The Secret Diary of a Bengali Newlywed Read online

  A HAYAT HOUSE book

  First published in Great Britain in 2022 by Hayat House.

  Copyright © Hayat House 2022

  The moral right of Halima Khatun to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-9163183-4-2

  A CIP Catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  THE SECRET DIARY OF A BENGALI NEWLYWED

  First edition. May 3, 2022.

  Copyright © 2022 Halima Khatun.

  ISBN: 979-8201911744

  Written by Halima Khatun.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  This isn’t your average romcom...

  13th September, No turning back

  14th September, The city’s my oyster

  16th September, Jam

  17th September, Old work, new colleagues

  1st October, Back up north

  2nd October, The morning after

  3rd October, Old work, old colleagues, old friend

  5th October, What’s in a surname?

  6th October, The long goodbye

  10th October, Hangry

  30th November, Most definitely not pregnant

  6th December, Dawat no.1

  7th December, Dawat no.2

  9th December, Friend mixing

  11th December, I’m so excited

  December 31st, The other hunt

  14th January, New Year, new home, new commute

  25th January, New baby

  28th January, Not the weird one at work

  5th February, Displacement

  13th April, New boss

  27th May, Shoot life

  28th May, Breaking the silence

  20th August, Men are confusing

  21st August, Being cunning

  9th September, So this is it (again)

  11th October, The meeting

  5th November, Denial

  20th December, Anger

  21st December, Ground rice

  22nd December, Regret

  25th December, Hope

  26th December, Facing the music

  6th January, Optimism

  20th January, Shame

  21st January, Acceptance

  Books by Halima Khatun – have you read them all?

  There’s more to the story... free reads and more for you

  About the Author

  To everyone who helped bring this book together, you know who you are. It really does take a village, and I'm glad you're part of my tribe.

  This isn’t your average romcom...

  Thank you for buying my book and joining me on this author adventure. As a token of my appreciation, I’d love to give you more... so read on to the end for how you can be a part of this very unique series.

  13th September, No turning back

  I’ve got a numb bum. My thighs are sore. Is this how it’s going to be from now on, all achy limbs and body?

  I’m getting impatient and trying my best not to sound like a petulant child by constantly asking: ‘Are we there yet? Are we there yet?’ But seriously, how are we not there yet?

  I’ve made this journey by car only a handful of times. The train is usually my transport of choice (actually, circumstance) and the trips have been tolerable. I’ve loaded up with a bag of crisps and the rolling British countryside for company and it’s been all good. This time, however, it’s the first of many, many trips up and down the motorway. Are we seriously going to be doing this journey from Manchester to London and back every single month?

  The M6 is long. The M1 is longer. It’s all starting to look the same. We’ve just passed Coventry. I wonder how many more junctions there are before the final destination. I’ve lost count and I’m trying to hold my wee in, too.

  “Are you okay?” asks M. “You’ll let me know if you need to stop off, right?”

  “Yeah, of course,” I reply, because it feels like the right thing to say. Though I know I can’t ask for a pit stop. Not now. Not after M spent most of the afternoon muttering about how, if we leave at 6pm on the dot, we’ll miss the busiest time and have a good run on the motorway. Not after I made him turn back to my parents’ house a mere 20 minutes into our journey, just as we got onto the M56, to get my purse that I accidentally left behind.

  It’s time to busy myself to ignore the feeling of fullness in my bladder. I reach inside my bag for my phone. That’s funny. After a good rummage, I manage to find my sunglasses, my glasses, which have fallen out of their broken case, my purse that I went back for, a crumpled up tissue which I hope isn’t used, and a dusty old lip liner. No phone.

  Oh, crap.

  “Are you okay?” M asks for the second time in the space of five minutes. “Have you left something?” He must have felt the heat radiate from my face.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie, also for the second time in five minutes.

  There’s no point telling him. It’s not like he can turn back now. We are more than halfway along our endlessly long journey. We are closer to my new home than we are to the old one that was mine for 27 years.

  Of all the things to leave behind, though...

  14th September, The city’s my oyster

  “Don’t worry about the phone. My mate will be coming up this week so can swing by your mum’s to get it. Meanwhile, you can use this.” M hands me an old brick of a mobile phone. It’s the kind of relic that doesn’t even allow for pictures, let alone have Internet access.

  “Where did you get that from?” I laugh. “Even my mum has a newer version than that.”

  “Funnily enough, I bought this for my mum but she never used it. To be honest with ya, it was even too old school for her. She wanted a smart phone so she can watch Bangla cooking tutorials on YouTube. So it’s been in my drawer all this time, which is lucky for you,” he says.

  I guess I shouldn’t knock it. Beggars can’t be choosers and all that.

  “Oh, before you go, let me sort something for you,” I say as I make the three-step journey from the open plan sitting area to the open plan kitchen. I guess I better get used to this. Space is scarce in London. Flats are small and stairs are a luxury we can’t afford right now. Still, it’s not like I need the extra steps. Ramadan is coming up, so that will take care of any extra poundage to shift.

  I’m not exactly sure what I’m sorting for M. It’s not my kitchen. It belongs to M’s colleague, Greg, who is currently on sabbatical, which allowed us to rent the place at mates rates as a stopgap before we get somewhere of our own. I only got acquainted with it for the first time last night to get a glass of water when we arrived at 10.30pm. I’m not even sure if there’s any bread in the cupboard.

  I open the fridge door, hoping and praying that there is something in there I can offer my new husband as a means of nourishment. It’s like being a student again. When I went to university at the age of 18 with nothing but a suitcase to my name, I was also face
d with an empty fridge. Well, I say empty, but there were a few odd cans of lager that belonged to my new housemates (yep, I started uni life as the only brownie in the halls, too. Things changed once I left the dormitory and realised that there were some Asians on campus).

  Greg, whom I am told vacated his apartment just a few days ago to head on his trek through South America, or somewhere, has thoughtfully left one UHT long life carton of milk and some orange juice, which also has a questionably long use-by-date. It’s super thoughtful of M’s colleague but not quite the foray into London life I’d imagined. Still, beggars and all that.

  “Babe, don’t pour that for me,” says M as he sees me decant the juice into the (thankfully) clean tumbler glass. “I usually get a full breakfast at work. They’ve got a canteen.”

  “Well, you can have this before you go, so you don’t feel dizzy en route,” I say, as I realise I’m turning into my mum.

  “You mean on my 15 minute commute by foot?” M asks, laughing.

  I laugh, too, though I feel a bit silly. I had a vision that on our first day in our own home (though it’s technically not ours), I’d make him breakfast before work. Yep, I thought I’d be that sort of wife. Sorry, feminists.

  “You’re brilliant,” says M as he gulps down the juice. “Though this isn’t. I haven’t had the crappy long life stuff for years. I doubt many oranges went into this. I think we need to do a proper shop tonight. On that note, what will you eat?”

  Good question.

  Though we’ve only been married a few days, M can read my look of confusion.

  “There’s a supermarket round the corner from here,” he says. “You basically go down Henriques Street. You know, the road that we came down last night before we took a right at the roundabout?”

  I stare at him blankly.

  “Or if you fancy a walk, you could go to Spitalfields market, which is about five minutes away.”

  M proceeds to give me elaborate directions, which unfortunately are as clear as mud. Though he knows my confused face, I’m guessing my bemused expression hasn’t quite registered with him as he continues being a human satnav.

  “I’ll figure something out,” I tell him.

  “Are you sure? I can show you on the map now. Give me your phone,” M says, before remembering. “Oh, yeah. I don’t think the brick phone has Google Maps.”

  A map would’ve been futile anyway as I’m more of a write directions down on a piece of paper kind of girl. My God, does that make me really old school? Have I been living at home for too long? Perhaps spending most of my free time with my parents has turned me into something of an anomaly in the world of tech, preferring pen and paper instructions over pixelated maps.

  “It’s okay. It will give me a chance to explore the place.”

  M sighs. “I feel bad leaving you on your first day here.”

  “It’s fine. I’ll be starting work in a few days, anyway.” Plus, what’s the alternative? Being left behind with your family and cooking fish curry? I think but don’t say aloud.

  “Actually, I’ll be back in a minute.” I run to the bathroom, the one in the hallway, furthest away from M’s ears, before he has a chance to ask why.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen this bathroom as I’ve only used the en-suite alternative so far. It couldn’t be more different to the family bathroom I left behind. Instead of a discoloured shower curtain, a sleek glass splashguard is on standby to protect the floor from drips. While my mum favours Lino, this bathroom is floor to ceiling cream granite, speckled with dark brown and black splodges. It reminds me of the bathroom in our house in Bangladesh, where the dark blobs would provide a disguise for the many cockroaches that would come to play around the toilet at night. It was enough for me to control my rather weak bladder. Big sis said that’s how she trained her kids to stop needing wees after bedtime. One summer spent back home put paid to that.

  I can hear M treading between the kitchen and the bedroom. I assume he’s scooping up his last bits to go to work. I’d do the same every morning at home. I’d almost always forget something... my car keys, my phone, my house keys, my laptop bag. Luckily, I had mum hovering behind me like a drone, running down a checklist of essentials. Could I expect M to do the same? Would he step into the role of executive assistant / life organiser / overbearing busybody? Probably not. It’s a bit of a stretch to expect my new husband to fill the shoes of my mum.

  M’s continuous pacing and clinking of keys are serving as noisy reminders of his presence and giving me stage fright. It just feels a bit too soon for him to hear my trickling pee. I try to block out the noise, while contracting my pelvic floor muscles. I’m at risk of giving myself a urine infection.

  The heavy fire door slams loudly and dramatically. It’s nothing like the UPVC one at home which shuts with two little twists of metal. This solid wood door makes its presence felt and, like some weird, symbolic juxtaposition, it makes M’s sudden absence all the more jarring.

  That’s it. I’m on my own. In this new flat. In this new city.

  Why didn’t he say goodbye?

  In a cruel twist of fate, I now no longer need to pee. I’d have thought my husband’s departure would induce some movement. Not so.

  With M gone, I get to appraise my new temporary home for the first time. It’s very... bright. Instead of mum’s renter’s Magnolia, it’s owner’s white. It’s minimal, too, and a far cry from my parents’ house, where every alcove and spare corner is utilised as storage. This two-bedroom flat, with its black, glistening granite worktops, sleek breakfast bar and black leather corner sofa, is pristine. I imagine it costs a bomb, being so central, despite not boasting many square feet.

  My stomach groans. I guess I better do my first task of the day - eat something. I open the cupboards near the breakfast bar. They’re full of crockery. Well, at least we’ve got bowls and cups and saucers, even if there’s nothing to fill them with. I open every single cupboard in the kitchen. As I slam each one closed, my hopes of finding something, anything, to eat wither way. What was I expecting? It’s not a bed & breakfast. Greg isn’t hosting us. He wasn’t supposed to leave a care package full of jams and scones and fresh bread. Though that would have been nice.

  Mercifully, the last cupboard offers a fragment of hope. In it, pushed to the very far corner, is a box of tea bags. Thank God for that. If I don’t have my morning brew, I get a serious caffeine withdrawal headache later in the day.

  As the kettle brews, I head back to my temporary room to pull out a suitable first-day-in-the-city outfit from the small shelf in the cupboard I stuffed my belongings into. It’s times like this I realise how low maintenance I am. My social media feeds are flooded with pictures of walk-in wardrobes that other girls my age own. I currently don’t have a wardrobe, I occupy two shelves. I’ve not even brought all my clothes. But anyway, I know this isn’t forever. It’s just the start and, if I hadn’t already established this, I am not a chooser.

  I forego the comfy salwar kameezes that are usually my home outfit, as I’ll have to head out for food. So jeans and a stripey blouse it is.

  That’s weird. The kettle didn’t boil. The water pours out cold into the mug, as if it’d come straight from the tap. I refill the kettle and turn it on again. It hisses as though it’s empty. But I’ve put water in! What kind of weird shit is this? I check that it’s switched on at the socket, and then feel stupid for doing so as it so obviously is. Why else would it hiss? The kettle pings to say it’s done. This time nothing pours out. Should I try again? Best not because at this point I’m scared of breaking the damn thing. It’s ridiculous. I’ve only moved cities, not countries. Are the kettles in London that different?

  I figure I have three options:

  Call M for tea making instructions and risk sounding like a massive village bumpkin in these very early and delicate days of marriage where initial actions will form the foundation of our future judgements of each other.

  Or

  Text my fellow adopted L
ondoner, Julia, to ask about the kettle, thus feeling only marginally less of a bumpkin to my oldest friend rather than my brand-spanking new husband.

  Or

  Go old school Bengali-style and brew the tea in a pan on the cooker hob.

  Given that I can’t figure out a simple electric appliance, I don’t trust myself using a gas cooker.

  I think I’ll text Julia. Actually, how can I? I don’t have her number. I’ve got the brick hand-me-down phone that wasn’t even good enough for M’s mum. Come to think of it, I don’t even have my new husband’s number. What if I need him? What if I’m attacked when I’m outside? Okay, that’s a bit dramatic, but anything can happen and I have literally no one’s number except my landline. I mean mum’s landline. And despite being a helicopter mum, she couldn’t fly over from Manchester should I suffer a calamity. Bollocks, this is just great.

  Then I remember that I actually remember Julia’s work number. As weird as that sounds, Julia has the simplest of landlines, it might as well be 12345. I only rang it a couple of desperate times and it’s lodged in my brain. Truthfully, she’s probably more likely to respond on there as she’s rubbish with text.

  The phone rings. And rings. And rings. Of course Julia doesn’t reply. She’s a busy lawyer.

  Oh well, I guess I’ll venture out into the big smoke un-caffeinated.

  I feel like Gretel, of Hansel and Gretel fame, needing to leave crumbs behind so I don’t get lost. It’s funny, I’ve only really ever seen two sides to London. East London, where uncle Tariq lives and where we used to make annual trips as kids. The part of the city where you can’t move for Bengalis. And then there’s central London, where I was lucky enough to get the odd meeting with work. It’s the London I dreamt of. The part of the city that would have me gazing upwards as far as my neck would let me so I can take in the high-rise buildings in all their splendour.