Chapter 28
Our engagement date has been set. In exactly four weeks, Hamza’s family will be coming over to our house to officially ask for my hand. The whole ‘hand asking’ thing is an Egyptian custom, I guess, but it’s not dissimilar to our own paan chini tradition. This is when the groom’s side comes over to the bride’s house armed with sweetmeats, paan, gold and a ring, to set a date for the wedding. It’s challenging, trying to merge both of our cultures, but Hamza is being wonderfully accommodating and doesn’t mind what we do, so long as we do it.
In traditional Bengali culture, the groom’s side not only brings the bride gold and a ring (which he’s already given me, but I’ve returned it so he can re-gift it to me in front of everyone), he also chooses her engagement dress. I was reluctant to tell Hamza this as I’d rather have bought my own outfit, but it tickled him and he insisted on following this tradition. I’m dreading what he’ll conjure up, so I’m going to buy something myself as a backup.
Mum, Abbu and Nani have been busy calling everyone and telling them that I’m getting married. The reactions have been mixed, with some of Abbu’s more traditional cousins outraged at the prospect of me marrying a non-Bengali, and others truly happy for us. The same goes with Nani’s relatives. Although most of them are accepting, it’s the ones who aren’t that Nani goes on and on and on about. They’re not all coming to the engagement anyway, it’s going to be a small ceremony for close family and friends at my house, and the main event will be later on in the year. If Hamza has anything to do with it, it’s going to be the Biggest, Fattest, Begyptian Wedding Ever.
I’ve told my close friends the news and they’re all ecstatic of course. At first I was going to let Samia find out from her dad, like I found out about her from my mum. But she finally texted me the other day, letting me know she’s getting married, weeks after Mum told us. I swallowed my pride and my annoyance and called her back to officially congratulate her and tell her my own news. It rang for ages before she answered; almost as though she was debating whether or not to pick up. The days we used to speak to each other daily feel like forever ago, and I’m not entirely sure how and why we got here.
‘Hello?’ she said when she finally answered, a nervous edge to her voice.
‘Hey! Congratulations!’ I replied, injecting my voice with so much enthusiasm that I sounded like those dodgy telesales people who pretend you’ve won something only to try and sell you printer cartridges later. (I was one of those people back in uni.)
‘Thanks!’
‘How are you feeling? Mum said that the nikah’s in December?’
‘Oh, right. No, we’ve changed it to January now. Fufu already told you then?’
‘Yeah, she told us weeks ago.’
‘Oh.’
There was a short pause and then she said, ‘I’ve heard about your news as well. How come you didn’t call me sooner?’
What. The. Hell? She’d been hiding shit from me for months and now she was angry at me for calling her a couple of weeks late?
‘How come you didn’t call me yourself to tell me you were getting married?’ I snapped. ‘Why did I have to hear it from my mum?’
Samia inhaled loud enough for me to hear, and I waited for her explanation. An apology. Something to acknowledge the fact that she messed up. I didn’t want to hold grudges. I wanted to move past this, but I felt like I couldn’t until we talked about it.
‘I didn’t know how to,’ she said after a while. ‘I knew it was a biodata that you had looked at and it didn’t work out, so it felt weird.’
‘I get that,’ I replied evenly. ‘But how do you think I’ve felt, knowing that you’re planning to get married without telling me? You know pretty much everything about my search, but not only did you hide yours, you lied about it!’
‘I didn’t lie!’ she exclaimed, a defensive edge to her voice.
‘You told me that you weren’t looking at all, and that you wanted me to get married first. And then that same afternoon I find out that you had been sending your biodata out!’
‘Well, sor-ry for not telling you every minute detail about my personal life! It’s a bit hard to get a word in edgeways with all your dramas!’
‘Excuse me?’
‘It’s one thing after another with you! First there was Tariq. Big deal, you broke up. But instead of getting over it, you wallowed in your drama for years.’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about! You’re such a bloody know it all, you think you know everything but you don’t!’
‘I know that you feed off being dramatic!’ she hissed back. ‘Admit it, you like the attention!’
‘You think my reaction to Tariq was about attention?’ My voice was quiet now, as I fought the urge to cry.
‘Of course it is! It always is! You have boys throwing themselves at you, like that Adam and that Hamza, and yet you mope around acting like you have no options. Grow up!’
With that, she hung the phone up on my face. It felt more like a punch.
The conversation replayed in my head the rest of that evening and the next morning. I keep hearing her voice hissing at me to grow up, that my reaction to Tariq was all about attention.
I’m devastated that my cousin, who was once one of my best friends, thinks so little of me. And beneath the disappointment is anger. How dare she twist it all on me? What have I ever done to her to deserve such a diatribe?