‘Well, you started in mid-September, right? It’s not too bad but you’d better get a move on. You could be missing opportunities to bump into Noah.’
‘That isn’t why I’m doing all this! I’m doing it because—’
‘Because you’re broadening your horizon, blah blah blah, BS,’ Lucy teased. I chucked my pencil rubber at her, narrowly avoiding hitting the side of her head.
‘Hey, I see some workplace malpractice going on,’ Arjun called out, sauntering into the office and casually sitting on the edge of my desk as though he didn’t have the same workload as I did.
‘And you’ll probably witness some more if you don’t meet your deadlines,’ I reminded him darkly.
‘Thanks for the reminder, Debbie Downer,’ Arjun slid off the desk and threw himself into his chair. ‘Can’t get five minutes’ peace around here without you lot breathing down my neck.’
If I thought that navigating Sheila and Arjun at work was difficult, it was like a spa retreat compared to what was happening at home.
It had been a month since the dekha dekhi and Ma had finally accepted that it was time to give up on the idea of me riding off into the sunset with Zakariya, Malik was spending less and less time at home – probably off with his mysterious girlfriend – and Baba was still in denial about both his kids; totally buying Malik’s lies about working late and also believing that I was feigning indifference towards Zakariya. He thought I was being coy and needed a bit more time to come around.
In a few weeks, my usually functional and reliably boring family had turned into a dysfunctional hot mess.
‘Baba, I’m not joking. I’m not interested in meeting Zakariya again. Please, can we move on from this now?’ I implored after he pounced at me mere moments after I got in from work that evening.
‘In my day, our parents would tell us who to marry and we agreed, no questions asked,’ Baba muttered, his face darkening. ‘We respected our elders and trusted their judgement. And now? You children think you know everything.’
‘I don’t think I know everything. But I do know that I don’t want to marry him!’ I argued, my voice rising with agitation. This wasn’t the first, second or even third time that week we had had a similar conversation. All I wanted to do was sit and watch a bit of TV after dinner, but no such luck. I was getting carpal tunnel watching Netflix on my phone during all the evenings I had been avoiding them. I stood up. I would have rather been fitted with a hand brace than have to listen to my parents’ nagging. ‘I agreed to meet suitors and you agreed not to force me into anything. But you’re not keeping your end of the bargain!’
‘Fine, fine, sorry for trying to help you find a smart, educated, wealthy, handsome, respectable husband!’ Ma interrupted, poking her head around the living-room door. ‘We’re such evil parents, boo hoo.’
I stared at my mum. She used to be the voice of reason in this house, but lately, it felt like my parents had been replaced by parodies of themselves. And all because I said no to the first proper proposal I had ever had? What would happen if I said no to a second, or a third?
‘Girls these days,’ I heard Baba mutter. ‘Maya needs to realise how lucky she is to have such a dola proposal. It would have evened out the genes.’
With those parting, stinging words, he shuffled out of the living room, straightening his lungi as he did. I watched his retreating back, stifling the urge to run out of the front door and never come back. He seriously thought I was lucky because Zakariya was fair-skinned? How and why was that a thing? The threat of tears stung the back of my eyes and I blinked them away furiously, telling myself not to let his comments get to me.
It wasn’t over though. I heard my dad stop and then his footsteps drew closer again before he stuck his head around the door. ‘If you don’t want this man, fine. But you can phone him yourself and tell him. Your chacha is too embarrassed to show his face to his friend and so am I.’
‘What? Baba!’ I exclaimed, jumping up from the sofa. ‘The whole point of an arranged-marriage meeting is that the PARENTS arrange things! You have to call him, or chacha. Not me!’
‘The whole point of an arranged-marriage meeting is to get married,’ Baba replied stonily. ‘I’ll send you his number.’
Back in the safety of my bedroom, I took out my phone and stared at the contact card my dad had sent me: Jakaria, Possible Damand. I couldn’t help smiling at the way my dad, like a typical Bengali, had changed the Z into a J. But then I saw the bit about him being a possible son-in-law and my stomach clenched with guilt. They were really excited about this guy and all the possibilities that they thought were within their grasp. And I had ruined it for them. I had squashed their excitement like I had stamped on a balloon, all because I had run into him at a nude art class. Was it my fault for being unable to let it go? Was it the list’s fault for taking me to that class? Was it Zakariya’s fault for saying inappropriate things to me? The rational part of me knew that it was no one’s fault, but the part of me that needed to compartmentalise things into boxes was struggling to make sense of it all.
Baba was expecting me to call Zakariya, but there was no way I would do that. It wasn’t 1987. We had things like text messages and emails we could hide behind instead. Yes, it was the coward’s way out, but I decided I didn’t owe him anything. It’s not like we were courting:
MAYA: Salaams Zakariya, I hope you’re well. I know you know this already, but my dad is insisting that I let you know personally that I don’t think we’re a right fit for each other and therefore shouldn’t progress things. All the best with your search insha’allah. Take care.
Before I could overthink my message and rewrite it a thousand times, I hit send. I wasn’t surprised that he didn’t reply, but even so, I kept checking to see if he would.
On the third Saturday in November, I woke up ridiculously early, went for a run and then showered and got ready to start my museum crawl with Lucy. We were hoping to see as many of them as physically possible, which defeated the purpose somewhat. When Noah compiled the list, he probably envisioned himself slowly making his way through the various exhibitions, soaking up all the culture and history, feeding his soul. I was planning to speed through them quickly so I could tick it off the list and move on to the next task, whatever it was.
It was going to be cold outside so I put on a thick knee-length jumper with jeans and my big sleeping-bag coat. Adding a scarf around my neck, a woolly hat and leather gloves, I went downstairs to rummage around in the cupboard under the stairs until I found my favourite boots with a thick heel, perfect for long walks. I could hear my mum rustling around in the kitchen but for the first time ever, I didn’t bother to let her know I was going out. I couldn’t deal with getting told off for the millionth time about rejecting Zakariya.
Outside the air was icy and sharp and I was grateful for all my layers until I got to the Tube. Peeling off my gloves, scarf and hat and stuffing them into my bag, I looked around the carriage for a sign of Noah and when I didn’t spot him, I took out the romance novel I had bought the day I went to the bookshop. It had taken me a while to heal from the trauma of reading Ulysses and I was only just ready to read a book again.
‘Maya! Hi!’ Lucy called out when I emerged from the Underground twenty minutes later at Holborn Station. Unlike me, who looked like a sleeping-bag advert, Lucy looked effortlessly chic like she always did. Her glossy golden hair was loose over her shoulders and she was in a tan wool coat and cream-coloured beret. A Burberry scarf hung loosely around her neck and her knee-high brown suede boots over leather leggings made her already long legs appear even longer.
‘Lucy, you look incredible,’ I said, giving her a quick hug. ‘Shall we ditch the museums and go shopping instead? You need to be my stylist.’
Laughing, Lucy linked her arm through mine and gently tugged me in the direction of the British Museum. ‘Another day, babe. Today is about culture and all that.’
By lunchtime, we had seen most of the British Museum and the London Transport Museum, which was a short walk away in Covent Garden, and we were having a really good time. The Transport Museum surprised me with how fun and interactive it was. I took a selfie of Lucy and me with a 1962 double-decker behind us and sent it to Dina, with the caption ‘You need to bring Sami here!’ He would love playing on all those red buses. All this and more was on my doorstep and yet I barely bothered to see it. Noah’s list was opening my eyes to so much more than trying new things; it was about perspective and making the most of what life had to offer.
‘We should hit Kensington next and do Science, Natural History, the V&A and the London Design Museum,’ Lucy said when we stopped for a quick sandwich in the piazza. It was far too cold to be eating outside, but I was on such a high from all the fun I was having that I didn’t care that my fingertips were frozen and my nose had turned Rudolph red.
‘How can we possibly do all that in, what, six hours? Well, do it properly. I want to enjoy it and savour it,’ I replied, surprising myself with my reaction. ‘Shall we pick two of them?’
‘OK, let’s save the Design one for another day and do the V&A, Science and Natural History seeing as they’re right next to each other,’ Lucy grinned. ‘The V&A is my favourite. I love looking at all the clothes.’
Later that night, after showering, praying Salaatul Isha, the night prayer, and collapsing into bed, I checked my phone again to see if Zakariya had responded. There was nothing.
Chapter Fourteen