The Wedding Countdown (2 page)

Miss Mills Ali, you have been evicted! Please leave the Big Mother house!

Tomorrow is my cousin Tara’s
shaadi
. My new
churidar kurtas
are hanging up in my wardrobe and the bargain Jimmy Choos I found on eBay are in pride of place on my chest of drawers so that I can worship them from my bed.

But clothing aside, I’m dreading the whole affair. Every relative for miles around will be there, gobbling free grub and wailing at the sadness of Tara leaving the family home, while endless auntie-
jis
will be dropping concrete-heavy hints regarding my unmarried state. Mum will be whipped into a frenzy of sentimental paranoia and by the time we leave she’ll be mentally drawing up a shortlist of eligible bachelors for me and probably running up an Everest-sized phone bill calling all her friends in Pakistan for suggestions.

I’m getting a migraine just thinking about it – and I don’t even get migraines.

So anyway, back to my brilliant idea.

My friend Eve always says if you sit in the passenger seat too long you forget how to drive.

Maybe it’s about time I learned?

Chapter 2

I’m sure Oscar Wilde once said something about relatives being a group of irritating people who come out for Christmas and special occasions but really shouldn’t bother. And if he didn’t say that then he should have done. But maybe Oscar Wilde never got to attend a Pakistani wedding, unlike my good self, who must have been to literally hundreds.

Lucky, lucky Oscar Wilde.

Take it from me,
shaadis
are not fun. Whatsoever. Unless your idea of fun is warped, that is, and you enjoy getting trampled in the rush for the food or being prodded by all the auntie-
jis
and interrogated about your shockingly single state and the wicked waste of throwing a degree away on a mere girl.

You get the picture.

I’m at Tara’s wedding, wearing my new
churidar kurtas
and Jimmy Choos, and being talked about as though my tongue as well as my brain were cut out at about the same time the midwife said to my parents, ‘It’s a girl!’

Because there has to be safety in numbers I’m hanging out with my favourite female cousins, Sara, Hoor and Emira, hoping this will offer me some protection from the awkward questions about marriage that are bound to come my way. Already I’ve had to hide in the loos in order to avoid the gruesome twosome, my Auntie Bee and her dear daughter Sanaubar. So far so safe, but it’s only a matter of time before they hunt me out and come over to commiserate about my pitiful unmarried state. I’m hoping the opening of the buffet will distract them. Auntie Bee makes Sumo wrestlers look malnourished and will dedicate all her attention to food for at least ten minutes. Sanaubar is pregnant again, so with any luck she’ll be throwing up somewhere.

‘Relax, Mills,’ Hoor says. ‘They’re just about to open the buffet. You’re safe for a while.’

‘Not if you get in the way,’ points out Emira. ‘The bruises I got at Ash’s wedding took weeks to fade.’

‘I’d rather be trampled in the tikka rush than have to listen to Auntie Bee for hours on end,’ I tell them. ‘A night in the Bradford Royal Infirmary would be Heaven in comparison.’

The girls laugh at this as we press ourselves against the wall while the crowd of auntie-
jis
stampede past like the bison on the Discovery Channel. Auntie Bee is moaning loudly about the lack of table service and pointing out to anyone who’ll listen that Sanaubar’s
shaadi
had included a sit-down meal for over two hundred people.

Sanaubar’s perfect wedding. Sanaubar’s perfect baby. Sanaubar’s perfect hubbie-
ji
. If I had a pound or even a penny for every time that she’s mentioned them I could single-handedly resurrect the Pakistani film industry.

‘What’s your problem with Sanaubar?’ asks Sara. ‘You wouldn’t want her life, Mills.’

‘Too right I wouldn’t,’ I agree. ‘But try telling Auntie Bee that. As far as she’s concerned I’m an abject failure and a disgrace to the family.’ I raise my voice an octave, puff my face out and, plucking Emira’s trendy glasses from her perfect nose, balance them on mine for a convincing Auntie Bee impersonation. ‘University Schuniversity! Why does a girl need to go to university? Amelia Ali can’t even make a round
chapatti
. Why send her to university?’

My cousins are shrieking with mirth. Why is it I always end up clowning around when I’m worrying about serious stuff? I’ve lost count of the times I’ve joked or made witty asides when the conversation gets a little too close to the knuckle for my liking. My friends and cousins may think I’m Bradford’s answer to Catherine Tate but it’s probably truer to say I’ve just perfected a defence mechanism. Basically I’m an emotional jelly when it comes to thinking about my love life.

Hoor has tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘Stop it Mills! Have you any idea how scary that impression is? You’re so funny!’

‘Funny schmunny,’ I say, wagging my finger at her. ‘Have some respect for your elders. Like my Kabir. He’s a good boy. Marry him to Amelia at once!’

‘Gross!’ Sara pulls a face. ‘I’d forgotten you were supposed to marry him. Look, there he is, talking to your dad. How did you manage to resist?’

Sure enough, there’s Kabir, shovelling food into his mouth as though there’s about to be a world chicken tikka shortage, and spraying bits of violent red goo all over my unfortunate dad. He is as wide as he is high, and his waistline is expanding as rapidly as my overdraft.

‘I think I just lost my sense of humour,’ I sigh.

‘I’m not surprised,’ Sara grimaces. ‘Shagging Kabir would be about as funny as a Bernard Manning gig in Bradford.’

‘Brad Pitt must be shaking in his boots,’ I say.

But as far as Auntie Bee is concerned, Kabir
is
Brad Pitt, Orlando Bloom and Prince William all rolled into one perfect package.

The Alis, like many Pakistanis, tend to keep marriage within the family and on the very day I was born Auntie Bee suggested I was betrothed to her son. Thankfully my dad managed to ignore that one, and she was fobbed off with comments about when I was older and all grown up,
insha’Allah
. Any road, around the time that I was sitting my A-levels, Auntie Bee, never one to take
nahin
for an answer, came waddling round and interrupted my revision by demanding it was high time Kabir and I were betrothed. I’d refused point blank and luckily my parents hadn’t pushed the matter because I’d already accepted a place at university.

But lately I’ve been wondering if they’re biding their time after all. I bloody well hope not. I’d rather eat my own vomit than marry Kabir. This is why I have to talk to my mother sooner rather than later.

‘I shouldn’t worry too much,’ Hoor whispers. ‘There’s no way Uncle Ahmed would ever want you to marry Kermit. He knows that Auntie Bee and your mum don’t exactly see eye to eye.’

This is possibly the understatement of the year. The Montagues and the Capulets probably got on better. Auntie Bee lives for gossip. Meddling and interfering is her life’s mission. My poor mum, Hamida, is always in the firing line when it comes to her dear sister-in-law, who wastes no time criticising her as a mother and wife, and generally dishing out advice on how to treat my dad the way every man in our family deserves to be treated.

Because Sanaubar is the perfect daughter and Kabir – or Kermit as I’ve always called him, on account of his frog-like eyes and squat body – is the perfect son, my brother, sisters and I have all been compared to them for as long as I can remember. Sanaubar and I are only six weeks apart in age and we share a long history of rivalry, mostly due to Sanaubar’s superiority complex and catty competitive streak. Not the nicest combination, especially in high doses. Sanaubar and I have never got on and we never will. Sanaubar’s conversations tend to be about her amazing clothes (snore), her amazing marriage (yawn) and her amazing brat ... I mean son.

‘How can I marry a man who has all the charm and wit of a single-cell amoeba?’ I wonder aloud. ‘I’d rather watch my car get dirty than hang out with Kabir.’

Emira snorts with laughter. ‘Stop it, Mills! Auntie Bee will hear!’

‘She’ll think you’re eyeing him up,’ says Hoor.

‘I wouldn’t panic,’ Sara says. ‘Auntie Bee was so insulted when you turned Kermit down the last time she’s hardly likely to give you another chance.’

It’s a fair point. Auntie Bee didn’t take the rejection too kindly and lost no time spreading vicious rumours that my mother had lost control of me and that –
Astaghfirullah
! God forbid! – I had turned out to be one of those western independent types, one of those girls who eventually turn their back on their family and spit on the family name. But when she started spreading word that I was using university schuniversity as an excuse to see boys unchaperoned, my father had to take her to task.

Seeing boys unchaperoned? Hardly. Sweet twenty-two and never been kissed.

I wonder what it’s like? Kissing I mean…

My gaze strays over towards Tara, who is stunning. She has waist-length ebony curls and eyes like the saddest of Andrex puppies. She met Faisal, her new husband, through the usual family network, but it’s clear they adore each other. I watch as every now and then their fingertips brush, and the flush in Tara’s cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes speak volumes. Faisal, who is handsome in a tall and lanky way, looks like a man who can’t believe his luck.

‘They can’t wait for the rest of us to shove off and leave them to it,’ whispers Sara, following my gaze. ‘Lucky buggers. I can’t wait to get married. If we have to wait much longer to shag, Shabs will explode.’

Hoor splutters Diet Coke all over us.

I’m used to Sara. She tries very hard to shock but actually is one of the most conventional people on the planet. She’s been engaged to Shabir, another cousin (surprise, surprise), for aeons and once her law degree’s completed they’ll be married.

Are you starting to see the pattern?

‘What about Qas?’ asks Hoor, swiftly trying to change the subject. ‘Has your dad sorted out anyone for him yet? He’s grown up to be really fit.’

I peer across the room at my brother, who is helping Nanny-
ji
find a place to sit. When did Qas change from being a spotty teenager into a man? It makes me laugh to think that my baby brother now has a huge Bradfordian female following. I guess if Beckham-style diamond earrings and trendy mullet-meets-Mohawk hairdos are your thing, then Qas is attractive. He still farts a lot, though.

‘A potential doctor,’ muses Sara. ‘I bet all the auntie-
jis
are queuing up with their daughters.’

‘He’s the darling boy,’ I say. ‘Every Asian parent’s fantasy fulfilled. A doctor son.’

Emira shoots me a sharp look. ‘Miaow! I thought Sanaubar was here for a minute.’

‘Sorry.’ I’m such a cow. It isn’t Qas’s fault he has a willy and therefore about a million times more freedom than I do. I can’t blame him for being allowed to go to Bristol University rather than having to stay in Bradford and be home early every day after lectures finish. That’s just the way that things are in families like ours. Family honour,
izzat
, must be preserved at all costs, and daughters have a special duty when it comes to upholding it. Qas does all the normal boy stuff like going out at any time of night or day, avoiding all household chores and not having curfews. It is unfair but there’s no point blaming him.

But there’s more to my feeling irritated than this.

‘Qas is such a sweetie,’ insists Hoor. ‘Look how he comes back from uni every weekend when he could be out socialising. He’s such a good family guy.’

All my cousins nod. You can practically see Qas’s halo glowing above his dark head. He’s so perfect, they coo, and of course I have to agree. Qas is the
sohna bachcha
, the golden boy, all right.

And there’s the rub. The truth of the matter is that Qas is dating somebody and has been for at least the last year. Our parents are blissfully unaware of this and it infuriates me that they just assume he’s a good family boy. Sometimes I’m just bursting to spill the chilli beans when he comes home to earn himself some more brownie points, especially when the reality is he spends just enough time indoors to thrust his dirty washing into Mum’s arms before racing off to be with this girl, only coming back in time to shout a quick ‘
Allah hafiz
!’ before scooping up his clean laundry and zooming back to Bristol.

‘Don’t have a go again,’ Qas pleaded yesterday. ‘Just trust me. She’s really special and I love her.’

‘So let’s meet her,’ I’d retorted. ‘Mum and Dad will come round. Lots of our cousins have found their own partners. As long as she’s a Pakistani Muslim they’ll be fine.’

Qas said nothing. Instead he seemed to find the inside of the washing machine very interesting all of a sudden. Amazing. I hadn’t been aware he’d even known what it was. ‘She’s not from Pakistan,’ he mumbled.

‘Oh.’ I digested this information slowly. ‘Qas!’ I leapt forward. ‘Don’t put red socks in with whites!’ I pulled the offending garments out of the drum, and sat back on my heels. ‘OK, so she’s not from a Pakistani family? Is she an Indian?’

‘No.’ Qas had straightened up and was running his hands through his trendy haircut, making gelled clumps stick up in alarm. ‘She’s British.’

‘British?’ I parroted.

‘She’s not a Muslim, either,’ added Qas, looking at me with troubled eyes. ‘She’s called Lizzie and she’s white, and before you say anything, yes, I do know what Mum and Dad are going to say, OK? But I love her and I’m not going to give her up.’

I’d been lost for words.

‘Don’t look at me like that!’ begged Qas. ‘I will tell them, I promise. But it’s got to be when I’m ready, Mills
baj
, and when we’re strong enough as a couple to deal with all the crap. I don’t think I could bear their disappointment otherwise.’

I didn’t know what to say. He was right. They would be disappointed. Not because Qas’s choice was British but because
izzat
demands that children respect their parents and allow their elders’ wisdom to guide their choices. Auntie Bee would have a field day.