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“I’m sorry I was so abrupt on the phone yesterday,” I tell Kulsum.
It’s my second apology of the day. My first was for being late to my appointment at her house. Though it wasn’t my fault as driving through Longsight is a nightmare after 12.30pm, when the shops and takeaways start to wake up. She must be the only beautician that’s a stickler for timekeeping. I only hope she practices what she preaches when she comes to mine on Sunday morning at 7.30am. “I’m just not used to beauticians calling me with suggestions in advance. Anytime they’ve mentioned something extra it’s come at a cost.”
“It’s okay dear. I under-shtand. It’s a stressful time but I’m not like the others. If I tell you one price, I stick to it. No surprises,” says Kulsum, embalming my face with primer.
This time, I’m at my appointment alone. Mum and all my sisters are at home doing who knows what. I’m actually pretty pissed off about not having anyone come with me. What if Kulsum’s makeup turns out to be terrible? What if she showed me her best work for the trial but her artistry on the day falls short? Just like when you’re shopping for a saree, I firmly believe you need an ally when having your makeup applied. Instead, I’m alone, like I have been much of this whole journey of wedding planning. I feel vulnerable. My sisters said they better stay at home just in case mum has a panic attack. What’s to panic about exactly? We told all our guests to meet us at the mehendi venue so she doesn’t even have to fry a single samosa. I’ll remember this when it’s little sis’ turn to get married.
A text from Bushra interrupts my bitter thoughts: Hey, hope you have a fantastic day today and I can’t wait to see you on Sunday. And I hope Kulsum’s looking after you, she’s a good egg.
I don’t bother replying. I guess I’m not... supposed to? Shouldn’t I be busy on the day of my mehendi? Surely too busy to reply instantly to a text message? I ought to be fawned over by my nearest and dearest. I don’t want to let Bushra know for a second that I’m not busy at all and instead I’m feeling a bit sorry for myself and I can’t stop looking at my phone. Sophia’s message still weighs heavy on my mind. I feel bad that she couldn’t confide in me sooner. I feel upset that she couldn’t tell me how she was feeling and left it so late. More than anything, I’m just lost for words. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say.
“What do you think?” Kulsum finally lets me look in her dressing table mirror.
She’s created a golden-yellow look to match my buttery golden saree. The lashes are long and voluptuous. My cheeks are rosy and my face has a glow that I could never create myself. Yet something seems... off. I don’t know what it is. This is where I need a second opinion. What is the point of coming from a family of girls if not a single sister bothers to come with me on this appointment? Bloody half-arsed the lot of them.
“What is it, dear? What are you thinking?” Kulsum reads my mind. “Is it the blush? The foundation? Do you want to be more V-hite?”
“No, I’m happy with my colour as it is,” I say for the first time ever. “It’s just...”
“Is it the lips?” asks Kulsum, searching for an answer.
“Oh yes, that’s it! The lips. They look a bit too... neon?”
Kulsum looks at me blankly. I think that word isn’t in her vocabulary yet.
“Maybe make the lips a bit darker,” is my second attempt at explaining.
I’m not sure what it is with me lately but my words are all over the place.
After fixing my lips, Kulsum teases my hair into a tight bun, leaving two inches of the front section for a side parting. This is just the beginning of her hair styling. She then attaches a ridiculously long over the top fake plait to the bun. It has silver tassels on the end and grazes the bottom of my bum. Nobody in the history of mankind would ever believe that it’s my real hair but I don’t care. That’s not what today is about. Today is about being extra. Today is about being dramatic. Long lashes that nobody would believe are real. Hair so long that nobody would question its inauthenticity. Today is about being a princess for the first time in my 27 years of life.
***
I COME HOME TO A SCENE that’s like something out of a movie. Lots of people hurrying around, not all of whom are direct members of my family. Unfortunately, auntie Jusna’s here, though I don’t see any of my cousins. While I usually don’t relish seeing them on such occasions as they always have better outfits, or better hair and makeup, their absence does make me nervous. Given that we’ve booked the entire floor of the venue, I’m really hoping the guests fill the seats. Otherwise it could get very awkward.
“Oh good, you’re back. Do you want me to help you with your saree?” asks big sis, impressively clad in a rich buttery yellow saree with a pink border. She adhered to the dress code perfectly.
As I thank her for her offer and take off my hoodie (I must’ve looked a right sight sat in traffic on the way home, with a fully made up face and mermaid length hair, teamed with a grey zipped top), middle sis comes out of the kitchen, balancing a silver tray on her now huge belly. More to the point, she is wearing the exact same saree as big sis.
Hold on a second.
As I follow her into the living room the scene is even more frantic, with all three of my sisters, dressed identically, fussing about the various silver trays, arranging an array of treats from ornately carved watermelon, to mountains of Quality Street chocolate.
“Did you coordinate for me?” I ask in shock.
“Yes. Surprise!” says little sis, the only one of my three sisters who appears to have had time to brush her hair.
Both my older sisters look flustered to the extreme. Red-faced, hair scraped back with kirby grips, the look of women on a mission. That’s why they didn’t come with me to get my makeup done. They’ve been slogging away, working tirelessly to make all this happen. Even little sis, who is slightly more groomed, is focusing her attention on adding the last few Ferrero Rocher chocolates to a bouquet shaped dome. And there was me bitching about them all this time.
I see a saucer of samosas come into my line of vision, before seeing the person it’s attached to. My mum, of course.
“See... I told you everything come together in the end. You never believe,” she says, brandishing a piping hot samosa, ready dipped in ketchup, just how I like it.
“It’s just you never mentioned anything when I asked. I thought you wouldn’t make any taals. There was no plan.”
“Who say there no plan? Just because we no on Google all day no mean we no have plan. Mum’s always know what to do.”
“Thanks mum,” I say. For everything, I think to myself. Just as I wonder why I don’t just say this to her, mum’s swept away on another job and the moment’s gone.
***
THANKFULLY, PEOPLE are arriving. Uncle Tariq, who drove down today, has finally arrived and is sat with auntie Rukhsana and my cousin Shuhel, who I haven’t seen in years. I was hoping Naila might make it but then that’s wishful thinking.
I also wish Sophia was here but I’m not expecting her tonight or on Sunday. She’s made it pretty clear that she needs her space. After the wedding malarkey is over, I’ll reach out and I hope she’ll reply.
I did invite Reena and Julia but neither could make it and both grumbled about it being on a Friday night and how they live too far away to come down on the Friday and the Sunday. I’m not too perturbed by their absence though as they’d probably feel like fish out of water due to our unapologetic Bengali-ness.
However, one thing I’m not sorry for on this occasion is one of the real advantages of Bengali families - they’re usually really big. So my worry about the event looking decidedly dead is unfounded. With the arrival of a few more cousins who are so distant they’re barely cousins, some family friends, plus another pretend auntie that thankfully isn’t auntie Fatima, we have ourselves a part-ey.
I’m glad to see that almost everyone adhered to the butter yellow I added at the last minute on the wedding invites. I didn’t want to be a total bridezilla so I added a bit at the end of the dress code, saying ‘...or whatever you’re comfortable with.’ I decided to exclude the further caveat of ‘however, if you decide that you’re not comfortable with yellow, you won’t make the cut for the wedding album.’ I like to think that goes without saying.
***
I FEEL LIKE A QUEEN at a banquet. I was so worried that there wouldn’t be any taals at my mehendi, however, every cohort of guests came with an offering.
There’s a giant fruit basket (a favourite at Bengali affairs), some confectionary based silver trays and a rather impressive plate featuring a horse and carriage made purely out of sugar cubes. I will NOT be eating that, however I will likely be posting about it on social media. It is very photogenic.
The gifting won’t stop here though, as someone from M’s family will be dropping off a mehendi saree, bangles and jewellery for me to change into.
“Okay, could you rest your hand on your necklace, like so?” My photographer Rashid seems like he is living out his own Cinderella moment through me, as he gestures animatedly with his hands, stroking it across his collar rather wantonly. I can’t say I’m hating it. As I preen and pose, recline on the chaise lounge, hold out my bangles, look down to highlight my false lashes and follow every other direction of this very over-the-top photographer, I’m coming into my own. Though I’m not sure who this person is. I’m doing and being all the things I derided. Yet, for this one moment in my life, I’m milking the spotlight for all it’s worth. After all, this is the best I’ve ever looked, or likely ever will. Yes, a small part of me feels like a knob but a much bigger part is loving every second.
Meanwhile, I’m getting dirty looks from all the prim aunties, both real and fake, who are already offended by the Bhahgra tunes blasting from the speakers. Big sis mentioned that she will go and speak to the waiters to see if someone can put on some more melodious mehendi appropriate Bollywood music. Suddenly I remember, Sophia told me that whenever I get married, she wants to be in charge of the music at my mehendi, no questions asked. I guess I didn’t ask enough questions, or any, which is why she’s not here now. I feel a pang of pain in my stomach.
As each family takes turns to join me on stage and feed me fruit, we exchange the usual niceties.
“Oh, I didn’t see you earlier,” I tell Rashda, who is resplendent in her lemon sherbet coloured saree. Only she could pull off such a pop of colour. Anyone else would look like a giant sweet.
“I just arrived. I drove myself and my three kids. At least that way I didn’t get to hear more whingeing about un-marriageable daughters all the way here.”
Gosh, she really is catty these days. It’s fantastic.
“I’m guessing you heard about Hassna,” she adds.
“Yeah, I heard. It’s such a shame,” I say, though I don’t want to really get into it. My mehendi stage isn’t the place for such talk. There’s a photographer at large and any face I pull that isn’t a smile pretty much falls into resting bitch territory.
“So, do you have a new car?” I ask, in a desperate attempt to switch gears. Though this disguises my true question, as I don’t remember her old car, or indeed her ever driving at all.
“It’s my new, first and only car. I passed my driving test last month,” Rashda replies. “I decided I need the independence. Remember to hold onto yours, too. Take it from someone who found out the hard way.”
While I ponder this wisdom, auntie Rukhsana sits her warm self next to me. She’s gone for a more rustic golden, which narrowly fits the brief. “Your mum will lose a daughter but I’ll gain one as you’ll be coming near me,” she says.
“Well, she’s not really losing me,” I say, her comment harder to swallow than the big cut of gulab jamun she just force-fed me. “I’ll only be in London.”
“I know dear but she wanted you here. She never wanted you to leave Manchester,” auntie Rukhsana adds.
That pain in my stomach returns, quicker and sharper this time. It takes longer to pass.
“Look, that must be for you,” auntie Rukhsana gestures towards the hampers and cellophane-wrapper baskets being brought in by my sisters and, to my surprise, M’s sister-in-law. I had no idea she was coming. We’d sent an obligatory card to M’s family (an absurd tradition in itself, swapping invites for your own wedding, but that’s a rant for another day) but I didn’t expect anyone to actually attend. This is my day, for my family.
More guests come for the feeding-me frenzy. Meanwhile, M’s sister-in-law, who has brought along her kids for company, watches on.
“I better quickly put on the saree they bought,” I tell middle sis when she sits on stage.
“Don’t worry, you can put it on in a bit. What you’re wearing is so nice, you might as well get some more shots in it,” she replies.
More families join me on stage. Then more. At this point I’m full to bursting with fruit and syrupy sweets. I don’t know how I’ll sleep tonight with all this sugar running through my system.
Auntie Jusna comes next to me and, for the first time in recent living memory, acknowledges me directly.
“Is that the sister-in-law?” she asks, making it rather obvious who she’s talking about as she points in her direction.
“Yes, it is.”
“And where she live?” she asks.
“London.”
“Ah, okay. Near your husband?”
“No,” I reply, hoping that my curt responses will shut down the conversation.
“So what does your husband do?”
“He um... works in banking.”
“Like cashier?”
“No. More like finance.”
“Accountant?”
“No.” There is literally no point asking, clearly she hasn’t a clue what I’m talking about. Plus, this really is not the forum for 20 questions.
“Have you seen your mehendi saree from your in-laws?”
“No, not yet.” I’m internally begging her to get the hint that her time on the stage is up.
“Oh, but you should!” she says, reminding me yet again that nosey aunties refuse to take hints. “Has your maa not told you to change? How will that look? If you spend most the mehendi in the outfit you bought and all the photos are of you in that, they’ll think you no like what they’ve given!”
Massive stirrer though she is, auntie Jusna annoyingly makes a really good point.
It’s time for yet another immediate family shot. With both my older sisters sat either side of me and mum on the next chair, I’ll bring up this saree situation.
“Should I change into the saree they’ve given now?”
“Let’s take some more photos first. Since we are all matchy-matchy,” says big sis.
More photos, to the point that I’m getting camera shy and we haven’t even started the mehendi application yet.
My mehendi artist, aptly named Henna, is waiting patiently on a table with my distant cousins from Ashton. Poor girl, she looks bored to death.
Finally, I’m summoned off the stage to eat. “Shall I change before dinner?” I ask mum.
“Don’t worry, there’s time,” she replies.
I do not understand what the hold up is. Surely I should be decked out in what they’ve gifted for most of the evening, right?
I bring this up one more time whilst I’m sat on the table surrounded by my siblings. I’m beginning to sound desperate now.
“Shall I go and say hello to his sister-in-law?” I ask anyone who will listen.
“It’s okay, lady,” says big sis. “We’re going to bring her over. Mum’s already said hello. You shouldn’t be seen to be walking freely.”
Hearing that out loud sounds so bizarre.
“Maybe you should go over now then so it doesn’t look rude. They’re on the table by themselves,” I say.
“Bloody hell, you really are keen not to put a foot wrong,” laughs middle sis. “Don’t worry. This isn’t our first wedding rodeo.”
As I’m carefully tucking into my chicken tikka and rice, desperately trying to avoid spillage on my beautiful saree, my sisters finally go over, as promised, to M’s sister-in-law. However, auntie Jusna beats them to it.
“See! I knew they should’ve gone over,” I hiss to mum. “Who knows what that stirring old bat is saying?”
“Dooro! You can’t say that!” says mum. “Though I wondering what she say, too,” she unhelpfully adds.
Bloody typical.
After what seems like an eternity, my older siblings manage to prize M’s big sister-in-law away from the clutches of my pot-stirring nosey auntie, to bring her over to our table.
“You look beautiful!” she says. “I love that saree. Such a lovely yellow! I’m worried now, I don’t think we’ve got you anything half as nice.” She smiles.
“Oh, I’m sure it’s lovely,” I say, as it only seems polite.
“On that note, shall we get you changed?” middle sis asks.
Finally.
Big sis uses an excuse that she can’t help as she’s feeding her kids but as middle sis is blessed with fussy eaters that turn their nose up at curry, she is free to help me change.
I feel a huge sense of déjà vu as I head behind the same screen we used when doing a Superman-style change at my engagement party.
“What was auntie Jusna talking to her about?” I ask middle sis.
“I’m not sure really. Just niceties, I suppose,” she replies as she unfolds the emerald green saree they gifted me.
My sister-in-law-to-be was right, my yellow saree of choice is a lot prettier.
“It’s never just niceties with her. She’s always got something to say. I told you to go over sooner. Instead you gave her a chance to get in with her shit-stirring. It’s like I have to organise everything around here.”
Middle sis says nothing as she gathers the saree into uneven pleats.
“You’re doing them all wrong! Where’s mum? She’d be better at this!”
“Right! Stop your whingeing!” Middle sis aggressively shoves the pleats down my petticoat. “Mum’s finally getting to sit down after being on her feet cooking and making taals all day. She’s been running around like mad for you! We’ve all been working like dogs! Do you think this is what I want to be doing at seven months pregnant? I didn’t have any of this stuff when I got married. Did you hear me complain? No, so just shut up and be grateful!”
I’m stunned into silence. I’ve been the one shouting all this time, for so many months, but I really didn’t expect anyone to answer me back.
Middle sis returns to silence as she drapes the end of the saree over my shoulder. Up close, I see that she has dark circles under her eyes and only a smidge of concealer to cover it. She didn’t have time to get ready. It looks like she didn’t have much time to even look after herself. All this for ungrateful me.
Now I’m dressed in the gifted saree, I take to the stage once more, for more photos, more feeding and for the mehendi artist, who’s been sat patiently for nearly two hours, to finally have her star turn.
As Henna starts applying my henna (ha ha indeed), my sister-in-law joins me on stage.
“I’m so looking forward to having you as part of our family,” she says, putting her arm around my shoulders to give me a squeeze. Her cute kids look adorable in their yellow outfits. Their efforts to coordinate, along with the burnt orange saree worn by their mum, doesn’t go unnoticed.
Uncle Tariq, the unofficial stage director, signifies to everyone that there needs to be a break from any more group photos while my mehendi is applied.
After expressing dismay at my un-manicured nails (I forgot and nobody reminded me), Henna tentatively draws dots, swirls and flowers with precision. She’s well worth the £50 investment, even if she didn’t ask me once what kind of design I’d like or show me some ideas. Beggars, choosers and all that.
“That’s really nice,” I say, in a somewhat desperate attempt to make small talk and clear the thoughts of what a nightmare I’ve been these past few months from my head. “Have you been doing mehendi art for long?”
“On and off for seven years,” Henna replies, without raising her gaze from my hands. “I mostly do this on weekends in the summer, when I’m not working at the cash-and-carry.”
Well a girl’s got to eat.
“Which cash-and-carry do you work at?” I ask.
“Halal Groceries.”
“I shop there. I’ve never seen you before.”
“Mm-hmm,” she replies, obviously not caring less for my talking shop.
Henna then moves onto my feet, making me grateful for my leg wax as she begins spiralling with the mehendi cone up my calf. Still no chat from her end. Things go on like this for about an hour, which unfortunately gives me plenty of time to be alone with my thoughts and look around.
Mum looks like she’s haranguing middle sis, getting her to pull her saree further over her protruding belly. In between poking and prodding to the point of nearly sending my sister into early labour, mum mops her brow with a napkin. She looks hot and bothered in her yellow cheetah print shawl (I wish she’d made a better sartorial choice). As she adjusts her scarf, several grey hairs escape. Mum is normally on top of her personal grooming, finding time to dye her hair a very inauthentic shade of black, in between all the chores she does like cooking for us, cleaning the house from top to bottom and worrying about my wedding. I guess she’s not had time to do it recently.
Big sis is force-feeding gulab jamun dessert to my nephew, though he clearly seems more interested in the vanilla ice cream accompaniment. Dad, who’s largely been missing in action the last few months, seems to be listening intently to his brother-in-law, while his sister, Auntie Jusna, seems to be wading in all hands flailing. I’d love to be a fly on the wall for that conversation. Little sis, meanwhile, is on her phone.
It seems like nothing has changed, yet everything is changing. Life goes on for them and it moves on for me.
“There. All done,” says Henna triumphantly.
“So how long do I have to keep this on for?” It’s already gone 10pm.
“Overnight.”
“Oh. So how will I sleep?”
“You tie your hands and feet in plastic bags,” she says, like it’s nothing at all.
Suddenly things seem to come together like clockwork. I think uncle Tariq bursting into action, rather than relying on the photographer who is desperate to get the right shot no matter how many takes it requires, has made things move along. Just as Henna exits the stage, a personalised cream cake, gifted from M and his family, is placed before me.
There is a change in the music from the upbeat dance-y happy mehendi tunes, to a more emotional song. It’s one I’ve heard at many mehendis gone by. While I don’t understand much Hindi, I know the basic premise of this song is a girl sitting at her mehendi while her mum cries at the thought of an empty nest.
Mum and dad, rightly so, are the first to sit next to me. There is no sea of siblings this time. It’s just me and them.
Mum and dad place their hands gently on mine as we cut the cake together. They each take turns to feed me a slice. The cream is thick and sickly sweet, the familiar flavour of an Asian shop’s celebration cake. Out of nowhere, I get a kiss on my forehead from mum, who then abruptly leaves the stage. She is in tears. Not pretty tears. The hysterical cry that I do. Maybe life won’t go on for her as I’m assuming. She is losing me just as much as I’m losing her.
I watch on as she leaves the stage and is comforted by middle sis, who looks at me through tears of her own. Even my teenage sister, who I’m convinced hates me on the down low, is no longer looking at her phone and is joining the chorus of tears. I thought she’d be happy to have the room to herself.
Everyone suddenly swarms around the stage to take pictures. When did this happen? I didn’t even notice while I was having that last moment with my parents. Then I look for dad. He’s no longer next to me. Where is he? I look beyond the crowd, squinting my eyes. He’s sat right at the back, all by himself, rubbing his eyes with one of the rough paper napkins. It’ll scratch his eyes out. They’re for mopping up food, not tears. My hands start to tremble, as the song reaches its high-pitched chorus. I feel my heartbeat quicken, while my lovely false eyelashes seem to take on a personality of their own and I’m blinking uncontrollably. Oh no, oh no, oh no. I’m going to cry. I can feel it... but I can’t! My makeup!
“Oh, stop pretending you!” says big sis, no-nonsense as ever as she sidles up next to me. “You don’t want to ruin your makeup now. In front of all these people. You’ll look terrible.”
Granted, she’s a blunt bugger but, right now, I wouldn’t have her any other way. Her harsh nature is just what’s needed to stop tears from running down my cheeks.
***
IT’S GONE PAST 1AM. Little sis is doing her baby rhino wheezy snore but I’m wide awake. It’s been quite a night. It’s the first time I’ve really seen my dad cry. It’s the first time, as an adult, that my mum has had to help me go for a wee as I can’t pull down my own underwear with my henna-decorated hands. Another grown-up first, mum undoing my fake plait and taking the grips out of my bun while middle sis wipes off my makeup. Perhaps the most poignant thing of all, mum feeding me water before bed, for the first time since I was a little girl. She even fed me rice and curry by hand, as she knew I was too nervous to eat properly at the venue.
As I lie in bed, a Tesco carrier bag on each limb and dried henna crumbs all over the bed sheet, I think to myself... there has to be a better system than this.