs.”
If they’re not his target market, why is he even accepting nail polishes? More to the point, you get free beauty stuff just from having a blog? Even if it’s unrelated? I need to get on this pronto and publish my diary. Though I think I’ll wait until after the wedding and still keep things anonymous. Just in case M divorces me out of sheer shame.
***
AT THE END OF THE SESSION, my colleagues head to the pub. I politely decline, not just because I’ve sipped enough cans of coke today. “I’ll have to see you guys at dinner,” I inform everyone.
“Why? Where you off too?” asks Jamie, the serial nosey parker.
“I’m going to meet my... this guy I’m seeing, for a bit.” It still feels super awkward to say ‘boyfriend’. I think I’ll just graduate from boy I’m seeing/dating/getting-to-know-for-the-purposes-of-marriage, to husband.
“Ooh... say no more, lovey. Kept that quiet, you minx,” says Jamie.
“Leave her alone,” says Delilah. “Not everyone shares every detail about their personal life at work.”
Jamie looks offended but he does share everything. Every single swipe right.
Having excused myself, I rush to the very small bathroom with my wheelie travel trolley to put some makeup on. There’s barely any room to swing a cat inside there, as the building is basically an old townhouse. Like most properties in London, what was once a family home has been converted into office spaces or flats for rent. The peach tiled bathroom I’m in must’ve been the spare one back in the day, used by household staff.
There is precious little room for my wheelie suitcase as the toilet is so close to the door, so I abandon my plans of getting changed and just apply a quick slick of my trusty eyeliner and another smear of muted pink lipstick.
M’s already outside, waiting for me in his Audi TT, parked on a double yellow line. I hope he doesn’t incur a fine. The last thing I want is for our collective wedding expenses to rack up.
“Have you eaten?” he asks me as I climb into his car.
“Well, I had a sandwich lunch, if that counts. It was a shared platter.” That’s my code for saying ‘I’m hungry, let’s eat’.
Luckily we’re synced enough for M to say: “Okay, shall we grab something? I thought it’s a nice evening so we can drive somewhere then walk a bit. I can give you a little tour en route.”
The sun gradually sets as we drive through central London.
“So, this is the Tower of London. I know you said you’ve seen that, so I’ll go down Embankment and head towards the London Eye. Are you okay, by the way? You’re very quiet.”
I’m letting him do the talking for once as I’m taking in the atmosphere while listening intently to my tour guide. We drove through the Tower of London as a family years ago when going to a wedding. I didn’t drive, thankfully. I’d be far too nervous in such a busy place. That duty was bestowed upon my eldest brother-in-law. One of the responsibilities for any men who marry into my family is to become the designated driver by default. I’m looking forward to being more of a passenger after getting married. It’s kind of part of the deal.
The traffic is busy but flowing, while Coldplay’s Fix You plays on the radio. The window is wound down, just enough to let in the spring air. It feels warmer here than Manchester. I look up in awe at the imposing, grand tower that’s above us. I’m not familiar with all the bridges in London but I doubt there’ll be one more majestic than Tower Bridge.
Unlike me, M is at ease behind the wheel. Driving through perhaps the most congested street in the country doesn’t faze him one bit. His relaxed demeanour bleeds into every aspect of him. From his chilled out attitude towards wedding planning, to the comfy attire he’s wearing tonight. I like his navy Ralph Lauren Polo t-shirt, paired with tan chinos. I wonder if those are the chinos he was wearing in the first photo I saw of him. As I look down I see his Adidas sliders. I’m going to try and un-see that. I detest men’s feet.
“I’m okay,” I say. “I’m just exploring my soon-to-be home.”
“Sooner than ever now. How do you feel about it all?” he asks.
“Good. I feel good. I know I’ve been a bit indecisive. That’s been more to do with the timing rather than anything else. I’ve never really doubted us.”
“Or maybe at the beginning you doubted me, right?”
He’s got me there. I think he might be recalling our first coffee date, where I was a little hesitant. I’d gotten over my shallow concerns but it would be a bit of a stretch to say I was sure he was the one I was going to marry. “Yeah, at first I wasn’t sure but then who is?”
“I was. I knew from the first time we met.”
I laugh. More out of nervousness than anything else. The compliments are much easier to absorb over the phone than they are in person. “You watch far too many Bollywood movies.”
“And you struggle to take any kind of praise. I’m surprised you’re not used to it,” says M.
He parks up on what he informs me is the south side of the river. We meander down a narrow street, which then opens out into a pedestrianised area, alive and bustling.
M points to an old round black and white building with Tudor-esque wooden beams. “And this is Shakespeare’s Globe, where we’ll be going next February. This way is the Millennium Bridge.”
I’m hungry at this point and wondering when food will be coming. I’m hoping there is something on the other side of the bridge. This part of town doesn’t look like it’ll be up to much in terms of food offerings.
As we walk up the ramp of the footbridge, M stops me to point out yet another iconic structure. “So behind you is the Tate Modern and can you see on the other end?”
I look over to see a white domed building I’ve seen on TV countless times. “Oh yeah. What’s it called? I can’t for the life of me remember.”
I turn around to find M on one bended knee, with the Shakespeare’s Globe providing a suitable backdrop in the distance.
Oh my God, what’s he doing? Is he serious? Is he proposing? With a Bangladeshi boat ring?
“That’s St Paul’s Cathedral. Now it’s my turn to ask a question... will you marry me?”
He’s holding open a small wooden ring box. Thankfully, the Millennium Bridge is well illuminated so I can see that inside is a ring, made of platinum or white gold, with a small, solitaire diamond. I can’t believe it. This stuff doesn’t happen to me. I never in a million years thought I’d get proposed to in this way. It’s the kind of thing that happens in movies, not in my life. The wedding is in the bag. He didn’t actually need to propose.
Before I can think up a rational response, these words start coming out of my mouth: “Oh, you’ll do.”
***
I’M PLEASED TO SAY after the rather magical, yet arguably somewhat pretentious proposal, M’s got back to his northern England Bengali boy roots. We eschewed the many chain restaurants around the Southbank in favour of a kebab shop. I opted for a chicken tikka wrap for my pre-dinner dinner, while a donner kebab was his meal of choice. Though he was quick to inform me that this would be his only meal, unlike me. He’s on a mission to get his wedding body in shape.
“So, you were winding me up when you said your mum will be choosing my ring?”
“No. That was the plan. Then, after speaking to you, it was pretty clear that it’s not the done thing. So I told my mum I’ll be getting you a ring.”
“Did you really need me to tell you?” I ask, still in shock.
“The thing is, only a couple of my mates are married and we don’t talk about that stuff, so I have no idea what they bought their wives, or if they even proposed.”
I take a closer look at my ring. I can’t quite believe I’m wearing it.
M catches me twisting it around on my finger. “Is it a bit loose? I had to take a guess at your size. The bloke at the jewellers laughed when the only measurement I could offer was ‘slim fingers’. It took several trips to Hatton Garden with my poor colleague Jane to get the right ring for you.”
He went to all this effort for me? I’ve heard of Hatton Garden. It seems to be the place to go for the man who wants to impress.
That’s not the only length M went to in order to find the perfect ring. “You’re gonna think I’m mad but I’ve actually bought you a second ring to compare. They’re both really similar but the other one is more yellow in colour. You know, the things that you have to look for when it comes to diamond -”
He stops schooling me on precious gemstones when he sees the smirk on my face. “Yeah, I’m a bit of an expert now. I guess I could be a gemmologist if my finance career goes to pot.”
“Well, hopefully that’ll never happen but it’s always good to have a backup. By the way, I’m sorry about my response to your proposal.”
M laughs. “Don’t be sorry. It was brilliant.”
“It’s just that... you know how I am. I don’t mean to be.” I look down. I really am no good at this.
His laugh turns to a genuine smile. “I know. And I know you. Don’t change.”
* * *
NOTHING CAN GET ME over the high of tonight. I was proposed to in a way I’d so often seen in movies and on TV. The one that colleagues gush about but I didn’t ever think I’ll experience.
I’m not sure if I’ve ever been this happy or content. My glass is definitely half full.
That’s not the only thing that’s full though. I’ve eaten three dinners. Three. I’m not even joking. I panic-ate at the work dinner because the food looked so good. M dropped me off in Soho at this incredibly cool dimly lit Vietnamese restaurant. I didn’t tell work about the surprise proposal because I left the ring with M to resize. Plus, I didn’t want to risk losing it on the train home or worse, leaving it at my uncle Tariq’s.
I was only planning to nibble on something out of politeness and mention that I met with my boyfriend (now fiancé) for food, so wasn’t overly hungry. Then I saw the summer rolls. I’ve only ever had the deep-fried spring alternative. After one bite of those cold rice paper rolls, dipped in rather pungent fish sauce, I was hooked. To make matters worse, the menu had a halal chicken option. It’s rude not to eat when there’s the coveted halal offering which can be few and far between in any cuisine other than Indian. Dinner was rounded off with banoffee pie, which was sensibly shared between the four of us. It was too tasty not to get involved, plus I only ended up having a few spoons. Everything seemed to taste better at the restaurant. Maybe it was my positive demeanour rubbing off on my tastebuds.
Then I was force-fed at uncle Tariq’s. Okay, force-fed is a bit much. I would say it was strongly insisted by auntie Rukhsana.
“You’ve gone so thin! That’s not good with your wedding coming up. Men like meat on bones. Good thing you’re getting married before ruza, otherwise you’d be a skinny bride!” she said as she laid down a bowl of water on the shiny mahogany table for me to wash my hands. There was no need for such formalities. The table was already creaking under the weight of multiple delectable curry dishes. I could wash my hands in the kitchen. I’m not a special guest.
She’s right, I do lose weight to the point of being gaunt during Ramadan. Which is why I’m so glad that this year it falls just after our wedding.
Auntie Rukhsana plied me with roast chicken. It was Bangladeshi style, meaning drumsticks and thighs, pan-cooked in a thick, dry onion masala. It would be rude to refuse really. I haven’t tasted my auntie’s food for about eight years. It’s still how I remember it. Heavily spiced, well seasoned and rich in oil. She does a mean roast chicken, possibly on a par with my mum’s.
Us Bengalis are feeders. It’s practically blasphemous for a host not to offer a full meal. It’s equally offensive if guests refuse such a meal. It doesn’t matter what time of the day or night you arrive, you’ll be getting rice. My taxi got me from trendy Soho to up-and-coming Tower Hamlets at 10.30pm. I didn’t even bother changing into a family-appropriate salwar kameez before arrival. I figured that given my cousin Naila’s situation, they wouldn’t be judging.
I don’t dare ask uncle Tariq anything about the wedding mediation. Since we’re not even engaged yet, I don’t think there is actually anything to ask. He’ll soon be getting in the thick of it though, being the go-between when we sort out the venue, decide on the menu, and arrange those finickity things like timing of mine and M’s arrival. Plus, it would be rather bold and forward to ask my uncle about my forthcoming nuptials. I mean, what business is it of mine?
It’s funny, this used to be such a familiar place growing up as it was an annual summer holiday destination. We stopped coming here as we got older. It didn’t seem appropriate for us to sleep three in a bed and too many of us daughters started outgrowing the upper age limit of the child pass on the family railcard.
Yet, all these years on, it feels like nothing has changed. The pokey council flat in the high-rise tower block is still teeming with furniture. They don’t have the luxury of a living room and separate dining room that we do. Canary Wharf still twinkles in the distance. My uncle, though slightly more weathered with time, still sits on the window ledge in his lunghi, smoking and polluting the already thick London air. I always wanted to swap our three-bed semi with their more modest living arrangement. I feel like I was born a city girl and something of a fish out of water being the only Asian in a white community. Here, you couldn’t move for Bengalis. While my cousin complained about it, my uncle and auntie never had any desire to move.
So strong was Naila’s dislike of brown-ness that she seemed to make it her business to date every white guy that she came across. And there weren’t many, I imagine, in Tower Hamlets.
Naila married someone called Darren. We were never invited to the wedding. I never really heard much about it. Her brothers have also flown the nest, moving under the guise of work. I’ve not heard of them getting married but I couldn’t comment on their domestic arrangement. Uncle Tariq just doesn’t talk about it.
Despite their kids perhaps choosing a different path than they would have liked, they don’t seem to mind. Or at least they don’t show it. My mum would be going out of her mind if I married a white guy. She’s always complaining about something, too. House is too small. Daughter still not married. My uncle and auntie couldn’t be more different. They appear happy with their lot. Content. A permanent state of glass half full. That must be nice.
***
“OH MAN, YOU HAVEN’T changed!” says Naila. I’m not sure if she’s saying that’s a good thing or bad. My money is on bad.
“So, are you excited to be getting hitched? I hope you tried before you buyed?”
She hasn’t changed much either, it would seem. Even her grammar is as terrible as I remember.
Naila can still read my face like a book. “Oh you haven’t? Oh bless ya, man. You’re still a village bumpkin but I love you for it.”
She’s always had this way of making me feel inferior, innocent and a bit simple. I’ve always had a way of conforming to my environment. In front of my white friends and colleagues I talk a good talk, or at least I go along with the assumptions about my relationship. Yet with family I’m always treading carefully. Cautious of who will say what, how things will get exaggerated beyond recognition. Even so, I’m still the odd one out. Sometimes it feels like I’m leading a double life and not fitting into either.
“Without properly getting to know him, how did you know he was the one?”
I didn’t anticipate such a deep question. “It wasn’t one specific thing. It was just the more I thought about it and the more I got to know him, the idea of not having him in my life was worse than having him. I remember one time, quite early on, he didn’t return my messages for hours. It sounds like nothing and we had only just started dating. My head filled with irrational thoughts about how maybe something bad had happened. I know that’s really melodramatic but as our relationship was a secret then, I didn’t even have anybody to share it with, which made things worse. Anyway, it turned out he was just playing football and he always keeps his phone on silent, which is actually very annoying. I didn’t tell him how worried I was, he might think I’m a bunny boiler. At that point I think I knew. That probably sounds really sad.” I look down, waiting for a patronising response.
“No, that’s not sad at all. It’s really sweet. And your reasoning is way more romantic than mine.”
“Why, what’s yours?”
Naila blinks her full, thick lashes for a long second. It almost looks like her hazel eyes are going to well up. “Don’t you know? It’s old news around here. I’m the Brick Lane bike, innit? Everyone knows my shit. I’ve always told you, that’s the bad side of living in Bangla town. Yeah, I went out with a few white lads as a teenager but I always figured I’d settle down with a Bengali boy. No chance. In east London, everyone knows everything. People I don’t even know started chatting shit to my dad. Dad was annoyed enough that I hadn’t gone to uni and I decided to be a makeup artist. From that point, he’d kind of written me off. So with parents not looking for a rishtaa, what choice did I have? I met Darren, he didn’t care about my past. So that was it. I married him. Do you wanna know the saddest bit of all? Nobody even stopped me.”
“That’s better though, isn’t it? I figured half the issue with marrying a white guy is all the crap you get from your family.”
“Yeah, you get crap, if they give a crap. That’s my point. They stopped caring. Dad called a few people, I guess your mum was one of them, telling them that I’m getting married. I didn’t even have a proper wedding. It was a cup of tea job at home, to make things halal. The thing is, I act like a coconut but I’d have loved to have worn a lehenga and all that. Doesn’t every girl?”
I think she’s expecting more sympathy from me. That would be the natural reaction. It would feed the narrative I’ve seen on the news, in countless soap operas and TV shows. Naila the damsel in distress and her parents the pantomime villains. It fits in nicely with the western view that us brownies are a backward bunch. However, in so many stories like this, the other side rarely get to say their piece. Uncle Tariq and auntie Rukhsana came to the UK as adults. They spent their lives in a country where there was only their own community to marry. The only world they knew was one where boys and girls are expected to be good and get married to someone suitable. It’s how everyone did things for centuries. So to find that their kids have taken a different path must have been hard for them to reconcile. I’m not taking their side, I’m not justifying their position, but I can understand their conflict.
Naila’s staring right at me, waiting for a response. It’s unnerving. I’m trying to do my best non-judge-y poker face but I can’t stop thinking how much my uncle and auntie have aged. I saw a picture of them at a family wedding from about three years ago. He wasn’t anywhere near as leather-faced back then and she didn’t have a single grey hair.
Street-smart Naila sees straight through me, with my naive, village bumpkin ways. “Still, I made my bed I guess,” she says. “Anyway, it’s all good. The thing with marrying a white guy is they don’t judge my past. Boyfriends are expected. It’d be weird if I hadn’t dated anyone. His family are lovely. I feel like I’ve wiped the slate clean. It’s a fresh start. I didn’t get my lehenga. So instead I wore the whitest fucking dress I could find to look pure and innocent for my wedding day.”
She turns to her dressing table mirror to adjust a false eyelash. Funny, I thought it was real. I must ask her what brand it is. Perhaps tomorrow morning though, now doesn’t seem like a good time.
“You know what, none of that really matters. It’s not like you were disowned from the family,” I reason. “I mean, you still come and stay over.”
“This is the first time I stayed over since I got married last year and I only live down the road in Dagenham. It’s not that they stop me coming, it’s just that they never ask. I’ve come home now because I want my mum’s cooking. It’s been too long and Darren and I eat like students. After a bit, spaghetti Bolognese made with Dolmio sauce gets boring. So yeah, I’m not disowned. There wasn’t a big argument. I just didn’t live up to expectations. Funny, dad was always telling me how brilliant you are.”
“Me?” I didn’t think uncle Tariq even gave me a second thought.
“Yeah, you went to uni. Got a proper job. Now you’re marrying a proper decent Bengali boy. I know I give you shit, calling you a village bumpkin and all that but you actually turned out okay.”
Naila hugs me goodnight, before retiring to her brothers’ old room. I get to stay in her bed. Now it looks like it’s a guest bedroom, devoid of all her personal touches.