Breaking off eye contact, as though looking at me was too difficult a task, Zakariya said nothing. The silence, however, spoke louder to me than anything he could have said. Not knowing how to respond, I also stayed quiet until he started talking about something else, and we both pretended that nothing had changed between us.
But everything had changed.
Chapter Thirty-Six
On Saturday night, my cousins called to ask if they could come over, so I took the opportunity to show off my new culinary skills with the three-course menu I’d learnt from Ma. Bengalis usually had at least five to six items or more on the dining table whenever guests came over – it was a travesty to offer anything less – but I didn’t care. It was the only thing I knew. The methodical act of chopping and dicing also helped to keep my mind off Zakariya and everything that had been left unsaid between us.
‘There’s no way you made this,’ Pinky said, awestruck as she savoured another morsel of the perfect butter chicken curry I had cooked all by myself. It was just the right balance of tanginess, creaminess and spice.
‘I did! And completely on my own as well,’ I said proudly.
‘She did,’ Ma affirmed, reaching across the table to give my arm a squeeze. ‘I’m so proud of her.’
Since my heart-to-heart with Ma, she had been extra attentive towards me, but every time she showered me with praise, I felt embarrassed and uncomfortable. It would take me a while to get used to it.
‘Kub moza oiseh,’ Baba agreed. ‘Ten out of ten.’
‘Bloody perfect,’ Pretty added and then covered her mouth. ‘Oops, sorry. I mean, erm, ruddy perfect.’
‘All right, Pretty, I think our delicate ears can handle the b-word,’ Ma said, giving her a look.
‘Which b-word?’ Pretty asked cheekily and promptly received a smack from Ma. Pinky started laughing and even Baba looked like he was having a good time hanging out with us.
‘There’s still hope for our Maya becoming an excellent cook, like her mother,’ Baba said, taking another helping of the curry, earning him a nudge from Ma.
‘Eh-reh, you know your blood-sugar levels have been unstable lately,’ she told him in Bengali. ‘You need to go easy on the food, especially white rice and bread.’
Ignoring her completely, Baba took another two naans and tucked them protectively beside his plate, as if he was afraid Ma was going to clear up before he had the chance to eat his fill.
I looked around the table – at Ma who was trying hard, Baba who was letting go for a change and at my crazy beautiful twin cousins, who I had spent most of my life being compared to. I realised that I didn’t care anymore. So what if they had fairer skin than me? Silkier hair? Smaller waists? It didn’t make my life better or worse. Them having less wouldn’t have made my circumstances any different.
It was time to let the resentment go. It wouldn’t disappear overnight, I knew, but it was getting there. I was getting there.
‘What’s the latest with you guys?’ I asked my cousins after the three of us cleared up after dinner and headed up to my room with our tea and dessert for some privacy. Pretty exchanged a look with Pinky, who indiscreetly nudged her. ‘Tell her before I do.’
‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘Tell me!’
‘I’ve met someone!’ Pretty squeaked, taking a sip of her mug of piping hot tea. ‘Ouch! That burnt my mouth.’
‘OMIGOD!’ I squealed, partly shocked but mostly excited. ‘Forget the tea! Back to the point, please. Tell me everything!’
‘So my mum and dad made me meet this guy a few weeks ago,’ she began, then explained how she liked the look of his biodata, how they met up for an informal coffee – her with her twin, him with his friend – and how the conversation flowed with no awkward silences, how they were on the same page about everything from their life ambitions to how many children they wanted.
‘What does he look like? What does he do? How old is he? Where does he live? What’s his name?’ I interrupted when she got sidetracked by the crap coffee and stale cake in the cafe, missing out all the essential details.
‘His name’s Yahya and he’s really cute,’ she gushed. ‘Let me show you, his picture. Like one minute he’s in his hoodie and Jordans and he looks good and the next minute he’s in a suit and my mind is like, blown.’ She gesticulated with her hands, emphasising the ‘blown’. ‘Here, look.’
I took Pretty’s phone and looked at the pictures carefully.
‘He is cute,’ I agreed. ‘What does he do?’
‘He’s a data analyst. Twenty-nine. He lives with his family in Wembley. The only issue is that he’s the eldest son.’
Ah. That was an issue. Eldest sons traditionally bore most of the familial load and many girls didn’t want that sort of pressure when they got married. It wasn’t always the case; I knew of eldest sons who didn’t live with their parents after marriage or contribute financially. But they were the minority.
‘How do you feel about that?’
‘Surprisingly OK,’ she shrugged. ‘It’s not ideal, but I’ve met his parents and siblings and everyone’s lovely. They’re not super traditional or anything. He said that as long as his parents are well and capable, there’s no reason to live with them at all.’
‘Preets, I’m really happy for you,’ I said, feeling myself choke up as the realisation that my cousin and one of my closest friends was getting married dawned on me. ‘But please don’t become one of those annoying married women who can’t do anything without their husband being there,’ I added.
‘I will kill you if you do,’ Pinky warned. ‘Just try answering my calls on speakerphone in front of him and see what I say to bejjot you.’
‘I’m not that dumb, all right,’ Pretty laughed. ‘Will you girls be my bridesmaids?’
‘Since when do Bengali brides have bridesmaids?’ Pinky asked.
‘What does a Bengali bridesmaid do?’
‘I kinda resent being called a “maid”,’ Pinky added and we both started to laugh as Pretty picked up a pillow and began trying to beat us with it.
‘Don’t even think about hitting me with my own pillow!’ I giggled, darting around her and grabbing one to thump her back with. Pinky also took hold of a cushion and within seconds we were cackling and screaming hysterically as we chased each other around the upstairs of our house, pillows and cushions in our hands.
‘Stop! I’m going to wet myself!’ Pretty gasped, collapsing onto Ma and Baba’s bed.
‘What’s wrong with your pelvic floor? If it’s like this now, what’s it going to be like after you’ve had kids?’ Pinky laughed, falling onto the bed next to her twin.
