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I must be a proper mug. Like seriously, why do I never learn?
Here I am at the scene of the crime... where half my face was nearly burnt off, on THE DAY OF MY ENGAGEMENT.
“Don’t worry sister,” they said. “We do good makeup for you,” they said. “You will be very fashion, too,” they said. “All for a good price,” they said. That’s the bit that got me. Damn my penny-pinching ways.
So, I didn’t get the burly beautician. Instead, I got the poor, fragile looking teenage one, to whom I gave an ear bashing on my last visit. To be fair, her makeup application is better than anything I would’ve had at a department store. My previous experiences in such establishments haven’t been very encouraging. The makeup artist usually takes one look at my brown face and finds the deepest shade of chocolate foundation assuming that, like white people, I want to go darker with my makeup. I do not.
The kid makeup artist’s efforts have been bolstered by the clean canvass I’ve been prepping prior to the day itself. I did my favourite home-made Ayurvedic face mask of yoghurt, turmeric, gram flour and a drop of honey. I learnt this at uni from one of my Gujarati friends, and it’s a revelation. It peels away any dry patches and blackheads and I swear my skin is two shades brighter after application. That’s probably the turmeric.
My eyebrows are freshly threaded, courtesy of the beauty parlour I discovered behind my work. You can get away with a multitude of makeup sins when you’ve got a clean brow.
Nonetheless, credit where it’s due. She’s applied some nice eyeshadow, matching the colour of the saree blouse I brought with me for context. I’ve decided I’m going to wear the ombre pink and gold number, my first choice from the saree shop.
However, the teenage beautician has committed a few beauty faux pas. She finished my face with a dusting of what looks like talcum powder. According to the YouTube tutorials I’ve been studying, that is a no no. I just hope she has set my face properly. The last thing I need is a makeup meltdown at my own engagement party.
Also, while I’m whingeing, the lipstick selection is a bit poor. There were some brand names I recognised but they were few and far between in a sea of generic, non-descript shades. I suspect the rest of them were bought in bulk from a market.
I’m not happy with the hair efforts either. It turns out that she can only do one style. That is tight ringlets piled on top of my head in a ponytail situation. I dreamt of a chignon or at least something that my own teenage sister wouldn’t be able to have done for me for free. I asked for big curls, she didn’t understand what I was saying as she is new to the UK. So, to my dread, she called on the burly beautician to translate.
“We no do curls. This is very nice though, it suit you,” she tells me.
I don’t dare challenge her.
My ringlets are set with what looks like gel. Isn’t that for boys? As a result, if I was to sustain a mild head injury, my hair would smash into a thousand pieces like the snake-haired mane of Medusa.
I drive extremely carefully on the way home, much to the annoyance of the aggressively hurried drivers in Longsight. I do not want to crack my curls. Again, another small whinge - I would’ve loved to have had someone come to my house and do my makeup. For sixty quid though, I couldn’t really argue (side note: I was shit scared to argue anyway with the big beautician).
When I get home, I’m greeted by my super punctual older sisters. It’s only 11.30am and they managed to commute from their respective homes to get here in good time. I’m especially impressed with big sis, who must’ve got up at the crack of dawn and ferried her kids into the car. As it’s my engagement, it’s a worthy enough occasion for my brother-in-law to also come, so sis was spared the packed-out train.
However, middle sis is determined not to be outdone in the best sister stakes. Not content with my rebuttals of her offers of basically doing everything for my wedding, she arrives with gold scarves for all of us to wear. She sewed them herself from leftover salwar kameez material.
“Oh, thanks but... I was just planning to cover my hair with the saree,” I say.
“This is much nicer though. It’ll really set off the gold stonework and we’ll be all matchy-matchy.” She says this as she’s already securing the scarf on top of my ponytailed head with kirby grips. I guess I’m wearing it then.
“I won’t have to cover my hair, will I?” Little sis is clearly concerned that her efforts to wake up early (well, 10am, which is early for her) to carefully curl out some loose waves will have been futile.
“No,” replies middle sis. “The style is just reserved for us married ladies and the soon to be married one. But is there a way you can work it into your outfit? You’ve got some gold detailing on your salwar kameez.”
“Speaking of gold, you really need to buy some decent jewellery, you know,” big sis informs me. “You can’t be getting married with a simple chain necklace to your name.”
Big sis got married in the golden days when you could buy ingot bars like bars of chocolate. So she pretty much had a set of wedding gold before she even got married. It’s a different climate now, plus 22 carat gold is not really my aesthetic. Girls my age don’t even really wear it now. It seems pointless for the groom’s family to have to spend thousands on the wedding gold that will be worn for one day and put away for eternity. It seems even more pointless that the bride, just to show that she’s not peasant-poor, comes with some gold of her own. That said, I don’t really want to be done out of gold by M and his family. I’m a conformist in some ways. So I suppose I will need to get myself some bling. I must add that to the wedding list.
“Where’s mum?” I ask.
“She’s now in the kitchen, doing everyone’s nut in,” says middle sis. “She obviously doesn’t get that it’s the groom’s side that have to make all the taals and get the gifts. She is frying samosas and kebabs like she’s marrying off a son. I’d steer clear.”
Mum, with her all-hearing ears, bursts into the hallway, where I am being manhandled by my older sisters.
“I didn’t hear you come back. Let me see... oh.” She examines the artistic efforts of the teenage beautician. “Ya Allah! What has she done?”
“Mum, don’t start now,” I warn.
“But... but it’s the eyes. They’re so... pink. let’s try and make it less.”
Of all the times. “Mum, I’m not gonna take it off now.”
“But it looks scary terrible.”
“It’s too late! Don’t start trying to touch my face now.” I swat off my mum’s hand as she tries to pull some strands of hair out of my rock solid ponytail to create an eye covering fringe.
“Dooro, it’s not too late! You can’t go like that.”
“What am I going to do now mum? What am I gonna do?”
“You got makeup upstairs! We got baby wipes downstairs. I always use them to clean table. Hold on, let me get some and wipe your eyes little bit.”
“You can’t. You’ll ruin all of it. Leave it. It’s not that bad, is it?” I look in the square hallway mirror before turning to my sisters for support and validation.
Big sis looks away. “Well, little lady, it is a bit much. Maybe in the pictures it will look okay?”
“She needs to look okay in person! Or shall we tell all our guests and our new family not to come and we’ll just send picture! Hmmph!” Mum is determined to do a haphazard makeover on me. I don’t trust her with a barge pole though, she doesn’t even wear any makeup herself.
Middle sis sees this as her golden opportunity to get involved. “Why don’t you come upstairs with me, I can try and tone it down for you. Then I’ll do a little gold smokey eye,” she says.
“No, you’re not doing smokey anything! You’re always trying to do my makeup and it always goes pear-shaped because you do colours that would suit you. And everything bloody suits you! I’ve paid 60 quid for this face. I’m not messing with it now!”
“What about you?” Mum turns to my teenage sister, who’s busy fussing with her wavy curls in the mirror, jostling me out of the way in the process.
“I can’t do it. I don’t wanna get grief if she doesn’t like it,” she says, tossing an elegant loose wave over her shoulder.
She is still in the hallway. They’ll be referring to me as M’s wife next.
“You’ll be fine,” says mum. “Your makeup is always good. You quickly do something for her. Maybe nice baby pink on eyes.” She is really getting desperate now.
“Mum, I’m not doing it,” says little sis defiantly. “What if her fiancé doesn’t like it and decides not to marry her? I’ll be blamed for ever.”
“Dooro! Then why bother watching YouTube videos if you can’t help your sister! Hmmph! Four daughters and none of you can do makeup!”
“So, you want me to not bother going to uni and just be a makeup artist instead, mum? Like everybody else?” asks little sis.
“Dooro no! You do it as side job. On weekend, in summer. That’s when everybody getting married.”
Mum reaches for my hair again to try and pull out a side-fringe but pokes me in the eye in the process.
“Right that’s it! Get off! Just get off!” I shout at mum, who jumps back in shock. “You always say something when it’s too late. So leave it! You’re all pissing me off now! Nobody touch me or my hair!”
Dad comes into the hallway. “Eh-heh, what’s going on here? Getting late.” He’s wearing the most olive of olive greens. He looks cute though, in his embroidered Panjabi. I bet mum dressed him.
“You no worry! This lady business!” mum shouts back.
Dad shuffles away, knowing his place. “Eh-heh. Everything lady business in this house,” he mumbles.
***
I DIDN’T GET A THRONE. Why is there no throne?
When Hassna got engaged at this very same venue, she sat on her own throne, looking damn regal. What do I get? A bloody chaise lounge. Yes it’s gold, with a shiny nail-head trim, but really? It’s still a chaise lounge. The kind of thing you’d get in a grand house. It’s not fancy enough for an engagement. Not a £13 a head engagement! With their his and her thrones, Hassna and her fiancée got to stand out from the guests in all the wedding photos. Me? I’ll be sitting among the rest of the riffraff, fading into anonymity.
Bloody Hassna’s lot. It’s always a competition. They always have to do better.
Annoyingly, we had to invite them to the party. Reciprocity and all that. So not only do they get to see me in my lower rent seating arrangement, Hassna will be there lording it up, flashing her sparkler around for all to see.
“Masha Allah beautiful!” Auntie Rukhsana cups my face, her eyes creasing up with a smile.
“Oh, thank you. I’m so glad you could make it. Is Naila here?” I ask.
Auntie Rukhsana let’s out a high-pitched nervous giggle. “Ah, she couldn’t come. She busy with work. As you now know this time of year is start of wedding season. So brides need makeup!”
She excuses herself under the guise of needing some paan. She really must stop with that habit. Her teeth are stained a deep burgundy brown.
M and his family haven’t arrived yet. This gives me plenty of opportunity to take some solo shots on my chaise lounge. Except solo shots are a bit tricky when there is ample space on either side of you. I’m joined by various distant cousins, nephews, nieces and a couple of randoms whom I have never met and I can’t really imagine why they made the engagement party list, given that we’re limited with numbers.
It’s annoying enough that my photo opportunities are being sabotaged, I’m also paying for the destruction. Well, at the moment mum and dad are paying for it. Whenever I ask about settling the bill, she just replies with “we’ll sort it later,” or “we’ll talk about it after the wedding”. I’m not sure if she’s expecting to foot the bill for my wedding. I earn enough myself. However, I think the tradition of parents paying for the wedding is something that mum and dad just can’t shake off, out of pride more than anything. I don’t want them to be out of pocket though, after all I’ve been stingy all my life so I might as well spend a bit now.
Mum comes onto the stage. “You eat now. You won’t have time when his lot come.”
I’ve been given a nice long table at the side of the stage, just for me and my immediate family. The samosas are disappointing, laden with grease and the thick, doughy pastry so synonymous with restaurants. I much prefer the crispy, thin variety made by mum. I guess it’s a good thing that the food is pants, as it gives me less chance of ruining my lipstick. Of course, I forgot to bring a lipstick to top up with me. I’m so rubbish like that.
The mains of chicken and vegetable curry are better, though I barely get a chance to enjoy it. I hate eating curry and rice with a fork. Especially restaurant rice, with their loose, fluffy grains. I’m scooping, gathering and piling on my fork, which takes twice as long to eat than if I’d just got stuck in with my hands. Still, it’s not for nothing that I’ve been growing my nails for the last fortnight. Little sis gave me a French manicure last night and I’ll be dammed if I stain the white tips yellow. I want to flaunt these talons at work next week, along with my brand new ring from my ‘surprise’ proposal.
About five mouthfuls in, I hear a bit of a commotion. There are whispers that the groom’s side is arriving. I’m ushered off the table to the other side of the venue, which is handily sectioned off with ugly room dividers. They’re the kind you’d get in an office. They didn’t even bother trying to decorate them. A little bow stapled to the wall wouldn’t have gone unappreciated.
Heading to my family’s side of the venue, I get to see the rest of the guest list, which, of course, I had no say in. Auntie Jusna is back with Rashda and the kids as well as her son Iqbal and his new wife. It’s nice to see the new addition to the family without a shit-tonne of makeup on. I’ve only seen her twice before. Once at her wedding, where I almost couldn’t detect any human features under the mountain of bling. The second time we’d invited her round for the obligatory dawat lunch, where we fed them roast chicken and samosas and a cup of warm, sugary milk as a welcome to the family. It’s always a fun occasion, Iqbal’s wife Rehana played her part well, feigning shock when we presented her with the also obligatory gift of a saree. There was a fuss with her not wanting to accept it (though she obviously wanted it - I helped mum choose well) and after playing a fake tug of war with a shopping bag, she relented. Today she looks fresh faced with her fashionably black saree finished off with silver work. I notice Iqbal is wearing a black tie to coordinate. Cute.
Next thing, M’s mum and his older sister-in-law have come through the barrier. Okay, that sounds a little dramatic. It’s not like they bound their way through like a couple of boulders. They walked through the very easily accessible opening at the front.
I don’t make eye contact with his mum, not for any reason beyond the fact that I think I should be shy. However, when mum turns to me and says “say salaam,” I realise I made the wrong call.
M’s mum greets me back and then continues talking to my mum. I’m still scared of her. I guess it comes with the territory to have a healthy amount of fear of your mother-in-law.
All my siblings have stood to attention, so seizing the opportunity, M’s sister-in-law comes and sits next to me. “You look so pretty,” she says. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay. A little nervous though.”
“Don’t be.” She leans in. “They’re really nice people. And everybody likes you.”
She clasps my hand, interlocking her fingers with mine. I like her. I think she’ll be on my side.
Uncle Tariq makes an appearance, with an entourage of M’s older and younger brother. The siblings are wearing matching black suits. I’m not sure if that was intentional or black is just the easiest colour and it was a happy accident. All three wise men are laden with gift baskets and bags of mishti, which they promptly settle on my table, right in front of me.
“There you go. Gifts for bride. Go on, I know you want to look.” Uncle Tariq was always a big tease. He said the exact same thing, minus the bride, when he used to come to our house when we were little, weighed down with bags of sweets and multipack crisps. Except this time it’s a little more embarrassing as my future mother-in-law is stood right there, smiling nervously. She doesn’t know his humour so she perhaps thinks I’m just desperate to see the spoils of my man-hunting efforts.
I try to look anywhere but at the gifts in front of me, though I’m very intrigued. All this for me? Well, not all the mishti sweets obviously. It’s still flattering nonetheless. I don’t think I’ve ever had so many gifts since my 21st birthday.
There is a little fuss about where I’m going to get changed. Sometimes the groom’s side heads back to the bride’s house and she wears the saree that they’ve bought to do a little fashion show for them. However, uncle Tariq, the appointed mediator, comes back with some crucial intel.
“They won’t be coming round. So... she’ll have to wear the saree here,” he says, looking mortified at having to discuss the idea of me getting changed. “I’ve looked at the bathroom and it is completely unsuitable. It’s barely a bathroom.” His dark leathered skin takes on a slight blush. I’m embarrassed for him.
Mum looks ever so slightly relieved that she won’t have to host my in-laws at home. That means her beloved freezer stash of samosas will live to see another day. Though this new development does present its own challenges. Namely, where the hell, and how the hell, will I get changed in an open-plan restaurant?
Middle sis, who still doesn’t look remotely pregnant, hatches a plan. “You know they’ve got those screens over there, you could get changed behind there. It’s totally discreet.”
Behind the anonymity of the screen, I get to examine the precious booty that has been curated for me. A baby pink satin effect saree, with a diamanté stone trim border, is delicately wrapped in a cellophane basket. I imagine that was my sister-in-law’s handiwork.
There is another gift basket. This one contains a diamante necklace and earrings set, bought to match my outfit. There’s also, rather hilariously, one of those metal suitcase type thingies you get in department stores that contain terrible makeup that you’ll never wear. It probably cost about twenty quid, so it’s a good thing I didn’t give my real request to my sister-in-law. It would’ve been terribly ill judged. Luckily, I’m not expected to wear the makeup, though I imagine mum would have loved to use some to mute out my pink eyeshadow.
Big sis, the saree aficionado among us, is in charge of doing the Superman-quick outfit change.
“You could do a bit better with the pleat job,” I tell her, as she hurriedly gathers the material and stuffs it down my petticoat.
“Lady, this is the best I can do. I’m feeling the pressure. God, didn’t they even give pins? I need safety pins!” she shouts like a fashion designer backstage at London Fashion Week.
Suddenly, there is another pair of hands as mum starts tugging the saree border further over my head.
“We need to cover more hair!” says mum as she manages to almost crack my brittle overly-gelled hair style. “Stop pleating the front, you’ll see boob! It looks rude!” she shouts at middle sis who has now got involved and is daring to make the saree look remotely chic.
“Don’t worry, it’s not like she has anything to show!” cackles auntie Jusna, who has taken it upon herself to pop round the screen and get in on the action.
I’ve never been so violated in my life. Plus, I’m wearing a high neck saree blouse so there really isn’t any boob on display. There isn’t a full length mirror in sight, which is perhaps a blessing as I won’t get to see how much of a hot mess I am. I emerge from the screen as a vision (of sorts) to make my way to the stage once more.
Now I can get a full view of M’s side of the venue. I can’t see him, as there’s a group of blokes around him. Then, they seem to part like the Red Sea, no doubt giving him the chance to have a better look at his bride-to-be, who’s now sat on the stage. M’s smartly dressed in a navy suit and his baby pink tie isn’t lost on me. We’re already coordinating. A guy I have not seen before, who is perhaps one of his friends, smiles and whispers something in M’s ear. M smiles too, looking at me. It’s nice that he invited a friend to share the day with him. I didn’t think to ask Sophia or Julia. Now though, I think it would’ve been nice to have them enjoy it with me, as it’s a day we talked about so often.
My sisters, mum and dad come and sit next to me on the stage for the standard family photos. There’s no professional photographer. So it seems like that responsibility has been unofficially bestowed on several people, including uncle Tariq, Iqbal and his wife. I’m not hopeful for how this photo will turn out. Between a man in his late fifties and a loved up young couple, I’m expecting lots of heads cut off and unflattering angles. Still, beggars can’t be choosers. I did consider hiring a professional but given that it was more expensive than my monthly salary, it just didn’t seem worth it. I’ll save that for the wedding and mehendi.
Big sis, who has taken pride of place next to me, whispers: “Don’t make too much eye contact with him! Try and be a bit coy and look down. Right! Let’s get the kids in as well for a group shot.”
My mum, who’s sat on my other side, has her own advice to impart. “Don’t smile too much. Okay, smile a bit. Just lit-ool smile. Don’t want to look too happy, like you’re desperate to get married.”
Oh, how I wish I had my own throne so I could avoid these matrons in such ear-bending proximity that they can give me a complex. I revert to a non-smile, which unfortunately for me is a resting bitch face. I don’t really have anything in between.
Speaking of thrones, I don’t see Hassna here. Perhaps she’s busy trialling the top makeup artists for her own big day, the ones with over a million Instagram followers and a price tag to match. Not that I’m bitter or anything.
Now it’s the turn of M’s family to take to the stage for some photo opps. There is an unspoken order of appearance, a bit like the Oscars red carpet. First the big brother, who shuffles awkwardly and fusses with his tie as he sits down on the one seater gold chair, as far away from me as possible. His wife, however, sidles up next to me.
“Just leave it,” she hisses to my soon-to-be brother-in-law. He then straightens out his tie one final time, before lifting his jacket by the collar, as if to make himself appear taller. Or maybe broader. I don’t really know.
“Come on, say hello to your new auntie,” M’s sister-in-law tells her children, an adorable boy and girl.
The boy looks terribly shy and doesn’t say a word. Instead, he sits on his mum’s knee and plays with the toy car he’s got in his hand. The little lady seems a lot more confident, greeting me with a cute: “Hi! My name’s Sameera!”
“Nice to meet you, Sameera. I love your dress,” I reply.
“Thank you. It’s my birthday dress.”
“Oh, and how old are you?” I ask.
“I’m seven,” she replies, obviously very proud of her advancing years. “This is Ibrahim. He is five.” She points towards her brother, who has now buried his face in his mum’s sequinned shoulder. “And he’s a little bit shy.”
My brother-in-law scarpers as the first unofficial photographer, Iqbal, puts down his mobile phone. His wife hangs back. “Oh, just so you know, after the photos, your in-laws are going to come and present you with the ring. They’re a bit old-fashioned like that. They’re not into the whole couple sitting together exchanging rings kind of thing. Is that okay? I think you’ll like the ring. He showed me earlier. It’s very pretty.”
I smile to avoid telling an outright lie. I guess M wasn’t fibbing when he said his mum normally does the ring shopping. I notice his sister-in-law is wearing a Bangladeshi boat ring. Poor thing.
It’s hardly likely that I’m going to be able to object to the ring request. So I guess I’m getting engaged to his mum. I assume someone from my family will slap M’s watch around his wrist. I’m glad Hassna is not here to see this.
As they exit the stage, the family arrangement goes a bit rogue. Next thing, my little sister and M’s equivalent join me, one teenager on each side.
“You look boot-ful,” says M’s sis.
“You scrub up well yourself,” I say, genuinely. She looks really nice in her blue and green ombré effect saree. Her streaked hair has taken on a purple tone. What a cool kid she is.
Along with the amateur paparazzi, both teenagers proceed to take a bunch of selfies with me.
“Shall I send you the pics?” M’s sister asks mine.
“Yeah, that would be great. Your phone camera’s way better than mine.”
“Okay, I’ll take your number.”
Though this digit swapping could have taken place off stage, I also find it rather sweet. They’ve reached the next phase of their friendship. M and I better go through with this wedding to preserve this blossoming relationship.
M’s mum and dad finally come to the stage. My face reddens. I’ve had basically zero interaction with his dad, and a few stilted conversations with his mum. As a PR person communication is my forte but that’s communication in English. When it comes to my raw hand-me-down basic Bengali, I get tongue-tied.
As M’s mum places the delicate diamond ring on my right hand (I don’t dare correct her), she asks: “Is it a bit loose?”
“Erm, a little bit,” I say before immediately regretting my response. Should I say that? Does it sound like I’m complaining? Or ungrateful?
“Don’t worry. You gain weight after wedding so it will fit just fine.”
M’s mum looks at her husband as if to prompt him to say something, anything.
“Bala nee?” he finally asks, whilst looking down at his functional Velcro-fastened leather shoes. It looks like his wife also dressed him. I’m sure that like my dad, if he had it his way, he’d like to fade into obscurity.
“Jee bala,” I reply, assuming that “yes, I’m good”, is the right response. Or have I got that wrong, too?
With that obligatory pleasantry out of the way, I lift my gaze into the crowd that has now gathered. Some are there to take photos on their respective phones, others just to have a good old nosey.
The only person I can’t spot in the crowd is Rashda. She’s instead still sat on the other side of the partition, tucking into the desert of gulab jamun, while every other place setting has an uneaten bowl. A dessert I’ll be missing out on as I have to sit on stage as the main prop in everyone’s photo call.
She must feel my eyes on her as she looks up and gives me a thumbs up, then grabs a second round of the sticky sweet dessert, nabbed from her mum’s place setting. Divorce has turned her rebellious, nonconformist, and camera shy. She’s like a whole different person to the cousin I grew up admiring. Though I think I like this new badass version more.
***
I CAN’T STOP STARING at it. I can’t stop staring at the ring in the shiny wooden box on my shared bedside cabinet. It’s not big and flashy. It’s understated. Simple. Mine.
“Can you turn the light off now?” Little sis is obviously exhausted from the long day of work she didn’t do.
Still, it’s 11.35pm on a school night. I don’t think I’ll get a comfortable night’s sleep as I’m still rocking my rock-hard Medusa hair. It doesn’t matter though, it’s a small casualty for a perfect day. Even if M and I spent it with a minimum distance of three metres apart, it was our day.
I do my ritualistic phone check before bed. There are several consecutive messages from M:
I’m just driving back to London but wanted to stop off to message you.
Today was amazing. You looked stunning and my sister-in-law was saying how nice you are.
Thanks for my watch. I love it! You chose really well. And not just the watch ;)
Did you have a good day? I know our families didn’t manage to talk about setting a wedding date. I think my mum is going to call your mum this week to finalise. You can bet I’m just counting down the days until you’re here with me.