Marriage Material

by Sathnam Sanghera

  Walking in, he saw that she had her hair tied up, in a way that he liked, and was struck as ever by his wife’s prettiness; she was such an attractive girl, much more interestingly so than her sister. He was struck also, despite its familiarity, by the smartness of the shopfront. It had been transformed by the introduction of strip lighting, and the installation of a brand-new glass panelled door with an aluminium surround to allow for a full view through to the interior. The thought that there would soon be a booster fan above the entrance to greet customers on extra-cold days distracted him momentarily from his mission. But then, standing opposite his wife, on the customer’s side of the counter, he got back to it.

  ‘Did you see this?’ he asked, waving the newspaper in her direction.

  It was a rhetorical question. The only thing Kamaljit read was prayer books. The newspapers they sold were no different to her from packets of crisps. He had failed to get her interested in improving her English, in the same way he had failed to persuade her to wear English clothes. So he translated it for her, repeating the particularly annoying bits for emphasis.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Kamaljit replied evenly in Punjabi. ‘He told me about that. About time someone did something. Some of these Indian kids nowadays, I tell you, barely a word of Punjabi, they may as well be goras.’ She finished wiping the counter and turned on her heels. ‘Can you give me a hand filling the samosas, ji? Won’t take long.’

  Tanvir followed her back into the living room as she took a seat in front of Coronation Street. He didn’t understand how his wife could refuse to speak English and yet be so addicted to soap operas like these. It was not a serious show like, say, The Six Million Dollar Man. He resumed his case as she set up an assembly line, passing him cones of pastry into which he was required to spoon the filling.

  ‘But pray, what is the point of teaching Punjabi?’ he asked, rubbing some yoghurt into the edges of a filled samosa. ‘It is hardly an international financial language.’ He sealed it up. ‘These kids should be learning about the country they are actually living in now.’

  ‘Hmm,’ proferred Kamaljit, distracted by Hilda Ogden. ‘They may be in England but they will never be English.’ A glance at her husband. ‘Don’t fill them up too much, ji.’ She reopened his creation, took some filling out, and resealed it. ‘This much, or they will burst in the pan.’

  Tanvir continued with his protest, even though he suspected Kamaljit was only half listening. ‘Don’t you think hunger strikes make us look stupid? Why can’t he just debate like a normal person? One of the great things about living in England is free speech. You don’t hear about English politicians threatening to starve themselves or set themselves on fire.’ His wife laughed at something on screen. ‘Also, can you see him actually doing it? The longest that man has gone without food is three minutes. You could sustain a small town on his body fat for a week. We all know what this is actually about. His ego.’

  ‘Is it?’ Kamaljit asked distractedly.

  ‘Yes! He just wants to make sure no other castes or religions get ideas above their station. That the Jat Sikhs remain in charge.’

  ‘I’m sure he doesn’t, ji.’

  As the credits started rolling, Kamaljit, humming along to the theme tune, got up and took the tray of filled samosas into the kitchen. Tanvir followed her, maintaining his lecture as she turned on the hob, tested the oil – throwing a small cube of stale bread into it – and when satisfied, thrust three of the samosas into the pan.

  ‘I see your point, ji,’ she said eventually. ‘But, you know, I would like my child to grow up knowing about his religion and culture.’

  Tanvir, only half hearing his wife, felt a stab of irritation towards her. He had never liked Surinder, she was arrogant, without morals, it transpired. But this was the one respect in which he wished Kamaljit would mimic her sister. She was always too happy to go along with the established view.

  ‘So this culture is worth teaching even if it dictates that some of us are second-class citizens?’

  ‘Like I said,’ answered his wife, pushing the samosas around in the oil, checking they were being cooked evenly. ‘I want my child to know about Indian culture.’

  Missing the emphasis, Tanvir’s annoyance intensified. He was almost as irritated as the time Kamaljit started making puris, just so that she could offer them to pigeons in the park, having heard such acts could induce fertility. ‘Even if this culture treats everyone else like second-class citizens?’ He was raising his voice.

  Kamaljit had to repeat herself another time before the penny dropped.

  ‘What did you say?’

  Tanvir had not been completely unobservant. He had noticed that his wife had been unwell recently, distracted, attending the doctor’s twice in a week, going back to bed after the morning rush, when he needed her most. But he had put it down to the postcard with the London postmark she had received from her sister. He didn’t know what was worse when it came to Surinder, contact or no contact. When they heard nothing, Kamaljit imagined the worst, panicking that every visiting policeman was coming with news that her sister had been found dead in a ditch. But then contact seemed to destroy her too.

  However, there was a more surprising explanation.

  ‘Give me your hand,’ said his wife. She took one of the pods she had been shelling that afternoon, and there was a sharp snap as she popped a single pea into his palm. ‘This, apparently, is the size of our baby right now.’

  It was not just the news that came as a shock to Tanvir, but his own response to it. Tanvir had, over the years, convinced himself that he didn’t want a child. He had grown tired of conversations with doctors about retrograde ejaculation and hypsospadias, found depositing semen specimens in clean jars in laboratories humiliating, not to mention questions about the state of his testes and the kind of underwear he wore. But suddenly he found himself crying and laughing at the same time, lifting his wife up and kissing her.

  When the shop bell rang indicating a customer, he ran out and insisted Mrs Hill take her breakfast cereal for free, and a bagful of sweets with it, for it was traditional in Indian culture to hand out food on receiving good news. He locked up as soon as she departed, shutting up early for the first time in his life, took his wife upstairs and made love to her.

  It was not until the following morning, after Kamaljit had rung her mother to tell her the good news, walking back from the Jat temple his wife had insisted he visit to give thanks, that he remembered the letter. He couldn’t recall the words he had written or even the intensity of the anger he had felt when he read the article. But he decided to post it anyway. He wasn’t sure what caste his child would be when it was born, given that it was the product of a Chamar and a Jat. There was an argument to be made that it might be Khatri, of mercantile class, which was nothing to be ashamed of, given it was the caste of the ten Sikh Gurus.

  But he didn’t want his child’s life to be blighted by the notion of caste at all. No, his son or daughter would not have that contracting feeling in their chest when a Jat spat the word ‘Chamar’ at them. His child would grow up British. He was sure of it. Just as he was sure of the continuing success of his shop, the failure of Dhanda’s enterprise, and that he himself would prove to be the most devoted of fathers to his child.

  14 – GOOD HOUSEKEEPING

  THE ONLY POSITIVE thing about the aftermath of my break-up with Freya was that I no longer felt confused. It became clear almost immediately that I had made a mistake. I realised it when she put our shared flat on the market and her best friend got in touch to tell me I would have to continue contributing to the mortgage until it was sold. It became evident again when Freya changed her telephone number, blocked my emails and calls. Yet again when our friends started to choose between us, which, because I was now in Wolverhampton, meant they mainly chose Freya, including my best mate Matt, who, before deleting me on Facebook, sent me a message telling me that he always thought I was a cunt, and now there was finally proof.

  The who
le thing felt like I had just endured an amputation. Even when I wasn’t thinking about what had happened (and I was rarely not thinking about it) the pain was never absent. The worst thing about it? The amputation was entirely self-inflicted. I had wilfully removed a limb. And the knowledge that I had done so pushed me into the deepest depression I have ever endured. I lost interest in food, the ability to concentrate, read and sleep. I also gave up weights to go back to running, sometimes twice a day, which in Wolverhampton meant having the Rocky theme tune sung at me sarcastically every 800 yards, and being offered a lift home every mile or two.

  Mum wasn’t in great shape either. She had reacted to the news of her sister’s re-emergence with a bout of illness, succumbing to a flu-like bug which had her in bed for four days. Though, somehow, amid this gloom, the sisters began corresponding, my mother dictating the messages to me in Punjabi, me translating the messages into English and sending them to Surinder from my laptop, Surinder replying in English on her BlackBerry, and then me reading the response out to my mother in a mixture of Punjabi and English.

  It was like the twenty-first-century revolution in communication had never happened. And actually, the content of the messages made me feel like large parts of the twentieth century had not happened, given that they were packed almost entirely with banal information about their respective working days and Jessie’s health, and inconsequential anecdotes about customers. The exchanges reminded me of eavesdropping on children in the shop: however intense their conversation, it almost invariably turned out that they were discussing little of any consequence.

  It wasn’t long before I tired of my role, tired as I was by everything, and suggested they meet, and all I can say about what followed is that I now realise what it must be like negotiating an international climate change treaty. Each sister had a different objection to whatever time or place I suggested. Surinder’s excuses included: Jessie got sick in cars, her Porsche was in the garage, the hotel was busy in the build-up to New Year’s Eve. My mother said that long journeys sparked migraines and the shop was too busy. The shop was never busy.

  I wasn’t sure what all this reticence was about. But I had other things to concern me – not least being skint and finding some work, even if it was of the freelance variety, and even if it involved working between London and the Midlands. So I put my foot down, named the time and place: lunch at a swish cafe in Tettenhall, on New Year’s Day. It was going to be quiet enough for us to be able to close the shop at lunchtime, and the New Year’s Eve madness in the hotel would be over. Meanwhile, Tettenhall, where I went to school, was perfect: familiar enough for my mother, in that it was a district of Wolverhampton, and yet posh enough for a resident of Surrey not to experience culture shock. Neutral ground.

  No mention had been made about Surinder visiting the shop, let alone staying overnight, but my mother’s reaction was as energetic as her initial response had been enervated. She launched into a frenzy of cleaning and preparation: the curtain between the shop and the house was washed and rehung; the crystal glasses – given to us by the old owners of the garage next door, which I used to think was a mark of their warmth, but which I now realised was a consequence of all the Esso points they had collected as a result of their high petrol consumption – were put on display; the sofa bed in my father’s study was pulled out and prepared; the smell of Mum’s cooking filled the house.

  It all made me nervous. Leaving aside the way the day had ended, my festive meeting with Surinder had hardly been a success, and she had seemed tetchy and reserved over email. I didn’t want my mother to be disappointed, and my fears were realised when I sent Surinder a text, double-checking, that all was in place for her arrival in Wolverhampton on New Year’s Day, and she replied, ‘Yah, shd be. I hope.;)’

  I’m not sure what was most annoying. The vagueness of ‘shd be’ and ‘I hope’ (passive aggressive), or the smiley (people over the age of twenty should never use emoticons). What was wrong with her? She didn’t seem like the kind of person who tolerated flakiness herself. I texted a firm and grammatically coherent response.

  ‘I’m sensing you’re not sure about coming up. I don’t want my mother to be let down. So if you don’t fancy it, I will understand and will try to explain it to her, but do let me know as soon as possible.’

  Massi: ‘It’s not that I’m not keen, it’s more a case of dealing with what the day brings.’

  Me: ‘I understand, you’re busy, but please let me know for sure by six tonight.’

  Massi: ‘Sure.’

  Sure? When did English people start saying ‘sure’? What was wrong with ‘OK’ or ‘yes’? But then, at precisely 6 p.m., beep, beep. ‘I will be there. Train tickets booked.’

  And then at midnight: ‘Your mother is lucky to have a son who cares so much xx.’

  The second time I saw my aunt, striding down platform three of Wolverhampton train station on New Year’s Day, was, I think, more startling than the first. I had been sitting in the coffee shop for a while, wincing as people within earshot referred to ‘lattes’ as ‘lartays’ and ‘macchiatos’ as ‘mojitos’, being hung up on by Freya’s father, when Surinder appeared, sporting a pair of sunglasses, even though there was no sign of sunshine, and high-heeled boots, though the frost was making it difficult to walk even in trainers. She was wearing a black fitted turtleneck, tight black jeans, two layers of necklaces, and a thick woollen coat the exact shade of Jessie, who was camouflaged under her arm. She stood out a mile.

  To my surprise, she then offered up her cheek to be kissed. Jerking my head indecisively, I planted a kiss meant for a cheek on her ear. Apart from the occasional bear hug, we’re not the most physically expressive of families. I have no memory of my parents ever kissing in my presence, or even touching one another. The awkwardness continued as she lit up a fag outside the station, right in front of a line of disapproving Punjabi taxi drivers. She kept her sunglasses on the whole time, barely said a word as we got into the van. I resolved, as we pulled away, that I wouldn’t be the one who caved in first. But I caved in first.

  ‘So,’ I coughed. ‘Welcome back to Her Majesty’s royal city of Wolverhampton.’

  ‘A city now, is it?’

  ‘Since 2000.’

  She peered over the top of her sunglasses. ‘Doesn’t look much different.’ She glanced to her left. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That’ was Wolverhampton’s £22.5-million bus station, the most ambitious infrastructure project the city had seen in years, the pride of the city. As with so many Wolverhampton developments, it didn’t look quite finished, and was still obscured by hoardings, the city being most at ease when it resembles a building site.

  ‘What did Thatcher say about people who still got the bus again?’ She continued before I recalled the quote, something about how a man who, beyond the age of twenty-six, finds himself on a bus can count himself a failure, ‘The problem with Birmingham is that it is always trying to be the city of the future. The problem with Wolverhampton is that it is always trying to be Birmingham.’

  With someone else, at another time, I might have been amused. I can see there is something intrinsically funny about the sound of the word ‘Wolverhampton’, something undeniably grim about the view of the city as you arrive by train. I had laughed along when the Lonely Planet guide had branded it the fifth worst city on the globe, alongside El Salvador and Detroit, half smirked when Freya’s father had asked if the riots had caused any ‘improvements’. But having already made me feel Punjabi at the taxi stand, Surinder’s sneering now managed the impossible by also making me a defensive Wulfrunian. It meant making several traffic violations, but I found myself attempting to find a scenic route through town. We drove past the handsome, Gothic, Grade II building that housed Barclays Bank, past the stunning art gallery and the statue of Prince Albert, inaugurated by Queen Victoria herself and seemingly in a different position every time I visited. I may even have found myself pointing out the site of England’s first automatic traffic
lights.

  However, it was a futile gesture. Wolverhampton looked as grim as I felt. No fewer than one in four of the shops had closed down, their boarded-up fronts pasted with posters designed by the council to create the illusion of activity. The banks that had turned into flash bars in the 1990s, when Wolverhampton briefly became an attractive nightspot, were now empty, making me nostalgic for the days when we could complain about the banks turning into bars. Even an undertaker’s and associated stonemason had closed since I’d last looked.

  I realised during the drive that Surinder and I had something in common: we’d both left town at a time when it was on the up. In 1970 there was a glimmer of hope after decades of industrial decline, with the Queens Arcade, a central shopping street, having been demolished to make way for two modern shopping centres, and large areas being cleared in anticipation of the building of the ring road. In the 1990s, when I left for university, the town was once again thought to be coming out of years of industrial decline, with the polytechnic having gained its university status, the arrival of a new racecourse, the refurbishment of the football ground, and so on. But both transformations had turned out to be false dawns.

  Surinder’s silence acknowledged as much. The only remark she uttered on the way to Tettenhall came as we passed a once-grand department store. ‘If you wanted to impress a girl you took her to the perfume counter at Beatties.’

  The next time she spoke was in the car park at the back of the cafe.

  ‘Time for a quick one?’ she asked, pulling out a box of fags.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, pretending to be relaxed, praying that this would not be how my mother saw her sister for the first time in more than forty years. Standing there, watching her smoke, I was reminded of driving my old mate Matt (who was now literally an old mate) to his wedding as his best man. There was the same feeling of bringing two people together. The anxiety that something might go wrong. The sense of occasion, everyone stiff in new clothes, the desire to smoke, to paper over nerves with mindless chit-chat, which this time seemed to mainly involve regaling my aunt with tales of Tettenhall, a suburb so posh that the older residents continued to state their county of abode as ‘Staffordshire’ rather than the West Midlands.