Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

‘Look, Zara, it’s not that we don’t want you around, there’s nothing I would love more than keeping my girls with me forever. But it’s not about me, it’s about you. I know you think you know more than me because I never studied and never had a career, but if there’s one thing I know about better than you, it’s our culture and community.’

I snort, and she continues. ‘As soon as you hit thirty, that’s it – the proposals will start dwindling. Whereas previously you had five, now you might have one. It’ll get harder and harder and then before you know it, you’re thirty-six and then you’ll agree to marry the first semi-decent man who’s interested, even if he’s not from a good family, even if he doesn’t have a good job, even if he lives with his whole family, even if you’re not particularly attracted to him. Remember what happened to Fahima? And I don’t want that for you. I want you to have options.’

As she goes on and on, I find my resolve wearing thin. Because deep down, I know she’s right.

‘Fine. Send my biodata to them,’ I mutter, pushing my chair back and standing up. ‘I don’t know why you even bothered to ask me.’

Unable to meet my mum’s triumphant gaze, I turn around and go back upstairs.

*

I’ve been moping about in my room for over an hour. I feel silly for letting my mum’s words affect me so much, but at the same time, I feel angry. Why is my family so messed up sometimes? You’d think after living outside Bangladesh for so long we would have evolved a bit, that women would be seen as more than wives and mothers. To be fair, not all families are the same. In fact, mine is much less traditional than many. But even so, we still eat Bengali food, wear Bengali clothes, follow Bengali traditions. Look at my mum: she grew up in the UK but even she doesn’t believe that my life is my life. Our lives are only partly ours, the rest belongs to our entire family, extended included. And when we get married, they belong to our husbands and in-laws as well.

My phone beeps and I summon the energy to glance at it. When I see that the sender is Mo, I perk up instantly.

All right gorgeous, how’s your day been?

I wonder if I should make something up to sound interesting and alluring, but I find myself being honest.

Pretty crap, I type back. I’m not expecting him to reply immediately, so I go to toss the phone onto the bed when I see that there’s a response. The feeling that he’s been waiting for me to come onto the app is empowering and my mood begins to brighten.

What can I do to make it better?

Ooh, er. A slow smile spreads across my face but before I can even think of a witty reply, there is a sharp rap on the door and Yasmin comes in holding two mugs of hot chocolate. Plonking them down onto my dressing table, she throws herself onto the bed next to me. I quickly exit the app and rearrange my smile into a scowl.

‘You missed dinner,’ she states, shoving my legs to one side so there’s more room for her. I grunt in response, staring at the hot chocolate. I’m starving but I don’t want to admit it.

‘What do you want?’ I ask after a while. I’d rather she gets whatever it is that’s bothering her off her chest so she can go away and leave me in peace.

‘Abbu wants me to show you a biodata,’ she admits. ‘He and Mum are too scared to show you themselves so they sent me.’

‘So now the little runt is braver than the pack leader?’ I say with a wry smile, turning to face her. She’s eight years younger than me, but somehow seems so much more mature and sorted than I am. She’s always on top of everything; uni, internships, family stuff, her social life, and she makes it look easy, she’s always chill. Unlike Amina, who despite being utterly brilliant and one of the smartest people I know, is always stressing about something or another.

I say this out loud and she chuckles.

‘Me? Sorted? That’s only because I’m at a stage where I know what I’m doing and I don’t have to think beyond my next exam. Once uni’s finished, if I can’t find a job, or if I’m single in a few years’ time, I’m sure I’ll be as fagolas you are.’

She’s probably right. I wasn’t as crazy at twenty-one as I am now. At twenty-one, I was on top of the world. I was doing well at uni, I had loads of great friends, I was attractive and guys were always asking me out. I thought I had my pick. I thought I had all the time in the world.

‘You still have time,’ she reassures me, shifting over and putting her arm around me. ‘Don’t let Mum and Abbu pressure you into doing anything you’re not comfortable with.’

‘Well, to be fair, I’m not comfortable with any of it; biodatas, marriage meetings or even dates.’ I sigh, nestling into her. ‘Especially after Tariq. But I need to be.’

We sit in silence for a while, sipping our hot chocolate and enjoying the rare stillness of the evening. Up here at the top of the house, you can’t hear a thing that’s going on downstairs. Mum has probably forced Amina to wash up, and she’s passive-aggressively demonstrating her reluctance by clanging the dishes around. Abbu will have retired to the living room where he’ll be watching Al Jazeera, while Mum puts all the food away since Yas and I are up here. Nani is more than likely sitting with Abbu folding up a little paan triangle filled with chopped betelnut to munch on. She’ll offer one to Abbu as she always does, and he’ll refuse and take some of the fillings instead. My dad isn’t your standard old Bengali man. He doesn’t chew paan, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t even drink tea. My mum is the same – except for the tea part – but then, that’s the Brit in her, not the Bengali. She came to the UK when she was only six and is one of the few Bengali women her age that speaks the Queen’s English and prefers roast dinners over curries.

‘Go on then, let’s have a look,’ I concede. Yasmin hands my dad’s phone over to me and, bracing myself, I open up the file and scan through the words. Farook Chowdhury. Thirty-three. 5’10”. Dentist. Blah blah blah. He’s OK-looking, a bit nerdy with his old-fashioned glasses and dodgy haircut. His outfit choice is dubious, too. He’s wearing a white lab coat with a stethoscope round his neck. Hang on, I thought he was a dentist? What does he need a stethoscope for? To listen to people’s teeth?

I show the picture to Yas, who starts cracking up.

‘He’s like the dentist from The Hangover, who keeps saying he’s a doctor,’ she splutters. I shove her but can’t help giggling myself.

‘Watch it, this could be your future dhulabhai,’ I tease, and she makes a mock horror face.

‘No way, you can do better than that! Even Hamza must be better than him!’

‘Oi, don’t talk about Hamza like that, he’s not that bad!’ I thump her with the pillow while she holds up her arms to block her face, still laughing.

My bedroom door swings open again and Amina stomps in.