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What should be a simple note to tell people where and when to turn up becomes a posturing game of one-upmanship. Big sis had a simple cream shiny card with some kind of gold filigree detail. A few years later, Rashda upped the stakes by going for a slightly more elaborate card with three layers inside - one for each ceremony and each in a different colour. Middle sis had no choice but to follow suit. She didn’t go for all the inserts (the poorer cousins as always) but she did go for a colourful card in bridal red.
Fast forward nearly a decade and I find myself facing off with Rashda’s younger sister, Hassna.
Her wedding card has just arrived. Only it’s not a card, it’s a blooming box. As in 3D. I’m surprised it even got through the letterbox.
As mum opens the thick envelope, small jewels adhering to the colour scheme of the card sprinkle out onto the table. The card is devoid of the usual details such as a groom on horseback or a bride that’s in her doli carriage and being carried to her prince by four strong men (I wish the doli tradition still existed, that would have been awesome). Hassna’s card doesn’t have any pictures but instead boasts a technicolour design, kind of like a peacock. There’s also a single peacock feather hanging loose, like it’s a bookmark. The card opens up to fan out into a 3D peacock (I get it, she likes peacocks). It doesn’t actually look like a wedding card for a Bengali ceremony. It looks like something you’d get custom-made from Harrods. Pretentious cow.
“Oh ho, poor Rashda’s daddy, having to pay for all this nonsense,” mum huffs, while running a finger across the textured inside of the card in admiration. Yep, the card is textured. On the inside.
“Where all the details?” Mum is looking for the three inserts for the mehendi, wedding and walima party respectively. Except there aren’t any inserts. The details are underneath the peacock:
Shahin Uddin, BSc (medical doctor). Only son of Barik Uddin BA (Hon) and Meher Khanum
Weds
Hassna Zubeida Mahmood Bsc.
And the most important detail:
No boxed gifts please. Your duas are most welcome.
This roughly translates to this wedding is expensive so no crockery or tea sets please, give us the money. Prayers are appreciated though not mandatory. But the dough is.
They’re having a separate wedding and walima as the groom’s side is from Bradford. She’ll have two princess moments. The wedding is due to take place on the 5th October. So she got engaged before me but is getting hitched after. She’s got loads of time to plan and I bet she’s getting her outfits custom-made.
I’m hoping mum’s slight envy and my sheer, unadulterated jealousy will inspire some movement on our card shopping front. Not to mention all the other bits like the show stopping wedding favour I’m planning.
“Shall we sort out our cards?”
“Yes yes. You should.” Mum nods her head vigorously.
“Why does it always have to take me to prompt these very obvious things?” I say to mum. I thought one of the advantages, as well as a distinct disadvantage of being Bengali, is that your wedding is done for you. I thought I was just meant to rock up on the day.
“Why you no do something?” mum barks at my unassuming dad, who nearly jumps out of his seat, newspaper still tightly gripped. “What about the man that used to print cards? You know, the one who printed the menus for the takeout?”
No, no. Oh God no. Dad only ever printed his takeaway menu once. When he first opened the joint. A long time ago.
“You mean Abdul Miah? I’ve not spoken to him in maybe 10 or 12 years,” dad shrugs, before straightening out his newspaper.
I guess that’s his contribution for the day.
“Useless,” mum hisses. “Everything on my head, like always.”
“No. Everything’s on my head! Nobody is doing anything to help. You couldn’t wait to get rid of me. Now you finally are, you can’t be bothered to do anything.”
Mum looks at me as though I’ve questioned her parenting. Or cooking. “Okay, okay. Go get computer. I go fry some samosas. We sort this now.”
***
TWO HOURS, ONE AND a half cups of tea and seven samosas later (three for me, one each for mum and dad and two for my little sister who suddenly became interested in what we were doing after getting a waft of fried pastry) and we’re no further forward on the wedding invitation front. Obviously, the first place we looked is where Hassna got hers from. The name of the design was handily printed on the back of the invite. I guess they’re not fancy enough to pay extra to not have a marketing label.
Anyway, it turns out that their invite is not quite from Liberty in London but a very chic looking Asian event planning agency. Each card is £3 a pop. Is she only going to have 100 guests or something?
“We could look at the same place where Lily got her wedding cards from,” mum suggests. “Wait. Let me go find it.”
Lily is a distant relative of ours who got married two years ago. Mum still has her wedding invitation in her sideboard, like it’s some kind of souvenir. Maybe weddings are the Bengali mum equivalent of going to a gig. You keep the invite as a memento of the special occasion.
Lily’s card also has the company name on the back. A bit of internet research reveals that their invites are much more reasonable, at around 50p for one. However, they’re also very generic. They’re like the million other invites I’ve seen over the years. Plus, they come top on Google, confirming that Desi Dulhan is indeed the go-to for cheap and cheerful wedding invitations. I don’t need to spend mega bucks but I would like there to be something unique about my wedding.
There’s no time to make such rash decisions as I’ve got my facial at 6:30pm. Mum’s unimpressed.
“You always do this. You moan that nobody is helping you and when we sit down to look at things you always have to go away!”
“Because I’ve got things to do, mum. I’m getting married in less than two months and I don’t want to look ugly. So I’ve got to get a facial.”
“Well, when do you want to sort this out?” mum asks.
“We’ll look again tonight. When I’m back. I need to look online anyway to sort out the wedding favours and the chocolate fountain.”
“What? Are you still going on about chocolate fountain?”
I may have brought it up once or twice after going to a certain someone’s engagement party.
“I already told you, it will be a waste of time. Cost a lot of money. All the kids will make a big mess, then you end up with bigger cleaning charge. I tell you, all these things won’t matter on the day,” says mum.
“I’d like a chocolate fountain. It’d be cool,” is little sis’ input.
“Dooro! You be quiet and no encourage her!” says mum. “We can instead spend that money better on lehenga.” Mum is not letting that one go.
“I’m not telling him we’re going to buy our own. You always tell me not to say too much, and to compromise. Well, this is my compromise. The bit I’m not compromising on is what is in my power and what I can afford. Which is a chocolate fountain.”
“Hmmph! Next thing you be wanting cheese cracker.”
I had thought about that.
***
I WANTED TO GO TO SOME nice spa in town for my facial. However, an hour of ringing around various beauty salons in Manchester city centre when I was supposed to be working, sent me reeling. £60 to scrub my face? No thank you. So I ended up in Longsight.
I’m not ashamed that my facial decision was mainly a fiscal one. If I’m going to be dropping money on invites and favours and a chocolate fountain and all that, I need to be frugal in other areas. Ultimately, I’m blessed with good, hardy skin so I don’t have to be so choosy about the products that are applied to my face. It’s a bonus that this facial I booked uses rather renowned products. The kind that are on the shelf at Harvey Nichols and Selfridges. So it’s all good.
I’m hoping looks are deceiving as I enter the salon through its dubious and domestic looking front door and up its steep, narrow stairs. Why are so many Asian beauticians on top of some other establishment? This one takes pride of place above a pound shop. I’m expecting it to open out like the tardis. It doesn’t. It’s a pokey little environment. However, if the facial is good, who cares?
“I’m here for the deluxe facial,” I tell the lady at reception, interrupting her tea and biscuit break.
“Okay. Good timing. She’s just waiting for you inside.” She ushers me through a dimly lit room emanating soothing sea sounds. Fancy. Maybe it’s not so bad after all.
“Okee! Take your shoes off,” says a deep, familiar sounding voice.
The beautician turns around. She looks at me. I look at her. We both have a stare-off. She’s the same beautician that gave me the wax job from hell.
What are the chances?
***
“SO... HAVE YOU MOVED jobs?” I ask, knowing that clearly she has. Maybe she burnt the face off someone else?
She ignores my question. “You want bleaching?”
Cheeky cow. I say no and explain how facial hair lightening isn’t on my agenda today.
“A whitening facial?”
Again, cheeky cow.
“No thank you,” I say, lying back on the paper towel covered bed.
“Why you no want bleach?”
“I don’t need to bleach my hair. I’ll do threading later.”
“No. Not bleach your hair. Bleach your skin.”
Oh wow. Can I call her a cow again or is it getting repetitive? And also... what? Is that a thing? It sounds like an iffy business to me. However, Miss Pushy is insisting that it’s something I should definitely go for as all Asian women do this, which is a pretty big claim.
“If I bleach my face, my neck and body will look darker. It won’t match up.”
She leans over me, daal breath and all. “If you trust me. If... you trust me...”
Clearly I don’t. You burnt my face, you mad bitch, I’m tempted to say but still too scared after our last interaction.
She goes on: “Bleach your body, too.”
This is getting out of hand.
I ask the beautician if she bleaches her skin. She says yes. She’s darker than me so either she’s a liar or a bad advertisement for what she’s pedalling.
On the shelf above, I see all the dodgy-looking whitening products, all of which should probably be banned by trading standards. I’d like to make a run for it but I’ve already taken off my shoes so it feels like I’ve committed to the procedure.
I stick to my guns and stay strong. Even if I did want to beach my skin, which I don’t (adoration from M has made me more comfortable with my brown-ness), I certainly wouldn’t task this burly beautician with the job.
The facial itself is pretty standard – lots of massaging – sometimes nice, other times uncomfortable – cleansing and exfoliating, and a steam session. The steam is dispensed through a nifty device which is essentially like a kettle boiling on my face. I wonder if I’d get the same effect at home. Must hover over the kettle next time we brew up.
With my pores all open and exposed, the beautician uses a fine pointed metal tool to manually remove blackheads. It hurts to the point of tears. I think I see a faint smile as she does this. Sadist.
As I leave the salon, all red raw and tingly of face, I spy Hassna across the street. What’s she doing in these parts? Thankfully she looks engrossed in a phone conversation so she doesn’t get to see me looking like an angry beetroot. I dive in the car and head home to tick one more job off my lengthy wedding planning list.