The Secret Diary of a Bengali Newlywed Read online

  Despite Liverpool Street being apparently central, the bit where we live seems to fall between being residential and cosmopolitan. The flat is on a cobbled street that wouldn’t look out of place on the set of Coronation Street. I walk past houses that don’t have front gardens and look like they’ve been converted to flats. There are various apartment blocks in different shades of grey and brown and a few greasy spoon cafes like you’d see on Eastenders. Not quite the glitter I was expecting but hey, I’m here. I can make this work.

  It occurs to me that there’s not a lot to do by myself the entire day. I wish I’d texted Naila to let her know when I was coming. We might not be close but she is my cousin, after all. Plus, being a makeup artist, chances are she works odd hours. She’d have probably been free to meet.

  After buying my breakfast and lunch from Sainsbury’s, I decide to wander about the place. It seems a little sad to go straight back to the empty, soulless flat. What does a girl do when she’s got the entire day to herself in London? Surely I should be having more fun? The highlight of my day can’t be getting my supermarket-bought pastry and meal deal?

  I go past a rustic looking pizzeria, not dissimilar to the one I frequented many a time back in Manchester, with the name Antonio’s emblazoned in red across a green background. There’s even a red and white striped awning, just like my beloved Italian back home. The similarities don’t end there. The restaurant is giving off an inviting glow, courtesy of the golden lighting so common in such places. I think I even spot a fireplace inside. It’s practically calling me, willing me to go inside and embrace its warm glow.

  That’s it. I’m going to do it. I’m going to grow a pair of balls and do what I assume Londoners do all the time. Eat alone in a restaurant and be fine with it. It’s 11.30am so totally appropriate to have lunch. I’ve always said it takes a really self-confident person to be able to sit by themselves and enjoy a meal, savouring every mouthful while watching the world go by. I saw a girl do this once, while Julia and I were at the next table sharing a bruschetta with a side of bitching about men. This girl didn’t even look at her phone for company. She sat sipping her cappuccino without a hint of self-consciousness. I want to be that girl. I think I’ll have to be that girl. She was like Carrie from Sex and the City. I, too, can be like Carrie from Sex and the City. Only I’ll be in London, not New York. And my outfit’s from Gap, not Versace. And I’m brown. Okay, so nothing like Carrie.

  It turns out I’m in good company. Sat on the table next to me is another girl, likely my age and definitely alone. She’s already on her main, twirling her prawn linguine around her fork. If she had a date, she’s been stood up.

  We exchange little smiles across from each other, mostly instigated by me. Then, as my pizza arrives (pizza always trumps pasta when eating out), she nods in admiration at my lunch.

  This is my chance. I’m going to graduate from facial gestures to words.

  “About time! Your pasta was making me hungry,” I say, before wondering whether my initiating a conversation was too keen.

  Much to my relief, she replies: “It looks great,” in an Eastern European accent.

  Okay, so we’re friends now.

  “Do you come here often?” I sound like I’m chatting her up.

  “No, it’s my first time. I have an audition in the area.”

  Oh, tell me more, new friend, I think but obviously don’t say aloud. I’m friendly, not weird.

  Luckily, this girl seems quite happy to strike up a conversation. I find out that, like me, she’s an adopted Londoner, having moved here from Poland six months ago. She works part-time as a receptionist but is also a budding theatre actress, taking auditions around her work. How very cool.

  Speaking of cool, I then decide to do something I wouldn’t ordinarily dream of.

  “Sorry... I’m struggling to hear you.” This is true as we’re having to raise our voices from our large respective tables that are meant for parties of four. However, I have an ulterior motive. “Would you mind if I joined you?”

  “No! Of course not! Please do!” She removes her olive green leather bag from the chair next to her and puts it on the floor.

  M will be so proud of me. I’ll have to tell mum, too, when I call her. I’d always regale her with stories of how I’d make a new friend on the train when travelling back and forth between home and university. Granted, they were fleeting friendships as our relationship would never progress beyond the journey. However, it was nice to know my social skills were on point.

  It turns out that Lena is an old hand at eating alone in restaurants in random parts of London as she flits from one audition to another. Today, she’s going for the titular role in the Woman in Black, who appears in the final scene of the play shrouded in a black burqa-like ensemble.

  “It’s not easy,” she tells me as she takes the last bite of her pasta. “Theatre pays nothing and London isn’t cheap. I live on top of a launderette in Tooting. But I love it, so I will continue for as long as I can.”

  I guess I should be grateful having moved into a sleek, if sterile, flat.

  Though a stranger, talking to Lena feels familiar, comfortable. She even hangs back, despite having finished her main, to speak a little longer.

  As our respective bills arrive, I’m feeling emboldened.

  “Well, if you’re ever around for another audition here, we could meet up. If you want my number?”

  Oh, was that too soon? I can never gauge these things.

  While I’m regretting my over eagerness, Lena takes her phone out of her bag. “Sounds good!”

  As we exchange numbers, I notice a voicemail message. I’m hoping it’s M, so I can reply back saying something like: I’ve pulled.

  It’s not M. It’s Julia.

  “Hey! Welcome to London! And what are you like, leaving your phone at home! Anyway, if you’re up for it, I can meet you for lunch. It might be a late lunch for you, as it will be around 3ish. That’s the standard lunchtime in the sweatshop. Do you think you can come to Chancery Lane? Call me. I’ll give you directions and tell you which tube to get. Oh, and the kettle thingy, it sounds like a filter kettle. Wait a few minutes once you filled it up for the water to trickle-down. It’s a pain but totally necessary as London water is rancid.”

  Ah... I see.

  The old brick phone lets out a suitably old school ring as well as an indiscreet buzz in my bag as I walk to the tube station. M must have set the tone to extra loud for his mum, or at least I hope so. It would be embarrassing if it were for my benefit. I may be clumsy and forgetful but I’m not hard of hearing.

  As I stop to get the phone out of my bag, a man in a pink shirt and tie brushes past me, knocking my shoulder. He doesn’t apologise or look back. Rude Londoner. I tut loudly but it’s pointless. He’s already on the escalators, moving very slowly underground as he’s stuck behind people who aren’t in as much of a hurry.

  The phone is still ringing. I have a scary thought... who is calling? Who has this number? Could it be one of M’s nosey aunties? There were plenty of them from what I saw on my wedding day when we got back to M’s house for the obligatory show and tell (as in I show my face and they tell me which way to look for photos). With my dizzying hunger headache caused by being too nervous to eat at the wedding hall in front of 600 guests, all these homely aunties started to look the same, bonded in my mind by their willingness to break all cardinal first meeting rules by asking how old I am. Some even dared to query how M and I met. I remember how my mother-in-law giggled nervously before changing the subject to something much safer - gossip about someone else’s daughter. M’s mum, just like mine, wanted to maintain the facade that our marriage was very much arranged by the elders. Nobody needed to know different. It wasn’t just the questions from these aunties that were invasive, it was a day of violations. One nosey lady took it upon herself to open my suitcase to help find me a change of saree, only to recoil, red faced, when the first item of clothing to jump out at her was a pink and bl
ack silk slip. I mean, what did she think I was going to wear on my wedding night - thermals?

  The phone continues its interminable ring, loud and eager. I better just put myself out of my misery. Worst case, I can hang up and blame a bad signal if it’s a shrill tone spitting out questions on the other end of the line.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  Thank God. It’s a voice that still gives me goosebumps, like it did in the early days of our courtship.

  “Did you manage to find something decent to eat?” asks M.

  “I did, actually, and I found someone to eat with.”

  “Ooh, tell me more,” says M.

  “I’ll fill you in later as I’m just about to get on a tube to meet Julia. You know, my old school friend that lives in London?”

  “Check you out! One day in and two dates! What will you be like in a week?”

  I’m basking in his praise, like the people pleaser I am. However, I must keep on track as I don’t want a flat battery while negotiating the London Underground.

  “More importantly. What do you want for dinner tonight?” I ask.

  “Anything. Let’s keep it easy. I was thinking maybe we could order in?”

  “Are you sure? I don’t mind making something.” I am a Stepford Wife and I don’t deny it.

  “Nah. Keep it easy, babe. No point even worrying about cooking until we’ve got our bearings here.”

  I really have won the Bengali boy lottery. I note how he says “we” rather than “you” when he talks about cooking.

  “Okay. While I’ve got you, can you text me your mum’s number?” I ask.

  “What? My mum?” Given M’s surprise I wonder how many mums’ numbers he has.

  “Yeah. I just thought I’d check in. You know, do the obligatory daughter-in-law thing.”

  M laughs. “Yeah, sure.”

  Best brush up on my Bengali.

  As the phone rings, I’m having second thoughts. What if she interrogates me?

  What will I say? What if she secretly has an issue with me living it up in London, rather than being at her house making curry?

  It rings three times. Can I hang up now? Does that count as having tried?

  “Hello...” says a croaky voice.

  Too late, it’s happening.

  “How are you?” I ask.

  “Good. Good.” my mother-in-law replies. “You?”

  “Yes. Good.”

  There’s an awkward silence. Why can’t I be quick thinking and chat about anything in Bangla like I do in English?

  “Just getting used to the new flat.” Scrambling for topics here.

  “Ah. Is okay?”

  “Yes, fine. It’s just... there’s no stairs and... erm... it’s smaller. It’s nice, though. I’m not complaining. We don’t need a big house or anything. It’s not like we’ve got kids!”

  Why did I just say that? I usually find I’m a little out of my depth when speaking in Bangla to an elder but in this case, with my husband’s mother, I’m especially tongue-tied.

  Another silence.

  “What you do?” asks M’s mum.

  “Er... I work in PR. It’s basically working with journalists to get stories in the media.” We’ve been down this road before, in an equally stilted past phone conversation.

  “No, I say what you doing now?”

  Oh dear. This just trumped our last conversation in the awkward stakes.

  Instinctively, I feel the need to lie so as not to suggest I’m footloose and fancy-free, dining at leisure with different friends in London. “Oh, nothing much. Just popping out to get some food for later.”

  “Ah.” Though I can’t see M’s mum, I can picture her ears pricking up. “What will you cook?”

  Crap. I hadn’t thought the lie through. “Erm, if I can get hold of some chicken I’ll make a curry. I don’t know where the halal shops are yet.”

  M’s mum does an impressed chuckle, which indicates I answered correctly.

  “You find chicken no problem. In London there are lot of our people, so there be plenty of halal shops. I’m cooking fish today and a beef curry. It’s always better to cook by hand. Outside food no good.”

  I guess that’s decided then. M’s takeaway idea is no longer on the cards. It’s probably for the best, anyway. I’ll earn brownie points as a wife and daughter-in-law.

  “I think your wedding inspired some movement in my life,” says Julia as she takes a bite out of her 3.30pm panini.

  “Really? How?”

  “Miles has asked me to move in with him.” Julia looks pensive as she sips her takeaway latte.

  That girl is never without her coffee. It’s like she is constantly needing to refuel herself. Being a solicitor in the city must be hard.

  “That’s great, isn’t it?” I ask.

  “I don’t know, is it?” Julia slams her paper cup down on the pigeon pooh spattered bench. “It’s just... you know how I am. You’re always joking that I’m more Bengali than you and I don’t deny I’m a bit old fashioned. It’s not that I was expecting a proposal so soon, it’s just that now he’s jumped to the next stage, what if the proposal never comes? What would you do?”

  “You’re asking the wrong girl. I only know one way. The other was never an option.”

  “I think you’re quite lucky in that respect. At least there’s a guarantee you’ll get married.”

  I smile at her. It wasn’t so long ago she was feeling sorry for me with my backward Bangladeshi background.

  Julia raises her hand, neatly manicured in a red sheen, to hide her laugh. “The irony, right?”

  She knows me too well.

  It’s surreal seeing Julia, my oldest friend, in my newest home. As we sit surrounded by pigeons taking turns to peck at the crumbs left over from many a busy lawyer’s lunch, it feels strange, comforting, familiar and yet so new. It’s like my old and new life colliding on a busy open market, while men and women rush past us, a sea of black and grey suits.

  “Anyway, how are you? My newlywed friend?” Julia finally gets round to the bit I’ve been itching for, to talk about me.

  “It’s not been a bad first day, to be fair. When M left, I didn’t know what I’d do with myself but here I am, with a loaded Oyster card and a £5 fill-your-own Tupperware box. With hot food and not just salad! And it’s halal!”

  Yes, I had a second lunch. What of it?

  “There are lots of halal options around here,” Julia informs me. “I’m always noticing that sign in the window. You know, the one that says it in Arabic, and it makes me think of you. You were always moaning about how there weren’t enough places in Manchester and that you were stuck with Indian buffets.”

  “Not that a buffet was ever bad,” I say. “But it’s definitely nice to have more variety. Can you believe I’ve lived 27 years and this is the first time I’ve had a shop bought lasagna? I always had to make my own.”

  “Speaking of eating out, we should organise a night out. It will be much easier now that -”

  Julia stops. I imagine she was going to say something like: ‘Now that you’re not under lock and key living at your parents’ house.’ She knows exactly how things were. Dinner dates were non-existent, we’d always meet for lunch. I never went to the school discos or joined in any of the weekend shenanigans with my 14-year-old classmates, such as getting drunk in the park and getting off with whoever they fancied at the time.

  “You know what I mean. I’m not suggesting a piss up at Mahiki, but maybe dinner or something? Or even a trip to the Shard? M is going to be chilled about you going out, isn’t he?”

  It’s a point I hadn’t really considered. M, having lived alone in London away from his parents for the last few years, is more liberated than me. Courtesy of being a Bengali boy, he had much more freedom at home, too. However, though undoubtedly he’d be fine about me having a girly night out with Julia, I don’t know how I feel about it. I realise that’s totally weird and I should be glad to have the freedom and space, but I think y
ears upon years of living a certain way is hard to shake off. It wasn’t just instilled in me that good Bengali girls don’t go out at night, there is also the safety factor of getting home at night alone. It’ll be even more of a thing here as I don’t have my car. Julia and I live in different parts of London. Would I be expected to make my own way home by tube late at night? Is that what people do here?

  Julia is still searching my face for an answer. After convincing her that we Bengalis aren’t all backward and we can have a modern fairytale relationship just like the one she enjoys, I might be undoing all my hard work with one blank face.

  “Oh yeah, he’s fine with all that,” I finally reply. “Dinner would be great. We can figure out the details later.”

  “What else have you got planned today?” asks Julia.

  “Nothing much. I’ll probably finish unpacking and sort something out for dinner,” I say. “On that note, do you know where I could get halal meat around here?”

  “Here? Sorry, butchers aren’t really my forte. But if I was to hazard a guess...” Julia looks around at the many white and very few brown faces. “I’d say you won’t find anything here.”

  “Chickpea curry it is, then.”

  “Wow, look at you! A domestic goddess already! Though I knew you would be. I hope M knows how lucky he is.” Julia takes another sip of her coffee.

  “I’m sure he does.”

  I feel pretty lucky, too, I think to myself. Just the two of us. No interfering in-laws, no community expectation, no family politics. As the Bengali saying goes, when you marry the boy, you marry the entire family. So having potentially escaped all that - for now at least - makes me feel terribly grateful.

  “Anyway, I’m so glad you’re here. You’ll just love London. The city is your oyster. Quite literally.” Julia laughs at her own pun. “You know, because of your Oyster travel card,” she adds, somewhat killing the joke.

  “Yeah, I get it. And yes, it’s great. The few times I’ve taken the tube for work trips have always been fun. It’s like a labyrinth, an amazing labyrinth.” I’m still pinching myself that the city I’ve always loved is now my home.