She sighs. ‘Auntie Bee always knows exactly how to get to me.’
‘Yeah, she’s got a real talent for upsetting people.’
‘She does have a point though,’ says my mother slowly.
I suddenly find my toes extremely fascinating and I study the French manicured nails with great intensity. I’m not psychic but I knew today was going to end up this way. In the past my parents have been fantastic at rebuffing all the jibes, sticking up for me and reassuring the gossip-mongers that Amelia will settle down, one day very soon, and, for your kind information, that will be just as soon as our good daughter completes her studies. They trust me and they have always been sure the time will come when I prove my undying loyalty to them and to the rest of the family by marrying exactly whom I’m asked to.
But this really chokes me up because I love my parents to bits and I’ve spent the last few years working my butt off to make them proud. Straight A-starred GCSEs and A grades at A-level, and now a really good degree. Yet none of this is ever enough and it seems the only way I will ever prove myself a worthwhile daughter is by marrying.
I can’t win.
‘You’ve graduated, Mills beti,’ continues my mum, sipping her drink thoughtfully. ‘It’s time we started to think seriously about your future.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that, too,’ I say. I haven’t yet told my parents, but my friend Nish and I applied to GupShup, the cool Asian glossy magazine, for internships. We submitted a joint piece on Muslim-Hindu friendship and amazingly the editor liked it so much we’ve both been accepted. This is the chance of a lifetime, a golden opportunity for me to prove I’ve got what it takes to be a journalist. The trouble is GupShup is based in London – and moving there, to a city on a par with Sodom and Gomorrah as far as my parents are concerned, is not quite in line with my promise to marry now I am officially Amelia Ali BA Hons.
So I can honestly say I’ve thought of nothing else but my future for weeks now. However, I have a nasty feeling I’m not thinking along the same lines as my parents. I’m in a parallel universe.
‘Hello, Auntie Hamida. Hello, Mills.’ The adenoidal voice at my shoulder makes me start. I’m so caught up in dreams of London I failed to notice Kabir sidle up to us. Mind you, he’s at least three inches shorter than me, and I’m only five three, so I can be forgiven. The sour taint of body odour should have alerted me sooner so I could have escaped to the bogs.
‘Can I say, Mills, you are looking especially lovely today,’ breathes Kabir heavily. ‘My mother says you designed that outfit yourself.’
Fan-flipping-tastic. Now Auntie Bee is busy plotting. She’ll have me betrothed to Kermit before the bride and groom depart.
Uh-oh.
Auntie Bee is smiling at us encouragingly, nudging my father to gaze over in our direction. Even my mother is looking thoughtful. Time is slipping through my hands like mercury.
I’d better get thinking fast.
Very, very fast indeed.
Chapter 3
By the time Daddy-ji swings the Mercedes into our drive the sun is a scarlet fingernail above the dark rooftops. Fizz, Roma and I are squashed like proverbial sardines into the back of the car, and although it will be bliss not to have Roma’s bony hip digging into my thigh, part of me wishes the journey could go on for ever. My eyes are heavy but my heart is heavier still because I know what I’m going to have to do. With a sigh I pluck my iPod headphones from my ears, plunging abruptly into the Ali family’s deconstruction of Tara’s wedding.
‘You’d have thought Auntie Zeenat would have spent more on her clothes; she looked so last shaadi season,’ Fizz is saying, opening the car door and uncoiling her long slim legs. ‘Sanaubar looked like a giant bogey in those green shalwars.’
I’m glad I’ve had my music to listen to. To hear Fizz dissect the family’s dress sense, or rather lack of it, all the way back to Saltaire would have been exhausting.
‘When I get married,’ continues Fizz, tossing hair as glossy as a thoroughbred’s mane, ‘I’m going to have my dress designed by Stella McCartney.’
‘Then you’d better stop pulling sickies and wax a few more legs,’ mutters Roma.
‘I don’t pull sickies,’ protests Fizz. ‘I can’t help being ill.’
‘Every Monday,’ I grin.
‘Girls! Girls!’ says my father. ‘Stop squabbling!’
What is it about being in with your family that always makes you revert to the old patterns and behaviours of childhood? I’m twenty-two and the twins are seventeen but stick us in the car together and back ten years we go quicker than you can say time machine.
‘Just as well Qasim had to drive back to university,’ adds my mother. ‘Imagine, Ahmed, all four of them bickering in the back.’
Daddy-ji groans theatrically and rolls his eyes but we all know he doesn’t mean it. There’s nothing he likes more than the times when all of us hang out together and have some quality family play time. Sometimes we go and see a movie or engage in a bowling match where the family guys try to outdo the girls. Not that they stand a chance against Fizz, who’s horrendously competitive. As we all pile out of the car and make our way into the house I feel lucky to have such a great family, even if they drive me nuts most of the time.
There’s a gnawing in the pit of my stomach. Will I lose them over GupShup? Are my dreams and hopes really worth the upset I know they’ll cause?
‘Such a pity my bechara Qasim had to drive to Bristol,’ my mother is saying as she kicks off her shoes. ‘It’s a long, long drive.’
‘His studies are very important,’ Daddy-ji reminds her. ‘Qasim is committed to medicine, Hamida. He’s a good boy.’
Here we go again. Saint Qas of Saltaire. I pad behind them into the kitchen, my feet slipping on the laminate floor, and listen to more of the same. Life is so unfair. I know for a fact that Qas isn’t anywhere near Bristol but only nine miles away from here all snuggled up with Lizzie in her student flat. It’s so unjust. Qas doesn’t think twice about doing whatever he bloody well wants.
But whoever said life was fair?
While my parents make tea so strong it could moonlight as varnish and Fizz slopes off to make a call on her mobile, Roma and I take a packet of Hobnobs into the sitting room and switch on Big Brother. Our bemused parents loathe the show but my sisters and I are hooked. I know I’ve taken my obsession too far when I find myself transfixed by the housemates brushing their teeth. This is proof that I need to prise myself off the sofa and get stuck into my career.
We’re just enjoying a particularly heated exchange between the lesbian with three nose piercings and the scientologist, when my parents join us. Roma switches channels expertly and our parents are impressed to find their daughters glued to the Pakistani news. Roma pleads exhaustion and goes upstairs to continue her viewing, which leaves me with my parents.
This is it, the chance to tell them about GupShup and my golden opportunity to really make it as a journalist. I can’t let it slip through my fingers. I’m going to have to be brave.
Oh Allah-ji, pretty please give me strength.
Taking a deep breath I open my mouth only to discover Daddy-ji looking at me rather oddly. His eyes are misty.
‘Amelia, beti,’ he begins, perching on the arm of the sofa. ‘Your mother and I need to have a talk with you.’
Oh crap. I know exactly what my father wants to talk about and somehow I don’t think it’s my plans for ripping up the laminate and investing in marble floors with subterranean heating, which is a shame, because that would really put Auntie Bee’s nose out of joint.
They want to discuss the dreaded S word.
Shaadi.
‘Tara’s shaadi was good, wasn’t it?’ asks my father. ‘Did you enjoy it?’
I nod.
‘It must have been nice to see your cousins again,’ he ploughs on, seeming to find the contents of his cup fascinating all of a sudden. ‘They’re all engaged now, of course, and soon to be married.’
I say nothing. I am so not helping him out here. If Daddy-ji is about to tell me he wants me to fulfil my core purpose as a Pakistani girl and marry one of his (goat-herding) rellies then he’s going to have to spell it out.
‘It’s good for young people to be engaged,’ he soldiers on. ‘Young people should be married.’
For God’s sake, this is pitiful.
Mum puts him out of his misery.
‘Honestly, Ahmed! Mills will be one hundred years old if you carry on at this rate! What your father is trying to say, beti, is we believe the time has come for you to be married too.’
I know I’ve been expecting this but my stomach seesaws horribly and I find I’m gripping the arm of the sofa so tightly that my knuckles glow chalky white through the flesh.
Uh-oh.
Goat-herder time.
‘Don’t look so worried.’ Mum takes my hand and squeezes it. My bitten nails look terrible next to her beautiful French manicure. ‘Trust us, Mills; we only want the best for you. You father and I have put a great deal of careful thought and consideration into finding the perfect match. We haven’t just pulled some smelly goat-herder off the mountainside.’
Don’t you just hate it when your parents can read your mind?
‘We have handpicked one perfect match,’ she says. ‘Someone we think will be perfect for you, our precious firstborn daughter.’
‘Spill the chilli beans,’ I say. ‘Unless it’s Kabir, in which case I’m out of here like last week.’
Actually I don’t say this but I’d like to. Unfortunately someone has pinched my tongue so I just stare at them, unnerving for my parents since I normally talk so much I could power the National Grid.
‘Would you like to know more?’ asks my father.
There’s a football in my throat.
‘I know this is a big step,’ Mum adds, smoothing my hair back from my face. ‘But it surely isn’t a surprise? You’ve finished your education now and you promised us that after your graduation you’d let us find you a husband. What could be more natural than getting married?’
Getting a job?
Having my own life?
I try to imagine my friend Eve letting her parents dictate who she’s going to marry and I almost laugh out loud. I met Eve at university and ever since I’ve been in awe of her free spirit. Eve would just toss her curls, light a fag and tell them to forget it.
But Eve doesn’t have Pakistani parents and izzat to contend with, so I sit and listen like the perfect dutiful daughter while my parents fill me in on who they have decided I should spend the rest of my life with.
The lucky guy is called Subhi. He’s a doctor from Pakistan and the son of Mutti, one of my father’s oldest friends.
‘He’s a fine young man,’ finishes my father proudly. ‘Hardworking and honourable. He will make you a good husband, Amelia.’
I find my tongue at last and manage not to crack a joke either, because I don’t think I can laugh this off. ‘But Daddy-ji, I don’t even know him! He comes from Pakistan! He might as well be from Mars!’ I turn to my mother for support. ‘Mummy-ji, it’s hard enough communicating with guys in Bradford, never mind from the opposite side of the world.’
My heart is having a rave in my chest. I can’t marry a man I don’t know. Being able to talk is right up there on my list of musts. My husband has to be my best friend too. Don’t best friends like to gossip? And isn’t the best time to gossip at night? So go figure.
‘Amelia Ali,’ says my dad firmly. ‘Do you not think we know what is best for you? Do you not trust us to make the right decisions for your future? Have we not always done our best to be good parents to you?’
Oh great, here we go, the old emotional blackmail trick.
‘Daddy-ji!’ I’m trying really hard to keep my voice steady here, rather than screech hysterically, which is what I feel like doing. ‘This is the rest of my life we’re talking about, not what colour to paint my room or what school I go to!’
Daddy-ji fixes me with a steely gaze. ‘Until now we have been very patient. Some family members feel we have been too patient and have allowed you to have your way far too much.’ He shrugs. ‘Maybe they are right? We postponed your marriage until the age of eighteen, then we allowed you to go to university and again we told Mutti that Subhi would have to wait. Everyone has been most accommodating, most understanding. Haven’t they?’
‘Yes, but–’
‘There are no buts, Amelia. Your mother and I have been very patient and very considerate. Don’t you think it is time you repaid us? That you took some responsibility and took a step towards the future?’
I totally agree. Only my step was to London, not to Paki-flipping-stan and some random doctor husband.
‘Ahmed,’ my mother says softly. ‘This is a lot for Mills to take in. Slow down a little, eh? Give her some time to think about it.’
Dad tugs at his beard, a gesture that speaks volumes about how tense he feels. If I had a beard believe me I’d be tugging it too. ‘It’s the best decision and besides, I’ve already spoken to Mutti.’
I feel giddy with horror. If Daddy-ji has given his word then I’ve had it. Once a Pakistani man gives his shaadi word it’s a done deal.
‘Let Mills and I speak together, Ahmed,’ Mum suggests, sensing my terror and squeezing my hand. ‘We need to have a girl talk.’
At the mention of emotional female chat, Daddy-ji, like males the world over, can’t get away quickly enough. Making an excuse about needing to check his emails he slopes off to his office, where Mummy-ji and I know he’ll spend the next couple of hours watching Pakistan thrash England in the cricket. While I sit and try to fight rising hysteria Mummy-ji proves she’s well integrated into British culture by making more chai to smooth the crisis. Tea? That’s like using a Band Aid to close open-heart surgery. I gnaw at my nails and consider my options.
They appear to be limited:
1. Conform and do what they ask. Not very appealing.
2. Run away to a different planet.
3. Threaten suicide – making certain that I replace the paracetamols with Smints in case the olds call my bluff.
4. Plead insanity and gain lifetime membership to the local loony bin.
5. Simply say no and wait for World War Three to break out.
There’s nothing for it but to call upon my marvellous late-night plan of action, which I must admit doesn’t look quite so marvellous in the cold light of day. But desperate times call for (very) desperate measures. I know my dad is stubborn and won’t take too kindly to his very single daughter postponing marriage yet again and moving to London, but that’s what I am going to do. Daddy-ji isn’t the only one in this family who can be bloody-minded.
Project Mummy-ji it is.
Chapter 4
When I was younger it was always the case that if Daddy-ji turned us down for something, like cash or an extension to curfew time, we would rarely ask him again upfront. No way. We Ali kids soon learned a more cunning and subtle approach could have the desired effect. Leaving our dad blissfully ignorant in his study, we would go and find Mummy-ji. After our OTT display of histrionics/begging/pleading she would eventually crack. Fizz figured out this was a particularly effective technique if applied at the time that Mummy-ji's favourite Indian drama was about to start. Before long she’d promise faithfully to have a word with our father, who, nine times out of ten, would relent.
When I was a kid I used to wonder quite how my mum’s secret powers of persuasion worked, but I’m too scared to ask now. Put it this way, they’re the only elderly couple in our large extended family that still have a double bed!
Anyway, the point is what worked five years ago must surely still work now? All I have to do is get Mum on my side.
OK. I said my marvellous midnight plan may not be quite as marvellous as I first thought; it’s all I have. If Daddy-ji really has given his word to Mutti then nothing either of us say or do can make any difference. I don’t mean that my parents will
starve me/lock me in the cellar/beat me until I agree to marry Subhi. Not all Asian parents are into honour killings or smuggling their daughters off to Pakistan, as the tabloids would have you believe. But I would have no choice, all the same.
Izzat, honour, is everything in an Asian family. If Daddy-ji’s given his word and I refuse to obey him, then my family will lose their izzat. They will be shamed, named and blamed before everyone they know. If they lose their izzat because of me I would lose them forever. My brother and sisters would be shamed too and their hopes of marriage blighted.
So no pressure then.
The bottom line is if Dad has already promised me to Subhi then I’m stuffed. The choice is to marry a man I don’t love or destroy my family.
Simple.
‘Stop chewing your nails, Mills,’ orders my mother, plopping two mugs onto the coffee table. ‘Your hands look terrible.’
‘You’d chew your nails if you’d just been told you were being sent to Pakistan to marry a total stranger,’ I snap.
Mum sighs. ‘Subhi sounds fine, Mills. Why can’t you trust us on this?’
‘Sounds fine?’ I squeak. ‘That’s OK then. I’ll just fetch my passport, shall I?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Ridiculous? You promise me to some stranger in Pakistan without even mentioning it, and I’m being ridiculous?’
‘Mills, calm down. Nothing’s properly arranged.’ Mum toys with her wedding ring, which has sunk into her flesh. ‘Do you really think we’d give our word without talking to you first?’
My heartbeat slows. ‘Daddy-ji hasn’t given his word yet?’ I cross fingers, toes and anything else that is crossable.
‘Of course he hasn’t,’ Mummy-ji says. ‘He’s only discussed it with Mutti. Nothing’s been formalised. We wanted to talk to you first.’
Thank you, Allah!
‘Mummy-ji, I love you!’ I throw my arms around her. ‘Shukriya! Thank you!’
The Wedding Countdown Page 3