A Matter of Marriage (43 page)

M
RS.
B
EGUM STOOD
on her front step and welcomed the Guris warmly, pleased that she had managed to bundle Baby upstairs in the nick of time and that Dr. Choudhury's sulking would now be cut short. Her guests stepped over the threshold of Windsor Cottage with exaggerated care, clearly mindful of omens, although in Mrs. Guri's case, the width of the doorway may also have been a matter of concern. She walked them as quickly as possible to the sitting room, considering Dr. Choudhury's liking for long-speeches-at-the-door.

Kareem came in last, looking as nervous as Mrs. Begum had ever seen him, and holding a large bunch of red and white flowers. A great believer in making use of people's talents, she set him to work lifting the big armchair forward for Mrs. Guri. And, indeed, he seemed grateful enough to be moving about and doing something after that long drive.

Mrs. Begum went to get glasses of water for their guests. When she returned, her husband and Mr. Guri were standing together at the window looking up at the Abbey, while Dr. Choudhury talked about his pride-and-joy.

“Five million pounds,” Mr. Guri said, in a tone that was less question than disbelief overwhelmed.

Dr. Choudhury nodded graciously. “Yes, that was the grand total for the, ah, structural repairs, although of course the roof was another matter.”

“Wah . . . of course, of course. Another matter.”

“The real work, which required such close supervision by someone of my academic credentials, and, ah, aesthetic sensitivities, was the interior: the stained glass, the wood and stonework, the frieze in the great dining hall and, most of all, assessment for the cleaning and repair of the Abbey's extensive collection of manuscripts, hangings,
objets d'art
and valuable paintings.”

“How, how much did that cost?”

“Well, of course, the money is immaterial when one is working with, ah, saving our national heritage.”

“Of course, of course. But . . .”

“Oh, I would say in the region of three-point-five million pounds. Or maybe point six.”

Mrs. Begum watched a now silent Mr. Guri slap a hand gently on his back trouser pocket where his wallet bulged, as if unable to otherwise express the strength of his feelings. His wife, however, seemed more interested in the pictures of Dodi and Diana and Prince and Princess Michael, and Mrs. Begum moved to her side, realizing that she'd never told her that it was her arm, her sari blouse, in the picture with Princess Michael. She was pleasantly aware that, as they talked, Kareem was discreetly but regularly checking his hair, his tie and his fingernails, and generally fidgeting on his seat as if it had become too hot for him. He was as sweaty and nervous and impatient to see his bride as any mother-in-law could want. It was time.

After she had promised to show Mrs. Guri her sari from the photo, Mrs. Begum turned her back on Dodi and Diana and smiled at everyone. If her husband was not going to raise the issue, and neither were the Guris, then it must be her to whom the honor would fall: there was no time to be lost.

“It has been such a pleasure to meet your Kareem.” She gestured at Kareem. “He has come to us twice now, such a good boy.”

“He is not my son. He does what he wants.”

“Yes, but what a good boy.”

Mrs. Guri shot an evil look at Kareem, who was now perched uncomfortably upright on the ottoman, his hands on his knees. “
Good?
Aah. We were the good ones. We did everything for him. Everything.”

Mr. Guri turned away from Dr. Choudhury and the Abbey and pointed his index finger at Kareem. “Everything,” he said with emphasis, his voice gritty and angry. “His own bed, a good job.”

Mrs. Guri nodded, fluttering her eyelids in emphasis. “And even then they betray you.”

“Nah, nah, nah,” Mrs. Begum cried with a pleading glance at Dr. Choudhury. Why did her fool of a husband not say something? This was not meant to be a Modern Youth Today discussion, with everyone competing with their stories about the second-generation's failings and stupidities. But Dr. Choudhury's mouth was as open as Kareem's, so he was no help.

Why had Kareem brought them, if this was to be their view of things? She fiddled with her talisman, thought of Baby in her bedroom waiting for the knock on her door to bring her downstairs, and despaired.

There was movement out the front window, and Mrs. Begum saw Richard Bourne's car pull up behind Kareem's. She stood up and gasped, then Kareem stood as well, and the Guris turned toward her and then the car, with various degrees of worry and fright on their faces.

Mr. Guri was positively pale, his eyes now fixed on the
qibla
mark on the eastern wall of the sitting room, and he appeared to be muttering a prayer, while one hand cupped his rear trouser pocket as if to protect it.

Mrs. Begum was sure she heard Mrs. Guri hiss “
Police!
” as she rocked forward in her chair in an apparent effort to stand, but the chair came with her. As she sat back, she drummed her heels against her handbag until it was underneath the chair and hidden by the upholstery fringing.

Kareem raised his hands to them all, with an agonized expression. “Stay, please stay here, Uncle. This is personal, private business. All my respects, but please stay here.”

Dr. Choudhury, who had also stood and was peering out the sitting-room window, aahed
to himself and started to edge toward the door. Mrs. Begum saw Kareem throw him an anguished glance, as if desiring to stop him as well but unable to think how to halt his future father-in-law in his own home.

Munni was here, Mrs. Begum was sure of it. Without further ado, she shot ahead of her husband and ran out the front door and down the path like a young girl. She saw with sharp satisfaction that Rohimun was sitting in the back seat of the car and Tariq in the front. No one could find fault with that. She tried to catch her breath. She, Syeda Begum, being a modern woman, was not at all disturbed by her daughter's arrival with a highly eligible unrelated male, who had just rescued her from her castle like something out of Scheherazade.

As soon as Tariq got out of the car, she grasped his arm. “You were with them the whole time, helping to pack. You have always been with them.”

“Eh? Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Richard was holding the car door open for Rohimun, and Mrs. Begum pressed her nails into her palms knowing, knowing, that Dr. Choudhury was watching all this, and praying that Richard would not place a hand in the small of her daughter's back or take her hand or do any of the other not-so-helpful touchings that
gora
men were prone to do. But in fact he stood so well clear of Rohimun that Mrs. Begum was reminded of Kareem's behavior when helping Shunduri out of his car. It could only be another good omen,
Inshallah
.

She could hear Kareem's voice behind her, loud and relieved, speaking to Dr. Choudhury—they must be on the front step together. Then Shunduri was calling down from the little dormer bedroom window, asking, “What's goin' on, yeah?”

And the next thing she knew, Shunduri had run out of the front door, flashed past her and embraced Rohimun. Mrs. Begum smiled, tears in her eyes. Shunduri never did this, would never have spontaneously been this helpful, but of course, Kareem was watching everything, and now it would be even harder for Dr. Choudhury to repulse his daughter. If only Henry and Thea were here also.

She met Rohimun's eyes and gave a small, tight nod toward Dr. Choudhury.
Please go to him, don't hesitate, not now
. Then she could embrace her eldest daughter. Rohimun disentangled herself from Shunduri's grasp and walked around the car. She was in traditional clothes, thank god, one of her old college
salwars—
turquoise with brown edging—and with her hair neatly plaited, she made a pretty sight as she went to kneel before her father.

Mrs. Begum stood halfway between house and car, trying to watch everyone at once and feeling rather like the umpire in the tall chair in the Wimbledon competition that Mrs. Darby loved so much. Balls going everywhere.

Richard stayed by the car. He was observing the scene on the doorstep intently, unsmiling, his profile outlined against the greenery behind him. And for all his
gora
ways and his tall-thinness, he suddenly seemed to Mrs. Begum as irresistibly handsome as the most heartbreaking of Bollywood heroes. One hand, resting on the roof of his car, was holding the car keys in plain sight, as if to say, if Rohimun is not welcome here, she will be welcome elsewhere. Could Dr. Choudhury see that as well? Mrs. Begum hoped so, from the bottom of her heart.

Shunduri, not one to be left out of any scene, also ran to kneel before her father to beg for her sister's forgiveness. Kareem had moved into the background somewhat, pressed against the front-door lintel, and was wiping his eyes with a sparkling-white handkerchief.

Mrs. Begum, thinking suddenly of washing powder and widowhood, could not bear to look. She leaned on the end of Richard's car and stared fiercely into its dark-blue depths. Let my husband take his daughter in his arms. Let him see he has no choice, and that it will be a blessing and a release for him, as well as for Munni and for all of us.

When she turned, her two daughters were standing on the doorstep facing her, with their father's arms around them, and Tariq had tears on his cheeks, just like his father. Richard was still by the car, as if unsure what to do next. She stared at him, not breathing, willing him to act.

Through a blur of tears, Mrs. Begum watched as Richard joined the group on the steps and held out his hand to Dr. Choudhury. Her husband was not short, but the two-steps up that he was standing only brought him to Richard's eye-level. The two men acknowledged each other, then Dr. Choudhury's hand came out and they shook hands as equals. Richard said something and gestured toward Rohimun.

Mrs. Begum was entranced and did not approach them to hear what was being said, for fear of breaking the spell. Whatever it was, Rohimun had moved away with that shoulder-slouching stance she had when she had too much attention, and was drifting toward the side of the house. Dr. Choudhury, most unlike him, so awkward with touchings, then pulled Richard up a step and into an embrace, which was over as soon as it had begun and which seemed to embarrass them both equally.

Baby was watching the men avidly, almost jealously, her eyes wide and the second finger of her right hand stroking the central part in her hair. Hah, there is a girl ready to marry, painting her own part red. Whatever happens, Mrs. Begum thought, as she wiped her eyes and hurried to the cottage, Baby must marry first; it would matter so much to her. Betrothal would have to be good enough for Munni, in the circumstances. And who could hurry a
gora
suitor, anyway?

Eventually Mrs. Begum realized that dear Richard was saying something to her about leaving, dropping Rohimun's painting things off but coming back later. She nodded and turned toward her front door. Two daughters as good as married, and her family whole again. Truly she was blessed today,
Inshallah.

M
RS.
B
EGUM SWEPT
back into the sitting room with Tariq, beaming. Kareem was following, as careful as any younger son, closing doors behind them, and with both (both!) daughters dispatched upstairs and Richard promising to be back soon, the ball had clearly bounced into the Guris' tennis court. She stood right next to her husband, as close as any
gora
wife, and stared pointedly at the Guris, who looked as if they had not moved since she'd left them. They must speak.

Mr. Guri was wiping his forehead and top lip with a handkerchief. His mouth was open and he was breathing heavily, as if he had been running. “Is, is everything . . .”

Dr. Choudhury hurrumphed. “Yes, yes. My other daughter is home now.”

“Ah, it was . . . family-visit then? The unmarked, er, blue car?”

Mrs. Begum could not resist. “Yes, yes, and Tariq with Richard Bourne, from the Bourne Abbey.” From the window, Richard's car could be seen driving away. “He will be back to visit with us later.”

Mr. Guri edged forward on his seat. “You have a beautiful family. And a beautiful home. Very big.” His tone was as different from before as yoghurt from chilli, but before Mrs. Begum could respond, Mrs. Guri chimed in.

“And what lovely children. Beautiful children, all grown-up. It is such a pleasure to see this generation can turn out so well. It gives me hope.” There was still a something in those last few words that seemed to be directed at Kareem, but no matter. Things were now as they should be, and the men needed to be left to talk.

Mrs. Begum smiled at Mrs. Guri and gestured toward the picture of Prince and Princess Michael. “Let me show you the sari.” Mrs. Guri heaved herself out of the armchair, successfully this time, and followed Mrs. Begum to the study to
ahh
and fondle the fabric that had been graced by royal eyes. Once this was done, the girls should be almost ready to be brought downstairs.

—

U
PSTAI
RS,
S
HUNDURI TURNED
Rohimun's shoulders so that they were both facing the wardrobe mirror.

“You know, Kareem has lots of friends. He could be such a good brother to you.”

Rohimun looked at the emerald green sari Shunduri had just persuaded her to put on, then watched as her sister also scrutinized her, as if trying to think what she could offer her that would be appreciated.

“He knows everybody. He could find you a nice husband, I mean, one that wasn't bothered about . . .”

“No, thanks,” she replied. “I don't particularly like . . . you just enjoy yours. I'm very happy for you.” She sat down and squinted at the two saris her sister had spread out on the other bed. “If you're going to wear pink, go for the cool pink with silver embroidery. And keep it simple, Baby: just a few bangles, no tikka or hair jewelry or slave bracelets.”

“You think?” Shunduri eyed herself with a doubtful expression.

Telling Baby to lay off the jewelry was like telling a bowerbird blue wasn't its color. “You look beautiful, Baby—no need to worry about that. Here, get your
salwar
off and put the sari petticoat on.”

“I just hope they like me, you know?”

“Well, they'd be fools not to, yeah?”

Shunduri flapped her hands over her chest, then seemed to become preoccupied with her nails, long and gleaming in frosted pink, as Rohimun stood to unfold the sari's length.

“Put the blouse on now, so I can start on the sari. What's he like then?”

“I don't really know, yaah.”

“Oh bullshit, Baby. Come on, tell me.”

Shunduri gave a sort of gasping giggle and turned for her to fold and tuck the sari's skirt. “As you saw, he's sooo good-lookin'. A bit like Gulshan Grover in
Gangster
, but wiv better teeth. He thought, first time he saw me, that I looked like Rani Mukherjee in
Kal Ho Naa Ho.
”

Rohimun felt about a hundred. “So what do you know about his family? There, that's your
pallu
done now.”

“Oh, his
real
family.” Shunduri shrugged elegantly, then frowned into the mirror. “This blouse is so old-fashioned. They're all dead years ago, from those big floods that Mum always goes on about. He's been with the Guris, working in their restaurant since he was sixteen, though they had him down as twelve on the visa so he could come over as their long-lost nephew. He's really connected—have you seen his car?”

“If you want to please your future in-laws I'd go as traditional as you can. You'll have plenty of chances to go Bollywood high-fashion after you marry.”

“You know what I'd really like to do?” Shunduri's eyes sparkled. “I'd like to get one of those houses in the new estates just out of Swindon. So brand-new, no one has ever lived in them before. They're built with conservatories, and you can choose your own wallpaper inside . . . and Mum won't be too far away to help, you know, with the kids.” Shunduri giggled at Rohimun's raised eyebrows. “And you could visit, stay as long as you want.”

The bright sari was put away, and they both smoothed the chiffon overlay of the chosen sari with spread fingers and smiled at each other. The sulky defensiveness that Shunduri had always had as far back as Rohimun could remember, her jealousy of Rohimun's closeness to Tariq, and to Dad, were nowhere to be seen. Now Shunduri seemed to regard herself, finally, as the lucky one, the special one, the child that the sun shone on, favorite of all. Rohimun should be happy for her.

Shunduri reached into her beauty box, pulled out a piece of elaborately worked hair-jewelry in antiqued gold, and draped it against Rohimun's hair. “This would look great on you, and maybe some lipstick . . .”

How generous Shunduri was in her triumph, wanting to share her excitement and her jewelry.

“What shoes are you going to wear? You don't want to tower over him,” Rohimun found herself saying. God, she sounded like a bitter old maid. But Shunduri was oblivious to the dig.

“You know what, when I'm married, we could go out clubbing, get you to meet some nice boys maybe . . . I've got some outfits you'd look great in.”

So now it was Rohimun who was the poor unfortunate, the black sheep. She sat down again. “I'm not really into that scene, Baby.”

“Maybe in the future, yaah.” Shunduri sat behind her and started to play with her hair, pulling her head around to face the mirror. “It's so dry. Let me oil it for you, Affa. Richard's coming back, isn't he?”

She gave a vague assent as she looked at herself. She'd never been into this kind of thing. This wasn't her. But there she was in the mirror, wearing an emerald green sari and waiting for her younger sister, still talking a mile a minute, to rub oil through her hair. Richard had never seen her in a sari.

—

M
RS.
B
EGUM, HAVING
finished showing Mrs. Guri the sari cupboard and returned her guest to the sitting room, announced, with a certain drama, “I will make tea.”

As soon as she was in the hall, she hoicked up her sari and ran upstairs. She opened the door to the girls' bedroom with a warm feeling in her stomach that she had them home with her at last: both girls together now. And with no fighting, although it was probably still not a good idea to leave them alone for too long.

The air was thick with perfume and hairspray and hair oil, and she felt a thrill of pleasure to see her beautiful Shunduri in a sari. And a sari blouse that did not show the top of her breasts.

“Baby, who put your sari on?”

“Affa did my sari. Good as you, Amma!” Shunduri twirled, staggered a little in her heels and laughed, but too loud, too high. “See?”

Mrs. Begum smiled and inspected her daughter's slim waist.

“Shush now. Be calm and quiet. You are a good girl.”

Who would have thought that Rohimun even knew how to put on a sari? But then she had always been good with her hands.

“You are both good girls. Come down now. Munni, go into the sitting room. Baby, go into the kitchen until I call you. “

Shunduri pouted. “Affa's not ready yet. I want to put up her hair.”

“Never mind about her hair. What has that got to do with anything? Quick! Quick!”

She hurried her youngest daughter downstairs, counting seats on her fingers and calling to Tariq to bring in three more chairs. Rohimun would not be excluded from such a meeting, and Richard had promised he would return. And Henry and Thea were due anytime soon, to collect the boys. Who said the country was dull? The way things were going, they would have just as many visitors as those in Brick Lane ever had.

But in the kitchen, Shunduri halted at the sight of the largest silver tray out on the kitchen table, its edges decorated with pink paper napkins folded into delicate fans. Her smile stiffened into a grimace of fear.

“Oh Christ,” she moaned, and grabbed the back of a kitchen chair as if it was trying to escape her.

Mrs. Begum felt a stab of alarm and pulled Shunduri toward the kitchen dresser. “No time for that. Quick, quick. Tea.”

Shunduri got the best cups and saucers out, Royal Albert Country-roses, rattled them onto the tray's polished center, and followed with a teabag dropped into each cup. The kettle was full and steaming, and Mrs. Begum gave her daughter's back a gentle rub before pouring the hot water. Shunduri began to add milk and sugar to each cup.

“When you go in, make sure your
pallu
is over your head, and that you serve the men first, and then Mrs. Guri. I will help you with the rest. Take your time, no need to rush this. Be slow and graceful and keep your eyes down and everyone can look at you without your having to look back at them. Do not sit. Then, later, I will send you back into the kitchen to cut up some mangoes. Here, look, they are already cut up, you just need to bring them out after a little while.”

Shunduri was silent, but when she went to adjust her daughter's
pallu
she could see tears brimming. She used one of the paper napkins to soak up the tears on Baby's bottom lashes without disturbing her make-up.

“There. There. You are my best girl. My beautiful girl. Take the tray. I will send Munni out with you to get the mangoes so you will not be alone.”

—

W
HEN SHE FELT
she couldn't stay upstairs any longer without Mum coming after her, Rohimun entered the sitting room and tried to sit down on the couch next to Tariq's chair as quietly and demurely as any mother could wish. She sat bolt upright and with her hair scooped to hang forward over one shoulder, so that its freshly oiled strands would not mark the back of the sofa. The sari that she had only put on for Mum's sake, and her sister's, felt surprisingly comfortable. Perhaps because she'd put it on herself and with considerably fewer safety pins than Mum would have used. Or perhaps because its relative plainness was light years away from her sister's confection of froth and shimmer, and the vivid reds and yellows that Mum preferred.

Shunduri was handing out tea cups and the tantara of cup on saucer must have been audible to everyone. She looked as fragile as a butterfly in her pink and silver chiffon, and years younger without the heavy foundation and red lipstick that she usually favored.

When she reached Mrs. Guri, the older woman took the cup and saucer in one hand, and reached out with the other to stroke Shunduri's cheek with surprising sweetness. “What a beautiful girl. Beautiful!”

Shunduri froze but, just as Rohimun was about to rise to help her, seemed to collect herself and returned to the tea tray to distribute the rest of the cups. Mr. Guri was making noises similar to his wife's, and Dad was smiling at the mantel mirror as if the compliments had been directed at him.

Mum bustled in and straight out again, as the doorbell rang, and was soon ushering Richard into the room and introducing him as the owner of Bourne Abbey, that palace up on the hill there, you can see it through the window. Mr. Guri shot off his chair with his eyes bulging, pumped Richard's hand several times, and did a strange kind of backward shuffle as he waited for him to sit down first.

Richard greeted everybody and, despite a very clear direction from Mum to take the chair next to Dad, folded up his long legs to sit next to Rohimun. His weight on the sofa made her rock toward him, and she leaned away stiffly, reaching for a cup of tea that Shunduri at the last second diverted to Richard, leading to a clashing of hands over the saucer. She snatched her hand away, hot with shame, and vowed to count the fringing on the sofa's arm till her face was cool again.

Then someone, perhaps Tariq, was talking about her painting, but what with the sound of Richard's breathing and his body only a foot from hers, she could not attend. Now Richard was speaking, something about a dealer friend of his having sold on a few of her earlier portraits, of exhibitions that had come and gone.

Luckily, no one seemed too interested, and after a few polite noises, the conversation reverted to family histories and the distant blood connection between Mum's uncle the tailor and some second cousin of Kareem's, who was related by marriage to the Guris. Photos came out then, of the two Guri daughters, and grandchildren. Rohimun could not see them, but suspected from Mum's extravagant compliments and Dad's silence that they were on the plain side. Mrs. Guri got her own back by launching into a detailed description of the enormous wedding portion paid by their son-in-law's family, only eclipsed by the size of the dowry that was sent with their daughter. Dad looked a little uneasy at this last mention, but Kareem appeared to brighten.

Everyone seemed to be keen to get along despite the jostling for position, and Rohimun watched them all as if from behind a pane of glass. Did Baby really want to take this path and marry that Brick Lane coolie-boy sitting there with his shaved head and ear bling, and his wide-boy suit that looked as if it had been sprayed on?