‘Nothing important! I .?.?. well .?.?. you’re probably not going to be around much longer and I felt sad for a second. You know I love you and want the best for you, don’t you?’
I stare at her, not sure if she’s serious or winding me up. She ignores me and takes out her phone, ordering me to look demure while she takes pictures of me, muttering something about replacing the one from my biodata.
‘Omigod you look so sexy!’ Yasmin squeals, stomping her way into my room, her chin-length hair swishing like she’s just stepped out of the salon. She has no problems showing off her skin and her mint-green saree has tiny sleeves and a low back. Although Nani has wrapped it to cover her flat, toned stomach, the material is slightly sheer so you can make it out through the fabric.
‘So do you,’ I say raising one eyebrow. ‘A bit too sexy, perhaps?’
‘Oh, leave her alone, she’s still young,’ Nani chides as she shuffles into the room, out of breath from climbing the stairs. ‘Let me go and see if Amina needs any help.’
We hear Amina grumbling in the next room while both Nani and Mum sort her out. She finally emerges in a hot-pink saree. Like Yasmin, she’s also gone for the exposed look. Her newly dyed maroon hair clashes with the pink, but I say nothing. I value my life, after all.
At last, we all trundle into my dad’s eight-seater car, arguing over who has to climb into the back. None of us want to risk messing up our outfits. In the end, Mum shoves us aside and gets into the back herself so the three of us can sit in the middle whilst Nani, as always, rides shotgun.
Thankfully, the drive is short as the event is at a banqueting hall in Wood Green that every other Asian in a ten-mile radius hires for their wedding reception. There’s lots of squealing, hugs and air kisses as we enter the main hall and bump into relatives we haven’t seen since the last family wedding in December. Everyone is dressed in their finest with jewellery dripping from every available outlet; big, dangly earrings, headpieces, forehead tiklis, rings, bracelets, armlets, anklets and even jewellery you can clip onto your hair.
You know how at English weddings it’s considered bad form to wear white? Well, Bengalis have no such qualms and you’ll always find one woman dressed in her own wedding outfit. Sometimes you can’t even notice it because it looks like another red saree. Today, however, it’s glaringly obvious because not only is the woman wearing a red and gold saree that is so heavy she can barely move, but she is also wearing what is clearly her wedding gold, right down to the nose hoop that is connected by a gold chain to her earlobe.
My sisters, cousins and I grab a table in the middle of the hall as it’s the perfect location from which to spot potential suitors. Mum and Nani head off to mingle with guests their own age.
There are ten of us at the table; us three sisters, three of my elder uncle’s four children (Kamal, Madiha and Ridhwaan) and all four of my younger uncle’s children (Rashid, Jannah, Samia and Ameera). Within minutes we’re all laughing away at Kamal’s jokes and Rashid’s one-liners and, for a moment, I forget that I’m supposed to act respectable and demure like a suitable prospective daughter-in-law. The only cousin who’s missing is Sabina, who lives in Dubai.
I’m sitting next to Samia, my twenty-five year-old cousin, who I’m closest to after Sabina. Although Samia’s closer in age to Amina, the two of them seem to rub each other up the wrong way. They’re both too ambitious and highly strung, always competing or arguing. They also both work for non-profits, and Amina can’t seem to help dropping in the fact that she’s more qualified than Samia, whenever they talk turkey.
Samia and I don’t see each other that much since she lives and works in Luton, but we chat on the phone pretty much every week. We start catching up on everything that’s happened since we last spoke, and I fill her in on the biodata, MuslimMate and the chocolate event.
‘To be honest, you should have let Fufu make you a biodata a long time ago,’ she says and, as always, I feel as though she’s older than me, instead of four years younger.
‘Yeah, well, it’s taken me a while to get my head around marriage again after what happened,’ I say quietly, so the boys on the table don’t overhear.
‘You think you’re ready now?’
‘Yeah. I am. I’m nearly thirty. If I want time to find someone, get married, and have a couple of years together before kids, I need to do it now.’ She nods, and I ask her if her parents have started looking for her, as she’s the eldest of her siblings.
‘Not really,’ she replies vaguely. ‘It’s on their radar, but I’m not in a hurry. Anyway, I’m off to Zimbabwe next week for two months, so I’m not even gonna think about it until I get back.’
It doesn’t take long for other relatives to start dropping by our table to ask intrusive questions or make distasteful comments. At first, it’s not too bad and I handle it like a boss. But they keep coming and each remark is beginning to feel like a bullet. One granny tells me that I’m getting old, one tells me that my colouring has become ‘dirty’ and another tells me that I’ve put on weight. And that isn’t even the worst of it.
The worst is when Mum brings an aunty over and not-so-subtly presents me to her, rambling on about how great I am at cooking and how I’m such an obedient and perfect daughter. My cousins all snigger and giggle as mum tells lie after lie to try and sell me to this woman. She might as well stick a price tag on my face, the way she pitches me to her.
‘Boish khotoh?’ the aunty asks, and Mum stumbles a little before plastering a fake smile on her face and telling her that I’m twenty-nine.
‘Yallah go mai, ita oitoh nai,’ the aunty exclaims in dismay. ‘Damandor boish matro shataish!’
The groom is only twenty-seven?So why is my mum even putting me through this ordeal? My cheeks have turned red. I know they have because the heat is so intense that I’m certain my makeup is about to melt off. Oblivious to the embarrassment she’s inflicting on me, the aunty peers at Samia and asks my mum how old she is. Mum’s expression freezes, and when she tells her that she’s twenty-five, the aunty beams and starts quizzing Sam about her future plans.
The confidence I felt this morning begins to seep out of my pores. Who was I kidding, trying to make myself look attractive? I’ve met three distant cousins a similar age to me who, last year, were single and this year are either engaged or married. There’s obviously something wrong with me. Why else am I still alone?
‘Excuse me,’ I mumble, getting up. ‘I need the bathroom.’
‘I’ll join you,’ Sam gathers up the folds of her saree so she can also get up. Then, ‘Ignore them,’ she says as we walk across the hall. ‘You know what busybodies they are. Always sticking their nose in other peoples’ business.’
I say nothing.
As we approach the doors to the foyer, I catch the eye of a tall, very good-looking guy in a three-piece suit. He must be from the groom’s side because I’ve never seen him before. Even though I’m still reeling from all the questioning, I feel my spirits begin to lift. From the way he’s looking at me, maybe I’m not such a hideous old hag after all.
So, I do what every girl at a Bengali wedding would do in my situation; I look away, force my expression into one of aloof indifference, push my shoulders back and catwalk past him like a Brazilian supermodel.
At least, that’s what I try to do. I end up stepping on Samia’s saree, causing her to buckle and let out an ungodly shriek. Gasping in horror, I try to grab her arm but she falls to her knees and I stumble. My first instinct is to let go of Samia and run. Anywhere. But if I do, someone else is going to have to help her up and she will never forgive me.