A Matter of Marriage

by Lesley Jorgensen

  Mrs. Begum watched him closely, fairly certain that he would say nothing that would make Shunduri stay put in London. She hurried off to the kitchen, his voice echoing behind her.

  “No, your mother may have. I only take The Times . . .”

  —

  MRS. GURI’S OTHER comments, the ones that Mrs. Begum hadn’t repeated to her husband, came back to her now. They had been made without preliminaries as Mrs. Guri sat in Mrs. Begum’s kitchen yesterday, with as much eyelid-drooping and table-pointing as if she had been asked for her matchmaking advice.

  “Oh, Mrs. Begum, your daughter Shunduri, she is so busy, nah, I wonder she has time for her studies.”

  Mrs. Begum had smiled and wrapped another paan leaf, with consternation in her heart. “Yes, yes, a very busy girl, a good girl, the bank . . .” Mrs. Guri had leaned forward, close enough for Mrs. Begum to smell the thick smear of Vicks under her nose. “Oh, Mrs. Begum, I know she is a good girl. A beautiful girl. But . . .”

  Trouble follows beauty. Mrs. Begum finished the saying in her head, smiled and thought how Vicks would be of no help to Mrs. Guri if she was kicked in her fat face. What had she seen or heard to be giving such a warning?

  “Have you thought, has your husband thought . . . There are so many good families looking for their sons now.” Mrs. Guri waited.

  “We are not an old-fashioned family to be rushing her before she has finished her studies.”

  “Such a lovely girl. So many friends. Do you know her friends?”

  Mrs. Begum sat up a little straighter. “She is coming down this weekend.”

  Mrs. Guri nodded, her cheeks jiggling a little. “That is as it should be. You are a very lucky mother to have her come to you at this time . . .”

  Before it is too late. Mrs. Begum knew exactly what she meant, but smiled at the old gossip as airily as she could over the tightening in her stomach.

  Mrs. Guri glanced at the clock and swallowed the last of her chai with finality. Selecting a paan, she tucked it into a corner of her cheek and dipped into her Harrods bag for a touch more Vicks before announcing she must go as Ahmed would be back now.

  Mrs. Begum walked the fat, matchmaking, troublemaking cockroach to the door with fear in her bowels. If Mrs. Guri, knowing everyone in Brick Lane, in Tower Hamlets, was telling her this, what was it she knew? Or, rather, who? One last effort must be made, despite her anger.

  “In London . . . is everyone . . . your daughters and their families well?”

  Mrs. Guri slowed but was not so silly as to give a triumphant smile. “All well.”

  “Inshallah.” Both women spoke at the same time, and they smiled as they walked outside and down the garden path. Across the road, Mrs. Guri’s son-in-law Ahmed was crouching by his car, rather forlornly wiping at a crumpled bumper with some paper towels.

  They were almost at the gate now, and Mrs. Begum was growing desperate. She did not have Mrs. Guri’s London connections and her knowledge of the families and of reputations and rumors. She put her hand on Mrs. Guri’s upper arm, and her fingers sank in as if it was Mrs. Darby’s chocolate mousse.

  “Perhaps you could let people know, that Shunduri is ready . . .”

  Mrs. Guri, visibly gratified, stopped at the gate and rested against the post. She was waiting for more. Ahmed straightened when he saw them, then went back to trying to smooth the dent.

  Mrs. Begum clasped her hands together. “I . . . a mother always worries . . . and London is so far away . . . You know all the best families.”

  Mrs. Guri looked back at the house, and Mrs. Begum turned to look with her, at the Windsor Cottage brass plate that she had put up only this morning: just the right size, not too big, not too small, and with that veneer of hastily acquired verdigris, so hurtful to her house-proud instincts, but on a sharp-eyed walk through the village, apparently so necessary for the proper country look. She cursed country-look in her thoughts as she followed Mrs. Guri’s eyes. Why did country-look have to be so different to town-look? Why this need for falling-down and dirty?

  Nothing was said. Mrs. Begum again swallowed her pride. “Please.”

  Mrs. Guri nodded in gracious acknowledgement. “Mrs. Begum, you should never worry, you have good children.” She paused, then spoke again, in a lower voice. “Niece Indra, you know, my niece, Hakeem’s sister that married the doctor? She saw one night, Shunduri talking to a boy in his car. But it was dark, so easy to make mistakes . . .”

  “Aah, yes,” said Mrs. Begum bitterly. “So easy.”

  Mrs. Guri took a reviving sniff. “We all have these problems. These modern children, they think they must have everything . . . that they deserve happiness. What can you do?”

  “Aaah,” they both said.

  Mrs. Guri’s own eldest daughter—four children and two broken noses in three years and now on indefinite nyeri, family-visit, with her parents—was before them both, and Mrs. Begum’s anger faded. What could any of them do for their children’s happiness and safety, except pray?

  Mrs. Guri touched Mrs. Begum’s shoulder and said with genuine kindness, “We will do our best to find her a good husband.”

  “Inshallah.” Both women had spoken together again, this time with no animosity.

  Mrs. Guri rested one hand on her stomach. “They are only safe in your womb, nah? Then your sorrows start.” She brought one plump hand up to her face, pinched the bridge of her nose and squeezed her eyes shut, as if trying to recall. “He is a businessman, I think . . . Phones and cameras.”

  Tears sprang to Mrs. Begum’s eyes. She had no pride left now, none at all. “Can you ask? Find out the important things?”

  Mrs. Guri nodded heavily. “Yes, yes,” and pushed her bulk off the gatepost. It did not spring back.

  Likewise, the mood of the two women, as they walked together across the roadway to Ahmed’s car, was unusually subdued. The current of strong emotions, genuine feelings, that flowed between them was not a comfortable thing, and so it was with some relief that Mrs. Begum, nodding and smiling, accepted her friend’s parting shot (an offer of Brasso for Windsor Cottage’s name plate) to resume the usual community hostilities.

  —

  MRS. BEGUM, STANDING in the kitchen and remembering every word of that visit, was aware that it would be a month, maybe more, before Mrs. Guri could return with news, and so much could happen in a month. If Mrs. Guri was telling her about one time, that meant many times, enough gossip to get her big bottom into Ahmed’s car for a two-hour drive to give her this sorrow and receive the satisfaction of Mrs. Begum begging for her matchmaking help. Images of Mrs. Begum’s own hasty marriage flashed before her eyes, and she gave a little moan. Baby. Shunduri must be brought back home before it was too late.

  Phones. Businessman-businessman. Every gundah, yob, in the community was a businessman. All it meant was that there was no job and no family occupation, no restaurant or shop for them to attach themselves to. That they were boys alone and liable to go off into any direction. And Shunduri. She thumped the rice saucepan down hard on the stove and blue flames bellied. So busy with bank. Did Shunduri think her mother was born yesterday? This boy must be made to realize that Baby was not a girl without family.

  And if he was halfway eligible . . . Mrs. Begum stirred the basmati vigorously. Rohimun’s antics had ruined this family. If he was one grain eligible, then pressure could, must, be brought to bear. Mrs. Guri had not acquired her reputation as a matchmaker through her sugarcane sweetness. Mrs. Begum had heard here in UK of funchaits, the community councils of elders, being called, with the attendant beatings, to force love-match couples to wed, and of the girls who were getting too modern and were shipped off to Bangladesh to be married to traditional men who controlled their wives with traditional methods.

  This phones-businessman, whoever he was, would be no match for the combined forces of Mrs. Guri and herself. The way things w
ere going, Baby would be the only Choudhury daughter to marry within the community. And if this could be managed, the damage to the family’s reputation caused by Rohimun would be partially repaired. Even if it meant a funchait, this would be done.

  Look at Princess Margaret when she was young: what a mess cleaned up there with just a little pressure from her affa, her big sister the Queen. Not a first-rate marriage perhaps, but the royal family would have known not to expect first-rate after that fuss with a man who had been married before. She must speak again to her neighbor Mrs. Darby, with her knowledge of all things royal, about how it had been done.

  As for Rohimun . . . Mrs. Begum abandoned the rice and began to chop onions, tears filling the corners of her eyes. Perhaps marriage was possible if it was outside the community. Dodi and Diana. Yes, Dodi and Diana: such a thing could be managed. She just needed to be more practical, more accepting than the Queen and Prince Philip had been. Yes, it was for her, Mrs. Begum, to learn from their mistakes and acknowledge that, for Rohimun, even a mixed marriage would be a blessing. Rohimun was like that poor foolish girl Diana in other ways too: she needed a marital anchor, otherwise she was likely to drift into dangerous waters. As indeed she had.

  Mrs. Begum scraped the onions into a saucepan and threw in a pinch of the big rock-salt crystals that Tariq had persuaded her, years ago now, to use instead of the fine-ground salt that everyone so admired in Bangladesh. Sons were always less predictable: they had more choices, more freedom to get away from family influences. With his looks, she had expected love-trouble at university as a certainty, yet all Tariq’s love then seemed to be for family and for Allah, peace be upon Him. And his precious art pictures. And it had turned out to be Tariq rather than her daughters who had been so sick for home at that time. Although of course he had been away in South Africa these last one-two years with no such yearning.

  Twenty-seven was not too late for a man to marry in UK. Look at Prince Charles. Tariq just needed to be steered, no, nudged, very slightly, in the right direction. A nice homely girl. Someone to keep her mother-in-law company, be interested in the garden and the kitchen. Such a girl was considerably more likely to give her grandchildren than Rohimun or Shunduri. Tariq would be home soon, she could feel it in her stomach, ever since that phone call two days ago: the first since he’d left. Family was becoming more important to him.

  And if there was a secret there, in the background, it could be managed. Camilla had not wrecked that royal marriage; it was Diana’s loneliness and lack of family help—Mrs. Darby and Mrs. Begum both agreed on that. A second wife, or mistress as they called her in UK, could stabilize an unhappy marriage, give a difficult husband someone else to bother, give both women a break. It could even have its own harmonies, especially if one of the wives, for some reason, was barren.

  Mrs. Begum bent over the hissing onions and sniffed. Something was missing. Haldi. She took a generous teaspoonful of the golden turmeric powder, spice of weddings and all things fishy, and scattered it over the onion. Time to blend all the ingredients together now, and then wait, while the onions caramelized and the spices roasted, for the hidden flavors to reveal themselves.

  Two

  BABY WAS LOOKING good tonight. Shunduri stood back from the mirror and tossed her hair, tilted her head and affected to stare blankly as though at an admirer, conscious of length of leg and height of breast. She was never going to be one of those Asian girls who lost the plot as soon as they were married, getting fat and not doing their hair or nails; spending all their time watching Bollywood movies and filling their faces with samosas and pick ’n’ mix. When she married, she was going to be like Posh Spice, getting thinner and younger and better dressed every year, handsome rich husband, a flash car of her own. Yaah.

  Affa, big sister Rohimun, had been stacking on the weight and not even betrothed yet. And probably never, now that everyone knew she had a gora boyfriend. Shunduri sniffed and tossed her hair again, watching its glossy swing under the bedroom light. Served Rohimun right, always criticizing her taste in clothes and friends, telling her she shouldn’t read rubbish, dissing her London Vogue and her Desi and Bollywood mags. What you need is serious reading to improve your mind, Baby.

  Shunduri held her hands out in front of her: baby-blue nails, tipped in silver glitter. Perfect. As they should be—she’d only just finished doing them. She looked in the mirror again. Sass & Bide leggings in the same pale blue as her nails and a tight scarlet choli, the blouse taken from her latest sari. Scarlet stilettos, and blue and silver toenails. Without taking her eyes from the mirror, she picked up the matching veil from the bed, tucked one corner into the top of her leggings, wrapped it once around her waist then draped it diagonally across her torso, pulling it tight across her breasts before pinning it on her shoulder.

  Shunduri turned sideways to admire the five feet of veil that hung down her back and the neatness of her bum in the shiny pants, visible through the draped chiffon. Then she grabbed her hairbrush, tipped her head over and brushed her hair vigorously before straightening up and enveloping herself in a cloud of Silhouette extra-strong hold.

  Why hadn’t she gotten Mum’s hair? It was so unfair being stuck with Dad’s fine strands, though no one could say she hadn’t made the most of them. Not that she’d ever wanted a great big rope of the stuff like Affa had: just a bit more thickness, so she could grow it to her shoulderblades and not have to use hot rollers every time she needed a bit of volume. Affa had the hair alright, but what a waste. All she did was wear it down in a tangled mess, no styling whatsoever, or plait it back like a village girl. Shunduri would never let herself go like that. It was just a matter of making an effort, not being lazy. No one likes a slob.

  She stared in the mirror again. Her legs were looking even longer tonight in leggings and three-inch heels, not to mention what the balconette bra was doing to her bust. Nothing much in the waist department despite all her dieting, but her stomach was as flat as a board, unlike Rohimun’s. Why she’d let herself go now, Shunduri couldn’t understand. Just when she was getting herself into the papers too. If she’d played her cards right with that blue-blooded boyfriend of hers, she could have been London’s first Desi It-girl.

  Not that he was her type. She, Shunduri Choudhury, would never go out with a gora, a Christian: she was a true Muslim girl. But despite that, she’d done her best for Rohimun when she’d turned up that time. No money in her purse, not even a change of clothes, and crying on her doorstep as if Shunduri was the big sister. She’d looked after her, gotten in takeaway and fed her, put sheets on the couch and found some clothes that fit her (no easy task). And then Shunduri had called Simon, just to let him know the score, that Rohimun had family who cared, yaah, and then, before you know it, they were back together again. Not that Rohimun’d ever thanked her.

  Just went to show, Affa knew nothing about men. About relationships. If she wasn’t careful, she’d lose Simon, and then who’d marry her? Shunduri stalked into the bathroom and found the tube of lip primer that she had bought earlier that day, unscrewed the cap and rolled it on the way the salesgirl had shown her. Something still wasn’t right though. Mum was throwing out these hints, and Rohimun hadn’t phoned since she’d left with Simon, ungrateful cow, and now she’d had her picture in the papers again.

  Shunduri made smacking sounds with her lips and counted in her head to twenty to let the primer settle in, before applying lipstick in a vivid red. She clicked the lid back onto the lipstick and looked at her face in the mirror with complete satisfaction. That really finished her off. Yaah. Kareem was one lucky man.

  —

  SHUNDURI SWANNED INTO the cafe, head high despite the butterflies in her stomach that always clustered at these moments, striding from her waist the way the modelling course had taught her, stopping herself from making any of those giveaway touches to hair, clothes or face that advertised self-doubt. They’d also told her to say brush just before entering a room,
to give the appearance of a natural smile, but Shunduri didn’t follow this advice. It was more dignified not to smile, cooler. Look at Posh Spice.

  Only problem was, walking in like this made it hard to look around for her posse. But no matter, they would find her. Shunduri leaned on an empty chair to pull at a stiletto strap, and the next minute Amina and Aisha were by her side with hugs and air kisses and “Baby!” and the usual gasps and compliments for her outfit.

  Soon they were all lolling back in cafe chairs, facing the street for maximum exposure, and Shunduri rearranged her veil and swung her sleek, shiny bob a little, well pleased with the reactions. She was still showing her posse how to dress, and from the looks other tables and passersby were sneaking, they weren’t the only ones.

  Her cream-coffee, when it came, was in a deep red cup that contrasted beautifully with her nails, and even dear Amina and Aisha had decked themselves out in pastels, which made them fade into the pinkish walls of the cafe almost as much as she stood out. What good friends they were. Amina and Aisha oohed and aahed, telling Shunduri who was walking in the door and who was looking at them, and she half closed her eyes and took microscopic sips and pretended not to be interested.

  Where was Kareem? She wanted him to come and see her like this: Queen of the Cafe, surrounded by admirers. She could just imagine what Affa would say, seeing her here. Empty-headed. Why, her head was crowded out with thoughts and plans and schemes for the future. Most of them involving Kareem, her man, who made her look so good and treated her like the princess she was.

  Look how well she was doing at the bank: always on time, never a day off, quicker on the keyboards and with the money than some of the women who’d been there years. Promoted onto the money transfer and currency exchange counter after only three months, already seen as the one to sort out difficulties and assist the manager with end-of-month problems. Self-possessed and decisive, her last review had said. Looking good in the uniform too. You had to think ahead in this life, think ahead all the time. She was the most go-getting girl she knew, and the most sensible, the most rational, leaving nothing to chance. She knew what she needed to succeed in life: a good job, good clothes and a man like her—ambitious, successful, stylish.