Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

‘Mum!’ I hiss, glaring at her and then switching to Bengali for obvious reasons. ‘Ekhon ita matyonah!’

‘Fine!’ she huffs in English, folding her arms and snorting. ‘We’ll talk later then!’

I swear to God, sometimes I think I should have emancipated myself from my family a long time ago.

The chosen restaurant is a famous Pakistani one and as we enter the venue with its various banqueting suites and main restaurant, we come across scores of Pakistani people dressed up to the nines in all their finest wedding attire.

‘How come you chose this place?’ I ask Hamza as we wait for the usher to lead us to the table where his family are already sitting and waiting. He blushes.

‘My mom thought you guys would prefer it over an Arabic restaurant,’ he admits sheepishly. ‘I did try to tell them you’re Bengali, not Pakistani, but .?.?.’

I smile at his discomfort and put him out of his misery. ‘It’s OK, it’s sweet of her to try and make us comfortable.’

We find our table and then it’s the whole awkward introduction thing all over again. Clever Hamza has the idea of all his family sitting along one side of the table and us opposite them, which will give us a chance to talk to each other properly. Abbu sits opposite Hamza’s dad, Ammu opposite his mum, then Nani across from his grandma, etc. I’m not comfortable with having someone between, me and Mum because I really want to keep an eye on what she’s saying and stop her from coming out with anything too dodgy, but there’s nothing I can do about it so I try to relax and enjoy the night.

‘Zara, you look absolutely stunning.’ Hiba beams, reaching over the table and squeezing my hand. ‘Honestly, you’re going to be such a gorgeous bride.’

‘Er, thanks,’ I mumble, my face heating up. ‘I guess I scrub up well.’ As soon as I say it, I remember Adam saying the exact same thing to me once, and my gut churns.

‘No, it’s not the makeup, you have amazing features. Your eyes are huge, your nose is straight, your skin is clear, you’re tall and slim. Masha’allah, Allah yah’mik.’ She says this in all seriousness and I want to hide under the table. I’m not used to people being so upfront. It’s not a very British trait, is it? I wonder if it’s an Egyptian thing. Or maybe an American one.

‘Thanks,’ I reply, struggling for an appropriate response, my cheeks still emanating heat. Hiba is cute, but she’s not what you would call beautiful. ‘Er, you have nice skin too. And perfect teeth.’

There’s a snicker from Hamza’s direction and I glare at him, mortified. I look at Hiba but instead of being offended, she laughs, leaning over and thumping her brother on the shoulder. I breathe a sigh of relief. Honestly, this whole Getting to Know In-laws thing is Bloody Hard Work.

Despite the odds (two loud families from two completely different backgrounds), the dinner goes well. The Arabs find the food too spicy but they tuck in regardless, downing glass after glass of water to put out the fire in their mouths, and I’m struck again by how sweet they were to choose this restaurant. Us Bengalis love the food, the heat nothing but a mere tingle on the tongue, and we eat everything, with Abbu and Amina going up to the expansive buffet for thirds and fourths.

The night ends with Mum inviting them to our house the following month for a formal get-together with our extended family, and they agree.

I watch them all talk, smile and laugh, with a growing sense of joy. It’s really happening, isn’t it? I, Zara Choudhury, serial singleton, am actually getting married before I’m thirty. And not to any old freshie with a degree from a fake immigration uni, but to a decent guy with a top job and a loving family. Alhamdulillah.

Later that evening, after Hamza has stayed for a cup of tea and then gone home, we change into our PJs and dissect the entire night, word by word. This is a bit of a tradition in our family whenever an important event has taken place. Amina makes us all more tea and we sit huddled on the sofas going through our impressions of the Hegazis.

‘They’re a decent family,’ Abbu says once he’s changed into his lunghi, a Bengali-style sarong that men wear at home. ‘Educated, intelligent, well-off. I think it’s a good match.’

‘What did you think of Hamza?’ I ask nervously, dipping a cake rusk into my tea for a second too long and then watching it all collapse into a sludgy mess at the bottom of my mug.

‘Very sensible man,’ Abbu replies succinctly, doing the same to his biscuit.

‘He was paler than I expected,’ Mum chips in. ‘Egypt being in Africa and all that, I expected him to be darker.’ She looks around the room; anywhere but my frowning face. ‘But he seems like a very honest, respectable sort of boy. It’s a shame he’s not Bengali.’

‘He’s Muslim, Sunni, he prays and goes to the mosque regularly, that’s enough for me,’ Abbu says, and I feel a surge of relief that he feels that way. When I first told them about Hamza, he was also hesitant about the cultural differences so I’m glad that Hamza and his family have won my dad over. Mum, of course, is a different story.

‘It’s not all about going to the mosque, you know,’ she mutters.

‘What is it about then?’ Amina pipes up from across the room. ‘I thought you liked him? You were all hugging him and telling him that he’s the son you always wanted a minute ago.’

‘I do like him. I’m concerned about them being Egyptian and all that, though. What do we know about these people and their ways, after all?’

‘Didn’t Ruhel’s wife’s nephew marry an Ethiopian?’ Nani chimes in.

‘No, Amma, he married an Estonian.’ Mum huffs impatiently.

‘Oh. Well, I liked the boy and his family,’ Nani continues. ‘They’re not Choudhurys, true, but you can tell they’re a good family. I’m not sure how I’ll explain the match to everyone, though; how can I tell people that Zara found someone herself? It’s bejjoti.’

‘Nani! How can you say that!’ I glare at Nani and she shrugs helplessly. ‘How is it shameful?’

‘Hasa toh, mansheh kita khoybah?’

‘Who cares!’ Amina snarls. ‘Who cares what people think? So long as Zara’s happy, that’s the main thing!’

They go back and forth for a while, with Nani still not convinced that her world will not come crashing down if she tells people that I found my own husband. Mum Googles ‘Egyptian weddings’ on her phone and nearly has a heart attack when she comes across a sexy belly dancing video. Abbu, however, seems content in the knowledge that I’ll be going to a family that genuinely seems to want me, can provide for me and will look after me. For him, that’s enough. And for me, it’s more than enough. For the first time in a long time, I’m truly at peace.