She thought of that terrifying train ride to Dhaka so many years ago, and later the amazement and confusion of her arrival in Heathrow, and clasped Mrs. Darby’s hand anew. “You will be happy there. Tariq will drive you to Heathrow and carry your bags. And I will come. And your daughter and son-in-law will be there when you arrive in that place. I will look after your garden . . .”
“Oh, the flight doesn’t really worry me.”
“Nah, nah, you will be very comfortable. They feed you and are very friendly. You will be fine, Inshallah.”
Mrs. Darby glanced toward the noise of the kitchen and rose to her feet. “I must go.”
“Nah, stay and eat with us. I have chicken korma.”
“No, my dear, not this time. You have a full house and”—she paused significantly—“maybe you have some news for me?”
Mrs. Begum smiled, shaking her head as well. “Stay, stay.”
“No, I will go. I just had one more thing to say.” Mrs. Darby drew herself up to her full height, her neatly separated grey curls trembling a little around her powdered face.
Mrs. Begum looked up at her, conscious now of further news of great import.
“In the light of these events, I will be resigning my presidency of the Lydiard-and-Stowe District Women’s Institute.”
“But—”
“No, no, Syeda. One cannot manage such things from a distance. Look what happened to Rhodesia when the royal family cancelled their visit. Rioting, and then a dictatorship.”
She waited to hear more, but it seemed as if Mrs. Darby herself was still absorbing what she had just said.
At last her neighbor spoke again. “I want you to take my place.”
“Nah, nah!” Mrs. Begum gasped, then covered her mouth, staring at her friend.
“I insist. You have been a tower of strength, particularly when dealing with that Upwey woman. I could not have managed without you over the last twelve months. For example, the fruit-cake incident. And when Marge went over my head. But I’m losing track. I want you to take over the presidency. There is a meeting of the executive tonight and I want to nominate you, my dearest friend. Eileen and Ailsa will support me on this, and I think I can count on the two Julies and that funny woman from the post office. And you don’t need to worry about the paperwork—Ailsa is an excellent secretary and will do all that side of things. She just needs direction.”
Mrs. Begum could not speak. There was more noise from the kitchen, and Mrs. Darby patted her hand, then moved toward the hallway door.
“I know I can rely on you, Syeda. You know how things should be done and it will be one in the eye for Audrey Upwey and her nuddy-calendar fund-raising ideas. I’ll report back tomorrow. Come over to my house in the morning and we’ll have a cup of tea, and you can tell me your news then too.”
Mrs. Begum, reeling with the events of the day (she had not even asked Allah for the presidency), saw her neighbor out and bustled to the kitchen, slightly delayed by the two boys who shot into the hallway and pulled at her skirts, asking about ladhu balls. What more, what more could happen on this blessed day, Inshallah?
—
AS RICHARD FOLLOWED Rohimun downstairs, they passed Tariq, who glared at his sister, pointedly ignored Richard, and said it was too late for the memory card now, they were done with photos. There was a clamor from the kitchen, and Richard decided, in the light of Tariq’s reaction, to delay his entrance a little, hanging back in the hallway so there was a respectable gap between his arrival and Rohimun’s.
When he felt it was seemly to go in, there was barely space to do so. Thea and Henry, Kareem and Shunduri, Dr. Choudhury and Mrs. Begum, were all talking at once, and the boys were running in and out. Mrs. Begum was telling Rohimun, who was at the counter pouring milk into cups, to be quick, quick.
“Tea for everyone, then?” he said as he approached her.
“Yeah.” She turned back to her task, smiling, and as he watched her, it occurred to him that perhaps it was being the center of attention she’d hated outside on the steps, not what he’d said. There was a muttered apology behind him, as Tariq squeezed past Richard and then Rohimun, pulling on her plait as he did so.
Kareem was fussing Shunduri into a kitchen chair in a way that oddly mirrored Henry’s actions with Thea, who, for once, didn’t seem to mind. Mrs. Begum smiled at Henry and Thea, and beckoned Rohimun toward them.
“My other daughter, Rohimun, she is home now. She has come back.”
Rohimun stood there awkwardly while Mrs. Begum beamed and tucked a strand of hair behind her daughter’s ear. “You are a good girl.”
Richard edged down the kitchen counter, keeping out of the way as Andrew and Jonathan hopped around the table, then crawled underneath it, making rabbit sounds. Henry was standing behind Thea, his hand on his wife’s shoulder and her hand resting in his. He bent to whisper to her, and she looked up at him and squeezed his hand.
Henry straightened and caught Richard’s eye. “We’ve got some news. Just been for the scan . . .”
Shunduri gave a loud gasp, her eyes theatrically wide and one hand, fingernails tipped with pink, over her mouth. Thea, of all people, went distinctly pink as well.
“We’re, ah, pregnant. Twelve weeks today. Couldn’t quite believe it till we saw the scan.”
“Henry, Thea, congratulations. You’ve caught me completely by surprise.” Richard maneuvered around the table to embrace his brother and kiss Thea on the cheek. “I had no idea.”
“Well, neither did we actually. Thee’s had a dodgy tummy for a while, been, you know, a bit teary, dropping things, but we never thought . . .”
“Ohhh!” cried Shunduri, as if it was a surprise that Henry and Thea had put on especially for her. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it!”
Thea was more relaxed than Richard had seen her in ages as she leaned back against her husband, saying something to Kareem about paradise gardens. Richard watched them, feeling again the outsider. He had never even suspected. How long—and how much work—does it take to get to that level of unspoken, happy companionship, that perfect trust? He felt as if he should be apologizing for having so underestimated the solid reality of their marriage.
He caught Thea’s eye. “You feeling well?”
“Oh, yes, now that I know.”
Shunduri was sitting breathlessly forward, as if trying to absorb every detail. “Do you know what it will be?”
Henry shook his head. “Not till the twenty-week scan, the obstetrician says. I don’t mind, just healthy is all I ask.”
Thea smiled. “A girl. I’m sure it’s a girl. And we’re going Greek this time—we’re going to call her Aphrodite.”
“Does old Theo Kiriakis know yet?” Richard asked his brother.
“We’re telling him tonight. Must say, good timing and all that. We told him about the mihrab last night and he was pretty upset about it, having had bad memories of the Turks, you know. Refused point-blank to fund further excavations until Dr. Choudhury said that Saudi money was likely available for this sort of thing, then he came through. Good old Theo.” Henry chuckled. “The first Bourne girl in three generations, you realize. Our great-aunt was the last one. Richard, remember Great-aunt Caroline with the nose, whose fiancé was killed in the war? Never could figure out which one.”
Dr. Choudhury, who had been sitting quietly, still wiping his eyes, chimed in. “Yes, those Saudis are very wealthy and have fingers in all sorts of pies.”
Rohimun placed a half-full cup of tea in front of her father and moved toward Richard. She slid a full cup onto the countertop next to his elbow, without looking at him. He thanked her, trying to catch her eye, but she had already turned away.
Tariq reached for a cup his sister was handing him, and his mother swung a playful hand at his cheek. He flinched.
“You! What am I going to do with you!”
He grinned but kept his hands protectively around his ears. “Don’t hit me, Amma.”
Rohimun, ignoring Tariq’s dramatic pose, passed his tea, poured cups for Henry and her mother, and set up the paan tray while everyone talked babies, and the two boys did circuits of the table before stopping to talk to Kareem, who seemed to be the new favorite, about their ghost trap for the Abbey.
Richard could see the differences between the two sisters more clearly now, brought out by Shunduri’s high-pitched drawl and expansive gestures, and her acquisitive air, even seeming to covet Thea’s impending motherhood. When Shunduri wasn’t staring at Thea, she was throwing Kareem pointed looks, and he eventually said, as if continuing an argument, “Look, I’ll miss you too, yeah, but it’s only a few weeks. Big picture, Princess, big picture.” Shunduri tossed her hair at this, hair styled as short and shiny as Deirdre’s, and as different as anyone’s hair could be from Rohimun’s.
Shunduri was as tall and lean as her brother, but there the similarity ended. Rohimun, and indeed Tariq, had a gravitas that loud and needy Shunduri seemed to be without: life experience perhaps. His eyes rested on Rohimun again, and he wondered about what life had brought her, and how he would get to know her better.
—
MRS. BEGUM WAS glowing inside and out. Ahh, the ways of Allah, Peace be upon Him, were truly beyond all understanding, all planning and thinking. Everyone was sitting down and talking, laughing and crying as they should, except for Munni and that Richard, as quiet and awkward as if it was the day of a funeral, not a day of miracles. She tried to make Richard sit at the table, but he would stand, so she talk-talked to him about small things and he answered her, as slow and considered as always.
Rohimun could be married from Windsor Cottage and, if Richard insisted, Tregoze Church as well: perhaps, first, with just his family, before the mullah arrived. And she would make sure that they used an older mullah, perhaps visiting from Bangladesh, who would not ask any awkward questions. She was no Bora Khalo, no Prince Philip, determined to obstruct things rather than accept that this generation had different rules, different needs.
They would suit each other very well, Inshallah, both being university-clever. Far better than one clever but with no schooling, and the other merely learned, but a fool in the world. That was a far harder balancing act than between Christian and Muslim.
She looked at her husband sitting at the kitchen table, wiping his eyes and smiling—at her, at his children, at everybody—and thought of their own perpetual swinging triangulation of love, frustration and dependence, all conjoined. She and Babru Choudhury had grown into each other until they were one being and no more able to separate from each other than a yolk from its white in an omelette. How had all this sprung from Syeda Begum’s fifteen-year-old pity and sometime contempt for the lonely skinny boy in her uncle’s shop?
So much to do, so much to plan, and the great need for things to happen as soon as possible. She turned to her curries, her dahl, her rice, standing ready on the stove to sustain them all, and spared a moment to brush her fingers over her talisman and breathe, Inshallah, Inshallah. Allhamdu-Lillahi shukran wah hamda. Praise be to Allah, gratitude and praise. We have come so far in so short a time, let me not fail my children now.
Acknowledgments
To the 2007 RMIT Novel I and Editing I group of talented students and teachers, particularly Rob Williams, who listened to and critiqued early parts of this book, and whose own writings were a source of inspiration as well as setting a high bar for us all.
To my children, Shareef and Shakira, who have dealt with my preoccupation with humor and tolerance (most of the time) and passionate interest (some of the time).
To my friends and relations who have shown interest, made suggestions, praised the bits I hated and hated the bits I loved, laughed at the sad bits and couldn’t understand the funny bits, were insulted or flattered by a fancied resemblance to characters they had nothing in common with, and couldn’t relate to the ones they did, you have all made me a better writer. And hopefully a thicker-skinned one.
To Manik Meah, whose invaluable knowledge of Bangla and Desi language and culture was so generously shared. Any mistakes which remain are my own.
To my brave editor Aviva Tuffield, her doughty assistant Ian See, and the whole crew at Scribe with Henry Rosenbloom at the helm: many thanks for what became a marathon exercise in editing and authorial guidance. And for seeing it through to the very end when lesser hearts may have failed.
I am also grateful for the financial assistance and moral support provided by the 2011 CAL Scribe Fiction Prize. It came at a time when I was down on my uppers, and gave me expectations beyond my station.
READERS GUIDE
A Matter of Marriage
by Lesley Jørgensen
Discussion Questions
Shilpi steals Shunduri’s thunder at the cafe when she shows up in a “flowing Saudi-style abaya and niqab, as black as night.” This is just the first instance where a character uses traditionalism for dramatic effect. Where else in the novel does this happen?
Our introduction to Simon casts him as a villain because he suppresses Rohimun’s creativity and expects domesticity. But throughout the book we learn that Dr. Choudhury also expects Mrs. Begum to be the housekeeper and hates the progressive influence of Mrs. Darby. Discuss this irony.
When reflecting on his daughters, Dr. Choudhury thinks, “There was bound to be trouble when both temper and talent were given to a woman.” Which woman is he referring to?
Coolie-girl that she is, Shunduri’s beauty is described as flashy in the opening chapters of the book. But when Thea and Henry see her, Shunduri is described as “a negative print of Grace Kelly,” and her demure beauty can be appreciated. Discuss each character’s take on beauty throughout the book.
Discuss the opium story line in chapter twelve. Were you surprised that this didn’t come up again?
Do you think that the trip to Mecca will happen?
Syeda Begum never had a traditional wedding because she was pregnant. Babru Choudhury had an affair with his doctoral supervisor. In this case do these two “wrongs” make a right?
Pregnancy (her own and the pregnancy of others) indirectly plays a role in getting Mrs. Begum what she wants. How does pregnancy move the story line along?
Royalty is mentioned throughout the novel. Rohimun is compared to Princess Di. Discuss Mrs. Begum’s fixation with Dodi and Diana, and the relationship of royalty to each character.
Dr. Choudhury can be elitist; he has an odd obsession with the sari cabinet and his own wife calls him a cockroach. At the end of the story, do you feel animosity toward him, or are you sympathetic? Does the fact that Mrs. Begum uses his full name on the last page change your feelings?
Dr. Choudhury thinks of Tariq as perfect combo of East and West. Is that true? Is he the only one?
Richard and Rohimun’s relationship quickly moves from an initial meeting to Richard buying a pricey rug that reminds him of her—even though at that point he’s still not sure if she’s in the Abbey as the lover of Dr. Choudhury or Tariq. At what point were you convinced that they had a connection? How did you feel about the pace of their relationship?
Mrs. Begum is an extraordinary female figure whose power is in many ways linked to her prowess in the kitchen. Is she “the only one trying to fix this family,” as she proclaims? How do her skills add to her power to help? How do others help, if they do?
Dr. Choudhury says that Saudis are “number-one villains”: “You know, these Saudis. Ignorant people, thinking that they can buy anyone and anything with their dirty money.” Who else could he be talking about?
Mrs. Begum approves of Kareem because of who he is on paper. Do you believe that Kareem has had a very Jane Austen–esque moral awakening?
Rohimun reflects on Western relationships: “Was this embrace
gora politeness or pity, or something else, which perhaps mattered as much to him as it did to her? She felt adrift in his Western world of dating and girlfriends: she had seen, lived, the fluid dishonesty of those relationships, so much a matter of mood and whim as to whether the bond would be acknowledged or betrayed. A recipe for misery.” Is the Desi way easier? Better?
One of the funniest uses of Jane Austen’s humor is evoked by Jørgensen with a third-person perspective on the marriage of Mrs. Begum and Dr. Choudhury. What other scenes made you laugh?
A Matter of Marriage Page 46