Chapter 4
I usually go out with friends on Saturdays but I’m feeling wrecked after the week I’ve had. Trying to find a husband is tiring business and it shows. And I really need it not to show by the time I make my grand entrance at tomorrow’s wedding. By tomorrow, I need to look fresh and sprightly, because nothing says ‘dried-out ovaries’ like puffy eyes and dehydrated skin, which will be even more apparent next to the plump youthfulness of my cousins and sisters.
This is why I’m lying on my bed with my third Korean face mask on and fresh cucumber slices on my eyes, listening to calm spa music. I’m hoping that the soothing atmosphere I’ve created will coax all the negative energy and toxins out of my body and give me an aura of confident nonchalance tomorrow.
‘I think you need to chill out,’ I hear my younger sister Amina scoff over the sounds of the sea. ‘This whole finding a husband thing is so anti-feminist.’
‘This is me chilling out,’ I mumble, trying not to move my mouth as I speak. ‘At least, it was until you came along.’
‘Leave Zara alone,’ I hear my mum say in the background somewhere. ‘She needs to take this marriage search seriously – and unless you want to end up in the same situation, you could do with a face mask or two yourself.’
I sigh. I should have just booked myself into an actual spa, but after spending a fortune on a new saree, I didn’t want to spend any more on this wedding of a person so distantly related that I’m not even sure how we know each other.
‘Do you guys mind? I’m trying to relax here,’ I say from between clenched teeth.
‘All right, I’m going! Just wanted to give you girls your sarees, that’s all. Your dad’s brought them back from the dry cleaners, so they’re lovely and pressed now,’ she says. ‘Here take yours, Amina. I’ll leave Zara’s here.’
‘Thanks, Mum,’ I reply, my eyes still closed. Ironing sarees encrusted with gems is a mission, so it was nice of my parents to get them professionally steamed for us. There are some things I’m going to miss when I eventually leave home.
‘Seriously, Zara, I don’t know why you’re letting Mum pressure you like this,’ Amina continues once our mother has left the vicinity. ‘You don’t have to get married you know. You’re not going to turn into a khodu when the clock strikes twelve on your thirtieth birthday.’
‘No one’s pressuring me,’ I reply. ‘I want to get married. The older I get, the harder it’s going to be to find someone, so I need to get cracking.’
‘Do you know how ridiculous you sound? The older you get? You’re twenty-bloody-nine! I bet men never worry about getting old! The double standards make me sick!’
‘Amina! My trying to get married doesn’t mean that I’m complicit in upholding the bloody patriarchy, OK? I want a life partner. I want kids one day. That’s it! It’s not that deep!’
Amina mutters something about failing feminism under her breath and stomps out of my room. The door slams closed and all the tranquillity I felt moments before disappears with her.
*
Despite yesterday’s mishaps, the bit of pampering I did has refreshed my complexion and reduced the puffiness around my eyes. A good thing too, because today is going to be a golden opportunity to parade myself in front of potential in-laws. According to Mum, the crème de la crème of the UK’s Bengali elite will be at this wedding and I need to make it count.
‘Zara, I need your heeeeeelp!’ I hear Amina screech from her bedroom next door. Before I have the chance to answer, she bangs on the connecting wall in case I’ve developed hearing problems overnight.
Amina, Yasmin and I may be sisters, but not only do we look nothing like each other, our personalities couldn’t be more different. Amina is like a volcano ready to erupt at any moment, and it could be over something as minor as losing her favourite lipstick or something as complicated as Middle Eastern politics. She is also extremely loyal and has a heart of gold, and I can say with the utmost confidence that she would kill for me. No joke.
Yasmin, on the other hand is really, really chilled. Nothing fazes her and she’s often the one who rushes to placate Amina. And me, to be truthful. She’s very mature for a uni student and while she works hard, she plays harder. She’s rarely at home and has a social life that is far more active than any of ours. I’m supposedly a cross between them both.
‘What’s the emergency?’ I ask as I walk into Amina’s meticulously tidy sea-green room. Mum thought that a soothing colour would help calm her. We’re yet to notice a difference.
She looks up at me from her cross-legged position on the floor in front of her full-length mirror. ‘I need help curling my hair. I can’t do the back properly.’
‘Can I do it later?’ I say, trying to put her off from hijacking my getting-ready time. ‘It’s only ten thirty and we’re not leaving until one.’ And I need every second to make myself look desirable since I’m the one whose eggs are drying up as we speak. I don’t say this out loud, though. I’m well aware of Amina’s thoughts on the topic of marriage and old age.
‘So? You know it takes me ages to do my makeup!’ Her voice goes up an octave so I give in and sit down to get on with it as fast as I can. As I curl her hair around the heated tongs, she talks about the Muslim charity she works for and how all the old men don’t take her seriously, and I ‘umm’ and ‘ahh’ in the right places. When her maroon hair is suitably bouncy, I leg it out of her room and go back to my comfortably cluttered haven with only an hour and a half to turn myself into an irresistible goddess.
‘Oh, you look beautiful,’ Mum gushes as she enters my room to put my new coral-coloured saree on for me. The border has pearl and crystal embellishments and I’ve tailor-made the blouse so it has long sleeves and a long top that doesn’t expose my stomach. I may be ready to start making an effort with my appearance again, but there’s a limit to how much attention I like drawing towards myself.
Mum gets to work with wrapping the saree around me. It isn’t easy because I’m tall as it is and with three-inch sparkly heels, it’s just about long enough. Once she’s finished, she takes out three industrial safety pins and pins together parts of the saree that are likely to come undone. I honestly don’t know how my nani lives in them with no safety pins. She even jumped into the pool wearing one when we were on holiday in Dubai. You should have seen her backstroking away with her headscarf on and everything.
‘There, let me see.’ Mum pushes me back to observe her handiwork. ‘Stunning!’ A strange expression crosses her face and I frown, wondering what’s wrong now.
‘What is it?’ I ask warily as I check myself out in the full-length mirror and, to my surprise I agree with her. Sarees are amazingly slimming and I look as though I’m in proportion for a change.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ she mumbles, wiping the corner of her eye.
‘Mum! What is it?’