The Secret Diary of a Broody Bengali: laugh-out-loud romcom like you've never read before by Halima Khatun

Author:Halima Khatun [Khatun, Halima]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hayat House
Published: 2023-08-14T16:00:00+00:00

After a few minutes of silence, initiated by me, M asks the inevitable: “Have I done something wrong?”

I sigh. “No, I just wanted to get going.”

“I know. As soon as I saw Ruqya affa, I was like ‘oh man’.”

“What about before then? You said you’d only be at Jam’s for half an hour.”

“I didn’t mean to take so long. I got to Jam’s and he wanted to show me his new jacket. He’s going to one of those Muslim dating events and wanted to look sharp. Then he started banging on about how hard it is to meet someone. You know how he gets. He makes it hard to leave.”

Usual story.

I have to choose my words wisely. “Eid is rubbish at your house. No dawats. No dressing up nice to go out. We just cook loads and stay at home while everyone else comes to us. Why don’t we ever go to them?”

“Dunno, to be honest with ya. We’ve always been like that. When it comes to Eid, mum wants to stay at home. Bit rubbish for you.”

Think positive thoughts. Think positive thoughts. He’s a good husband. There’s no point rocking the boat.

I arrive at mum’s to find middle sis, big sis and little sis congregated in the dining room. M goes straight to the front room where the men are. I catch a glimpse of dad, sat on the Ottoman stool against the radiator.

It’s his usual spot when guests are around. He’s wearing a light grey kurta with a dark grey flowery border. He looks well, despite the ladies of Droylsden tempting fate. I’ll catch him for small talk later. First, food.

There are a few leftover samosas in a colander. I’ll happily have them.

“You alright, little lady?” asks big sis.

“Yeah, I’m fine. A little tired, that’s all.”

“Lots of cooking?”

“Yeah, the usual. We finished up around 2am last night.”

“Blimey! I can smell the oil on you now!”

“Really?” I sniff a strand of hair. She’s right, even the morning shower hasn’t managed to wash off the deeply enriched cooking oil. That’s intense.

Big sis still hasn’t said anything about my non-pregnancy text message. It’s weird, as it’s not like we haven’t been in touch. She messaged me a couple of weeks back asking if I want to attend a wedding in London. Someone from my brother-in-law’s side. Obviously, I said yes, because an invite is an invite. Yet, no word on the possible miscarriage/late period front.

She could at least offer an extra tight squeeze instead of the standard, soulless hug. Maybe she’s forgotten? Maybe she thinks it’s no big thing? Should I bring it up? It was a big deal to me. No, it’s not worth making a fuss in front of everyone. She might be thinking the same. Save it for a time when there aren’t multiple family members milling around.

“Never mind, girly,” says middle sis, smelling my hair, then frowning. “I had to do some frying this morning. And make a Tandoori chicken before I left my in-laws. It’s never a party for us ladies.

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