The Secret Diary of a Bengali Bridezilla by Halima Khatun

Author:Halima Khatun
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: halima khatun
Published: 2021-07-12T00:00:00+00:00

I DIDN’T GET A THRONE. Why is there no throne?

When Hassna got engaged at this very same venue, she sat on her own throne, looking damn regal. What do I get? A bloody chaise lounge. Yes it’s gold, with a shiny nail-head trim, but really? It’s still a chaise lounge. The kind of thing you’d get in a grand house. It’s not fancy enough for an engagement. Not a £13 a head engagement! With their his and her thrones, Hassna and her fiancée got to stand out from the guests in all the wedding photos. Me? I’ll be sitting among the rest of the riffraff, fading into anonymity.

Bloody Hassna’s lot. It’s always a competition. They always have to do better.

Annoyingly, we had to invite them to the party. Reciprocity and all that. So not only do they get to see me in my lower rent seating arrangement, Hassna will be there lording it up, flashing her sparkler around for all to see.

“Masha Allah beautiful!” Auntie Rukhsana cups my face, her eyes creasing up with a smile.

“Oh, thank you. I’m so glad you could make it. Is Naila here?” I ask.

Auntie Rukhsana let’s out a high-pitched nervous giggle. “Ah, she couldn’t come. She busy with work. As you now know this time of year is start of wedding season. So brides need makeup!”

She excuses herself under the guise of needing some paan. She really must stop with that habit. Her teeth are stained a deep burgundy brown.

M and his family haven’t arrived yet. This gives me plenty of opportunity to take some solo shots on my chaise lounge. Except solo shots are a bit tricky when there is ample space on either side of you. I’m joined by various distant cousins, nephews, nieces and a couple of randoms whom I have never met and I can’t really imagine why they made the engagement party list, given that we’re limited with numbers.

It’s annoying enough that my photo opportunities are being sabotaged, I’m also paying for the destruction. Well, at the moment mum and dad are paying for it. Whenever I ask about settling the bill, she just replies with “we’ll sort it later,” or “we’ll talk about it after the wedding”. I’m not sure if she’s expecting to foot the bill for my wedding. I earn enough myself. However, I think the tradition of parents paying for the wedding is something that mum and dad just can’t shake off, out of pride more than anything. I don’t want them to be out of pocket though, after all I’ve been stingy all my life so I might as well spend a bit now.

Mum comes onto the stage. “You eat now. You won’t have time when his lot come.”

I’ve been given a nice long table at the side of the stage, just for me and my immediate family. The samosas are disappointing, laden with grease and the thick, doughy pastry so synonymous with restaurants. I much prefer the crispy, thin variety made by mum.

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