When she turned, her two daughters were standing on the doorstep facing her, with their father’s arms around them, and Tariq had tears on his cheeks, just like his father. Richard was still by the car, as if unsure what to do next. She stared at him, not breathing, willing him to act.
Through a blur of tears, Mrs. Begum watched as Richard joined the group on the steps and held out his hand to Dr. Choudhury. Her husband was not short, but the two-steps up that he was standing only brought him to Richard’s eye-level. The two men acknowledged each other, then Dr. Choudhury’s hand came out and they shook hands as equals. Richard said something and gestured toward Rohimun.
Mrs. Begum was entranced and did not approach them to hear what was being said, for fear of breaking the spell. Whatever it was, Rohimun had moved away with that shoulder-slouching stance she had when she had too much attention, and was drifting toward the side of the house. Dr. Choudhury, most unlike him, so awkward with touchings, then pulled Richard up a step and into an embrace, which was over as soon as it had begun and which seemed to embarrass them both equally.
Baby was watching the men avidly, almost jealously, her eyes wide and the second finger of her right hand stroking the central part in her hair. Hah, there is a girl ready to marry, painting her own part red. Whatever happens, Mrs. Begum thought, as she wiped her eyes and hurried to the cottage, Baby must marry first; it would matter so much to her. Betrothal would have to be good enough for Munni, in the circumstances. And who could hurry a gora suitor, anyway?
Eventually Mrs. Begum realized that dear Richard was saying something to her about leaving, dropping Rohimun’s painting things off but coming back later. She nodded and turned toward her front door. Two daughters as good as married, and her family whole again. Truly she was blessed today, Inshallah.
Forty
MRS. BEGUM SWEPT back into the sitting room with Tariq, beaming. Kareem was following, as careful as any younger son, closing doors behind them, and with both (both!) daughters dispatched upstairs and Richard promising to be back soon, the ball had clearly bounced into the Guris’ tennis court. She stood right next to her husband, as close as any gora wife, and stared pointedly at the Guris, who looked as if they had not moved since she’d left them. They must speak.
Mr. Guri was wiping his forehead and top lip with a handkerchief. His mouth was open and he was breathing heavily, as if he had been running. “Is, is everything . . .”
Dr. Choudhury hurrumphed. “Yes, yes. My other daughter is home now.”
“Ah, it was . . . family-visit then? The unmarked, er, blue car?”
Mrs. Begum could not resist. “Yes, yes, and Tariq with Richard Bourne, from the Bourne Abbey.” From the window, Richard’s car could be seen driving away. “He will be back to visit with us later.”
Mr. Guri edged forward on his seat. “You have a beautiful family. And a beautiful home. Very big.” His tone was as different from before as yoghurt from chilli, but before Mrs. Begum could respond, Mrs. Guri chimed in.
“And what lovely children. Beautiful children, all grown-up. It is such a pleasure to see this generation can turn out so well. It gives me hope.” There was still a something in those last few words that seemed to be directed at Kareem, but no matter. Things were now as they should be, and the men needed to be left to talk.
Mrs. Begum smiled at Mrs. Guri and gestured toward the picture of Prince and Princess Michael. “Let me show you the sari.” Mrs. Guri heaved herself out of the armchair, successfully this time, and followed Mrs. Begum to the study to ahh and fondle the fabric that had been graced by royal eyes. Once this was done, the girls should be almost ready to be brought downstairs.
—
UPSTAIRS, SHUNDURI TURNED Rohimun’s shoulders so that they were both facing the wardrobe mirror.
“You know, Kareem has lots of friends. He could be such a good brother to you.”
Rohimun looked at the emerald green sari Shunduri had just persuaded her to put on, then watched as her sister also scrutinized her, as if trying to think what she could offer her that would be appreciated.
“He knows everybody. He could find you a nice husband, I mean, one that wasn’t bothered about . . .”
“No, thanks,” she replied. “I don’t particularly like . . . you just enjoy yours. I’m very happy for you.” She sat down and squinted at the two saris her sister had spread out on the other bed. “If you’re going to wear pink, go for the cool pink with silver embroidery. And keep it simple, Baby: just a few bangles, no tikka or hair jewelry or slave bracelets.”
“You think?” Shunduri eyed herself with a doubtful expression.
Telling Baby to lay off the jewelry was like telling a bowerbird blue wasn’t its color. “You look beautiful, Baby—no need to worry about that. Here, get your salwar off and put the sari petticoat on.”
“I just hope they like me, you know?”
“Well, they’d be fools not to, yeah?”
Shunduri flapped her hands over her chest, then seemed to become preoccupied with her nails, long and gleaming in frosted pink, as Rohimun stood to unfold the sari’s length.
“Put the blouse on now, so I can start on the sari. What’s he like then?”
“I don’t really know, yaah.”
“Oh bullshit, Baby. Come on, tell me.”
Shunduri gave a sort of gasping giggle and turned for her to fold and tuck the sari’s skirt. “As you saw, he’s sooo good-lookin’. A bit like Gulshan Grover in Gangster, but wiv better teeth. He thought, first time he saw me, that I looked like Rani Mukherjee in Kal Ho Naa Ho.”
Rohimun felt about a hundred. “So what do you know about his family? There, that’s your pallu done now.”
“Oh, his real family.” Shunduri shrugged elegantly, then frowned into the mirror. “This blouse is so old-fashioned. They’re all dead years ago, from those big floods that Mum always goes on about. He’s been with the Guris, working in their restaurant since he was sixteen, though they had him down as twelve on the visa so he could come over as their long-lost nephew. He’s really connected—have you seen his car?”
“If you want to please your future in-laws I’d go as traditional as you can. You’ll have plenty of chances to go Bollywood high-fashion after you marry.”
“You know what I’d really like to do?” Shunduri’s eyes sparkled. “I’d like to get one of those houses in the new estates just out of Swindon. So brand-new, no one has ever lived in them before. They’re built with conservatories, and you can choose your own wallpaper inside . . . and Mum won’t be too far away to help, you know, with the kids.” Shunduri giggled at Rohimun’s raised eyebrows. “And you could visit, stay as long as you want.”
The bright sari was put away, and they both smoothed the chiffon overlay of the chosen sari with spread fingers and smiled at each other. The sulky defensiveness that Shunduri had always had as far back as Rohimun could remember, her jealousy of Rohimun’s closeness to Tariq, and to Dad, were nowhere to be seen. Now Shunduri seemed to regard herself, finally, as the lucky one, the special one, the child that the sun shone on, favorite of all. Rohimun should be happy for her.
Shunduri reached into her beauty box, pulled out a piece of elaborately worked hair-jewelry in antiqued gold, and draped it against Rohimun’s hair. “This would look great on you, and maybe some lipstick . . .”
How generous Shunduri was in her triumph, wanting to share her excitement and her jewelry.
“What shoes are you going to wear? You don’t want to tower over him,” Rohimun found herself saying. God, she sounded like a bitter old maid. But Shunduri was oblivious to the dig.
“You know what, when I’m married, we could go out clubbing, get you to meet some nice boys maybe . . . I’ve got some outfits you’d look great in.”
So now it was Rohimun who was the poor unfortunate, the black sheep. She sat down again. “I’m not really into that scen
e, Baby.”
“Maybe in the future, yaah.” Shunduri sat behind her and started to play with her hair, pulling her head around to face the mirror. “It’s so dry. Let me oil it for you, Affa. Richard’s coming back, isn’t he?”
She gave a vague assent as she looked at herself. She’d never been into this kind of thing. This wasn’t her. But there she was in the mirror, wearing an emerald green sari and waiting for her younger sister, still talking a mile a minute, to rub oil through her hair. Richard had never seen her in a sari.
—
MRS. BEGUM, HAVING finished showing Mrs. Guri the sari cupboard and returned her guest to the sitting room, announced, with a certain drama, “I will make tea.”
As soon as she was in the hall, she hoicked up her sari and ran upstairs. She opened the door to the girls’ bedroom with a warm feeling in her stomach that she had them home with her at last: both girls together now. And with no fighting, although it was probably still not a good idea to leave them alone for too long.
The air was thick with perfume and hairspray and hair oil, and she felt a thrill of pleasure to see her beautiful Shunduri in a sari. And a sari blouse that did not show the top of her breasts.
“Baby, who put your sari on?”
“Affa did my sari. Good as you, Amma!” Shunduri twirled, staggered a little in her heels and laughed, but too loud, too high. “See?”
Mrs. Begum smiled and inspected her daughter’s slim waist.
“Shush now. Be calm and quiet. You are a good girl.”
Who would have thought that Rohimun even knew how to put on a sari? But then she had always been good with her hands.
“You are both good girls. Come down now. Munni, go into the sitting room. Baby, go into the kitchen until I call you. “
Shunduri pouted. “Affa’s not ready yet. I want to put up her hair.”
“Never mind about her hair. What has that got to do with anything? Quick! Quick!”
She hurried her youngest daughter downstairs, counting seats on her fingers and calling to Tariq to bring in three more chairs. Rohimun would not be excluded from such a meeting, and Richard had promised he would return. And Henry and Thea were due anytime soon, to collect the boys. Who said the country was dull? The way things were going, they would have just as many visitors as those in Brick Lane ever had.
But in the kitchen, Shunduri halted at the sight of the largest silver tray out on the kitchen table, its edges decorated with pink paper napkins folded into delicate fans. Her smile stiffened into a grimace of fear.
“Oh Christ,” she moaned, and grabbed the back of a kitchen chair as if it was trying to escape her.
Mrs. Begum felt a stab of alarm and pulled Shunduri toward the kitchen dresser. “No time for that. Quick, quick. Tea.”
Shunduri got the best cups and saucers out, Royal Albert Country-roses, rattled them onto the tray’s polished center, and followed with a teabag dropped into each cup. The kettle was full and steaming, and Mrs. Begum gave her daughter’s back a gentle rub before pouring the hot water. Shunduri began to add milk and sugar to each cup.
“When you go in, make sure your pallu is over your head, and that you serve the men first, and then Mrs. Guri. I will help you with the rest. Take your time, no need to rush this. Be slow and graceful and keep your eyes down and everyone can look at you without your having to look back at them. Do not sit. Then, later, I will send you back into the kitchen to cut up some mangoes. Here, look, they are already cut up, you just need to bring them out after a little while.”
Shunduri was silent, but when she went to adjust her daughter’s pallu she could see tears brimming. She used one of the paper napkins to soak up the tears on Baby’s bottom lashes without disturbing her make-up.
“There. There. You are my best girl. My beautiful girl. Take the tray. I will send Munni out with you to get the mangoes so you will not be alone.”
—
WHEN SHE FELT she couldn’t stay upstairs any longer without Mum coming after her, Rohimun entered the sitting room and tried to sit down on the couch next to Tariq’s chair as quietly and demurely as any mother could wish. She sat bolt upright and with her hair scooped to hang forward over one shoulder, so that its freshly oiled strands would not mark the back of the sofa. The sari that she had only put on for Mum’s sake, and her sister’s, felt surprisingly comfortable. Perhaps because she’d put it on herself and with considerably fewer safety pins than Mum would have used. Or perhaps because its relative plainness was light years away from her sister’s confection of froth and shimmer, and the vivid reds and yellows that Mum preferred.
Shunduri was handing out tea cups and the tantara of cup on saucer must have been audible to everyone. She looked as fragile as a butterfly in her pink and silver chiffon, and years younger without the heavy foundation and red lipstick that she usually favored.
When she reached Mrs. Guri, the older woman took the cup and saucer in one hand, and reached out with the other to stroke Shunduri’s cheek with surprising sweetness. “What a beautiful girl. Beautiful!”
Shunduri froze but, just as Rohimun was about to rise to help her, seemed to collect herself and returned to the tea tray to distribute the rest of the cups. Mr. Guri was making noises similar to his wife’s, and Dad was smiling at the mantel mirror as if the compliments had been directed at him.
Mum bustled in and straight out again, as the doorbell rang, and was soon ushering Richard into the room and introducing him as the owner of Bourne Abbey, that palace up on the hill there, you can see it through the window. Mr. Guri shot off his chair with his eyes bulging, pumped Richard’s hand several times, and did a strange kind of backward shuffle as he waited for him to sit down first.
Richard greeted everybody and, despite a very clear direction from Mum to take the chair next to Dad, folded up his long legs to sit next to Rohimun. His weight on the sofa made her rock toward him, and she leaned away stiffly, reaching for a cup of tea that Shunduri at the last second diverted to Richard, leading to a clashing of hands over the saucer. She snatched her hand away, hot with shame, and vowed to count the fringing on the sofa’s arm till her face was cool again.
Then someone, perhaps Tariq, was talking about her painting, but what with the sound of Richard’s breathing and his body only a foot from hers, she could not attend. Now Richard was speaking, something about a dealer friend of his having sold on a few of her earlier portraits, of exhibitions that had come and gone.
Luckily, no one seemed too interested, and after a few polite noises, the conversation reverted to family histories and the distant blood connection between Mum’s uncle the tailor and some second cousin of Kareem’s, who was related by marriage to the Guris. Photos came out then, of the two Guri daughters, and grandchildren. Rohimun could not see them, but suspected from Mum’s extravagant compliments and Dad’s silence that they were on the plain side. Mrs. Guri got her own back by launching into a detailed description of the enormous wedding portion paid by their son-in-law’s family, only eclipsed by the size of the dowry that was sent with their daughter. Dad looked a little uneasy at this last mention, but Kareem appeared to brighten.
Everyone seemed to be keen to get along despite the jostling for position, and Rohimun watched them all as if from behind a pane of glass. Did Baby really want to take this path and marry that Brick Lane coolie-boy sitting there with his shaved head and ear bling, and his wide-boy suit that looked as if it had been sprayed on?
Shunduri perched herself on the sofa arm next to Rohimun, and her fingers, sticky and warm, burrowed into Rohimun’s left palm, her nails creating sharp little crescents. She was reminded, fleetingly, of Shunduri’s first day at school and how tightly she had held on to her hand then.
At the time, Rohimun had thought it was fear and that she would have to scrape Baby’s fingers off hers when the time came to leave her with her teacher. But when her sister had seen h
er class, she’d let go and joined them without a backward glance. Only then had Rohimun realized that Shunduri’s tight grip had been an expression not of fear but of a desire, pitched to desperation, to take this step, to do what her brother and sister had already done.
And now she was going where neither of her siblings had ventured. Rohimun squeezed her sister’s hand back and suddenly saw it all through Shunduri’s eyes: the critical judgement being made; Kareem’s watchful nervousness; Mr. Guri’s greed; and the ominous presence of the worldly Mrs. Guri, the most notorious matchmaker in Brick Lane, who must have been part of so many compromised, rushed-through and faked arranged marriages for other Desi families.
Her father cleared his throat. “A very impressive young man, your Kareem. Such an entrepreneur already, and yet with all the traditional values. He has clearly had all of the upbringing and support and encouragement that a young man is so in need of, in a new country.”
So Dad was returning compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Guri, but instead of stopping there, he started talking about travelling with Kareem to Mecca and Medina, quoting some statistics about the crowds and the tent cities of pilgrims, and praising Kareem on his enthusiasm for the journey.
“But,” Mrs. Guri was saying, in accents of concern mixed, strangely, with what sounded like relief, “the month for Haj is just two weeks away.”
Mum smiled and bobbed her head. “Yes, yes, they are all abandoning me and my daughters for the Haj.” The smile fell from her face. “And I do so worry. Anything could happen, so far away. Anything. The Haj is such a long and hard journey and the living conditions are not what we have become used to.”
All the elders laughed then, nodding reminiscently and making it clear that this younger generation had no idea what hardship was.
Mr. Guri shifted forward on his seat, serious-faced. “My uncle, you remember, wife, grandfather’s eldest? He died on Haj, and only a young man too.”
A Matter of Marriage Page 44