Jessie.
Confusion ensued. For some reason I cried out the dog’s name, instead of my aunt’s. She nevertheless pushed open the door, and instead of yelping out at the bloody scene, she stood on the spot and announced to no one in particular that she had ‘come in for a drink, Kamaljit has been driving me around the bend’.
Ranjit responded to the bizarre declaration by producing some hand cream from his trouser pocket. He smothered his fists with it and then uttered some unexpected ramblings of his own.
‘Kiddha, bhua-ji,’ he said, torn briefly between the urge to commit homicide and respect his elders.
Looking at them, you would have thought they were extended family members becoming reacquainted in the foyer of a temple at a wedding. I may as well have not been there. Ranjit did eventually lunge at my aunt, but it was almost an afterthought. I tripped him up as he did so, and he fell, like an oak tree, to the floor.
EPILOGUE – ASIAN BRIDE
A frosty morning in the West Midlands and two groups of people stand blinking in the courtyard of a gurdwara, unsteady from the effects of an early start and two nights of drinking neat Scotch. The men, as tradition dictates, are dressed in lounge suits, some with ties, some without, their heads covered with hankies in the style of Italian politicians on holiday. The women, as tradition dictates, are decked out in suits and saris of blue and green and pink – anything but bridal red. The whole thing, as is customary, is running ninety minutes behind schedule.
However, the trained eye will spot this is not your conventional Indian wedding. The congregation, for one thing, amounts to fewer than a hundred – minuscule by the standards of these things. Not all the couples have divided along lines of sex, with some men and women leaning against each other as they look on, a few even holding hands. And after the guests have bowed at the conclusion of the opening prayers, touched the ground or knelt upon it, according to their religiosity or physical dexterity, the groom’s side has only one person to offer for the milni.
She appears again and again as the families are formally introduced to one another, to exchange gifts, hang garlands, posing for photographs with the mother, the father, the aunt and the uncle of the bride.
‘Is that her?’ whispers a voice from the bride’s side.
‘You think she’s had work done?’ answers his partner.
‘I reckon.’ A peer around. ‘Where’s the bride then?’
The bride is in a chamber indoors, mehndi patterns meandering around her hands and arms, fighting a losing battle with a make-up artist insisting on gallons of foundation and eye liner. She is still fighting as the congregation wander into the langar hall, to eat samosas and sip overly sweet tea.
The tables are arranged in long, parallel lines, the traditional divide between the sexes defied once again, the groom standing in the middle, resplendent in an embroidered sherwani and red turban. People keep remarking on how elegant he looks, but he has rarely been more uncomfortable. The beard is scratchy. The turban makes it difficult to hear what anyone is saying. He is, frankly, regretting the decision to go along with fashion, was wary about it from the start.
But then he had decided there was more to turbans than Sikhism, just as there was more to Sikhism than turbans, and it felt right on the morning of his wedding day to stand in his father’s study, stretching the material in front of the mirror in his wardrobe, pinching one end with his teeth, as his father used to, having several goes at wrapping it around his head until it was perfectly symmetrical. He got it straight then, but it feels lopsided now, while the whiteness of his sherwani is courting disaster with so much tea being sloshed around so carelessly.
Of course, the tradition at this stage is for the family of the bride to serve the family of the groom, the barat having usually travelled some distance to the bride’s local temple. But in another break with custom, the temple in fact not even being the groom’s family’s place of worship, the organisers have embraced the fashion for employing Eastern European waiters.
The guests eat and drink standing up, only the elderly or the disabled being permitted seats, the religious occasionally castigating the black-jacketed staff for not covering their heads, groups of Asian men discussing their hangovers, the white women remarking on how Asian women age so well, a gaggle of white men wondering out loud why everyone they are introduced to is called Jas.
‘Where’s the bride then?’ asks a voice on the groom’s side between samosas.
Not long to go before she appears. But first the guests must remove their shoes and enter the darbar hall, kneeling respectfully before the Holy Book and paying a donation before sitting down – the elderly, knowing how these things work, taking the prized positions against walls, the women creaking into position on the left, the men on the right, everyone remembering or being reminded not to point their feet at the Holy Book.
The groom takes a seat at the altar, placing his sword in front of him, and with the Kirtani Jatha singing on stage, a Sewadar waves a chaur made of yak hair over the Holy Book, the shape and texture of it matching his beard. Eventually, the bride is ushered in by helpers, dressed in a bright red traditional lehenga and gold-embroidered shawl, dripping in gold jewellery commissioned by the groom’s aunt.
It is customary at this point for the congregation to comment on the bride’s fairness and suitability, for the couple not to look at each other, and for her to appear downcast – a wedding, for a bride, being a sombre occasion when she is separated from her family and cast into the clutches of an unfamiliar and probably hostile extended family. But brides don’t get much fairer than this, and so many tears have been shed lately that no one minds when the groom steals a glance, and the bride smiles in return.
The Kirtani Jatha stops playing. The bride’s parents and, in the groom’s case, the aunt, are asked to stand while a prayer is said invoking blessings for the proposed marriage. The bride’s father places one end of a saffron-colored palla in the groom’s hand – the palla symbolising the couple being joined to each other and God – passing it over the shoulder and placing the other end in the bride’s hand. The ragis sing a hymn and the bride and groom begin walking around the Holy Book four times, each circuit symbolising a different stage of love and married life, the groom leading in a clockwise direction and the bride, holding the scarf, following as nearly as possible in step.
Throughout, those who have experienced it a thousand times before check their mobile phones, the mother of the bride, in a salwar kameez, and the father of the bride, in a fitted sherwani of his own, weep – in part because they are moved, and this has been as much of a journey for them as for their daughter, and in part because they have no feeling below their waists, not having sat cross-legged on the floor of a hall since primary school.
‘What are they saying?’ asks a voice on the groom’s side.
‘Dunno, it’s in Sanskrit or something, innit,’ comes the response.
‘How much longer you reckon?’
The enquiry is met with a philosophical shrug. The fact is that this chap, Jas, who is playing a marathon game of Tetris on his phone, knows, but the key to surviving a Sikh wedding, like surviving an actual marathon, or war, is not to dwell on the length. To ask ‘How long?’ is to risk facing the enervating realisation that there are hours and hours to go, and in this case the congregation still faces, among other things: the customary singing of the six stanzas of the Anand Sahib; another Ardas; a vaak (a random reading of a verse from Guru Granth Sahib); the serving of Karah Parshad; the sagaan, when the parents of the bride and groom, followed by every member of the congregation, bless the newly wedded with money, posing awkwardly for staged photos as they do so; not to mention the ritual where the bridesmaids hide the groom’s shoes and force him to pay a ransom, in this case more than £500.
Be grateful, though, that there will be no speech at the end of the ceremony. The groom has paid bribes, made threats and emphasised the difficulty he has in sitting cross-legged as a result of his rece
nt injuries, in order to excise the customary rambling talk at the end of the ceremony, in which a self-important member of the temple committee, oblivious to the yawning and visible boredom of his audience, subjects the congregation to a diatribe about the declining religiosity and morality of the Sikh youth, and/or the political situation in the Punjab.
In the groom’s experience, this speech is often the straw that breaks the camel’s back; the thing that can make three hours feel like six, or six like twelve. Besides, when everyone moves from the temple to the working man’s club down the road, he plans to defy tradition by making a speech of his own.
He has learnt it by heart, though there is a copy in his trouser pocket in case nerves get the better of him and he knows better than to wait for the audience to be quiet, for this is a Punjabi crowd and Punjabis are physiologically incapable of being quiet. Instead, he will grab a mic plugged into a PA system, and will shout over the din, beginning conventionally, by Western standards, thanking the family of the bride for paying for the wedding, for sticking by him during the last year. Then he will thank the guests, for their donations during the sagaan, which will be passed on to the hospice which cared for his mother during her final days.
He worries that the thought of his mother will make his voice crack – and while it is traditional for the brides to weep at Indian weddings, it is not for men. So if it’s difficult, he will skip the next bit about how he thinks it was the revelations and the trial that did for her, rather than her illness, will not say it was some consolation that she was surrounded by such kindness in her final days, and instead move on to addressing his bride, telling her, though it is not a very Punjabi thing to do, that she looks beautiful, that he loves her more every day, that he will make it his mission in life to make her happy.
Then his aunt. His beautiful, remarkable aunt, who, sitting across the table, was the one, he will say, who persuaded him to have an Indian wedding. He was of the view that Indian weddings are too sad, even without the groom being orphaned. And the last thing he wanted after the media circus was any attention. It was not something his parents would have enjoyed either. Throughout the preparations he could imagine his mother complaining that a display would just attract the evil eye, his father worrying out loud about the expense. Besides, he was aware of teams of religious fanatics who went around disrupting mixed weddings, their argument being that it is ‘hypocritical’ for a bride or groom to go through a ceremony when they do not truly believe in the Sikh faith, even though one of the defining things about Sikhism is that it is an open, liberal religion, one of the few faiths of the world to acknowledge that other religions may offer a valid way of reaching God.
Frankly he wanted to get married quietly, a civil ceremony somewhere anonymous, with no risk of people barricading themselves inside gurdwaras to prevent ceremonies taking place. He had had enough of encountering bigotry, of being on display, but it was his aunt who made him realise that for too long love had been a source of shame in his family, that too many weddings had been conducted in secret, love being treated as a cause for regret. Therefore this: a big fat traditional Indian wedding, the couple being driven across Wolverhampton in his mate Matt Metcalfe’s incredibly naff red Rolls-Royce Phantom (you can take the boy out of Wolverhampton, but . . . ).
However, these things are relative, and we all know that beneath the surface this Indian wedding is not that big and fat at all. For, look, there are Skodas and cut-price Fords, of all things, scattered among the lines of shiny German limousines in the car park. The women will be permitted to drink during the party, as well as the men. The first dance will not be to a bhangra track with creepy allusions to the sexiness of sister-in-laws, but to something soppy by an indie band. And though Amy Wilson, her sari blouse the wrong way round, so that the cups are on the back, will drink too much and get lairy, there will not be, as is traditional, a fight in the car park.
Moreover, at the end of it all, the couple will not be heading off on honeymoon. Instead, tomorrow morning they will, with their aunt, open the family shop one final time, selling what they can, giving away the rest, emptying it out before it is taken over by new owners, who plan to convert it into a tanning salon. Then, for old time’s sake, Surinder Bains will make lunch. Saag and roti, as she had been taught to make by her sister, who had, in turn, been taught by their mother.
They will wash the food down with full-fat milk, dip the chapattis in achar, go over the wedding and maybe start thinking about the future. Freya wants to give up banking for academia. Surinder would like to set up a business in London – something completely new. As for Arjan, both his aunt and his wife think he should become an artist, but he disagrees, has accepted he doesn’t have the passion or the talent. But he does have half an idea about setting up some kind of gallery in London. Something specialising in Indian art, catering for all the South Asians out there with more money than taste.
His aunt likes the thought, wonders if she could perhaps run some sort of cafe or deli or even a shop alongside. Though it would have to be one of the poncy kinds that wouldn’t last a minute in Blakenfields. A place where brown paper and string was used for wrapping produce. Where fresh bread was flogged over a marble counter, and where customers could rely on being served by someone who knew their name and would, on occasion, let them buy something on tick.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book is based on The Old Wives’ Tale, a novel originally published in 1908. I have, among other things, shoplifted characters and elements of plot, and though I cannot credit Arnold Bennett enough, I owe as much to Lottie Moggach, who introduced me to his work and helped develop the idea of a remix. Friends don’t come much more generous or kind.
When it came to researching the post-war political history of Wolverhampton, Frank Reeves’ Race and Borough Politics and David Beetham’s Transport and Turbans proved indispensable, while Ned Williams’ works of local history provided an eloquent guide to the changing geography of my home town.
All quotes from newspapers and magazines are taken or adapted from contemporaneous publications, while the occasional paragraph may have previously appeared in draft form under my byline, with a feature about working in a Black Country newsagent for The Times Magazine providing a starting point for my research into shop life.
My editor Jason Arthur worked hard to help shape this book, and my brilliant agent Sarah Chalfant ensured I had the thing writers require most: time. I am indebted, in addition, to Lucy Kellaway and Mona Arshi for their critical guidance, and to Amandeep Madra and Nikesh Shukla for help with cultural references.
My gratitude also to all those who helped with research and advice, including: Nikita Amin, Aman Aneja, Graham Archard, Perjit Aujla, Adam Bannister, Harjit Beghal, Sandeep Bhabra, Kuljeet Chahal, Aryn Clark, Katie Cooper, Celia Duncan, Dean Edwards, Lucy Ellison, Sarah Foden, Paddy Gill, Lachlan Goudie, Pamela Gupta, James Harding, Anoushka Healy, Nicola Jeal, Viney Jung, Jaskaran Kaur, Urmee Khan, Jamie Klinger, Lucy Kroll, Nirmalya Kumar, Chris Morgan, Mary Mount, Amarjit Nakhwal, Manjinder Nakhwal, Mark Payne, David Radburn, Sami Rahman, Robin Roberts, James Rothwell, Sarvjit Sra, Amit Sunsoa, Daniel Wainwright, Anna-Sophia Watts, and the staff at Wolverhampton Archives.
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