disappeared. The topic of marriage was an awkward one with Mum, let alone trying to talk it through with Dad. He was only present on these occasions because he had to be. I compared his personality to the Longsight uncle and realised how lucky I was not to have a bullish, dominating, loud-mouthed dad like a lot of girls had. Though he had stepped in when needed, I still questioned his lack of presence in my life. I wondered if he’d said the same when my sister was getting married. Perhaps he could see a difference between us. Perhaps he knew me better than I thought.
I tried reaching out to Shazia for sympathy, telling her there was no way I was going to Pakistan to get married and milk a cow every morning. Her response was to reassure me that mothers knew best. This fuelled my anger. How insensitive. Just because it suited her didn’t mean it suited everyone. I began giving her the cold shoulder, even though I was to be maid of honour at her wedding the following weekend.
However, this was not my biggest concern right now. My GCSE results were coming out next week and eventhe best correction fluid to change the grades would not convince my dad.
Shazia’s wedding took place at the local primary school with over 500 guests. Women and children packed into a small changing room with bhangra music blasting from speakers out in the corridor. Paper plates piled high with biryani soaked in ghee were passed around and the fizzy pop served in polystyrene cups was flowing. Shazia looked stunning. She wore a red sari, her face was covered in a gold net dupatta, and she had a big gold ring through her left nostril. I was dressed like a tube of glitter with Hollywood hair and Bollywood eyebrows. As maid of honour, my role was to sit beside her and collect money from the women queuing to examine the dowry gold she wore. Skilfully they scrutinised its intricate detail then lifted it away from her skin to guess its weight. Then, and only then, would they put a hand inside their bras and take out a tenner. That’s when I would jolt to attention and start scribbling their names down on a jotter pad and stuffing the notes inside a big gold purse squeezed between my knees. The money would later be returned to the couple by Shazia’s mum when their children got married.
The wedding was a success, a joyous occasion for everyone, but I left feeling depressed and couldn’t find it inside me to be happy for her. I handed the moneypurse back to her mum with the excuse that I had to go home and open the shop. Something was niggling at me and I couldn’t put my finger on it.
To my dismay, my GCSE results came out worse than I had expected. My parents discovered there was never a grade A on the radar. Grades were all they were concerned with so I decided to study easier subjects and took my A levels in art. It was also the convenient option because I had to juggle my studies with working in the shop every evening. The news did not go down well with my parents. Mum was horrified that I would be painting pictures of naked people and Dad couldn’t understand why I wanted to be a painter/decorator.
I went on to study an art foundation course at Manchester College for one year, which I needed before applying for an art degree. My parents found it strange as they expected me to apply for a degree straight after A levels. They got suspicious that I was re-sitting A levels and using the foundation as an excuse. I, too, wasn’t keen on it. It felt like my life was shortened by a year. However, if I had chosen academic subjects I’m sure my life would have been shortened by many more.
The institute, based in the city centre, was my first step into the outside world. It introduced me to a tapestry of people I had not experienced at school. The students were made up of many overseas nationalities– Japanese, Cypriot, Swedish and American – that I’d never been exposed to before. The teachers were less rigid and were approachable, making it
I tried reaching out to Shazia for sympathy, telling her there was no way I was going to Pakistan to get married and milk a cow every morning. Her response was to reassure me that mothers knew best. This fuelled my anger. How insensitive. Just because it suited her didn’t mean it suited everyone. I began giving her the cold shoulder, even though I was to be maid of honour at her wedding the following weekend.
However, this was not my biggest concern right now. My GCSE results were coming out next week and eventhe best correction fluid to change the grades would not convince my dad.
Shazia’s wedding took place at the local primary school with over 500 guests. Women and children packed into a small changing room with bhangra music blasting from speakers out in the corridor. Paper plates piled high with biryani soaked in ghee were passed around and the fizzy pop served in polystyrene cups was flowing. Shazia looked stunning. She wore a red sari, her face was covered in a gold net dupatta, and she had a big gold ring through her left nostril. I was dressed like a tube of glitter with Hollywood hair and Bollywood eyebrows. As maid of honour, my role was to sit beside her and collect money from the women queuing to examine the dowry gold she wore. Skilfully they scrutinised its intricate detail then lifted it away from her skin to guess its weight. Then, and only then, would they put a hand inside their bras and take out a tenner. That’s when I would jolt to attention and start scribbling their names down on a jotter pad and stuffing the notes inside a big gold purse squeezed between my knees. The money would later be returned to the couple by Shazia’s mum when their children got married.
The wedding was a success, a joyous occasion for everyone, but I left feeling depressed and couldn’t find it inside me to be happy for her. I handed the moneypurse back to her mum with the excuse that I had to go home and open the shop. Something was niggling at me and I couldn’t put my finger on it.
To my dismay, my GCSE results came out worse than I had expected. My parents discovered there was never a grade A on the radar. Grades were all they were concerned with so I decided to study easier subjects and took my A levels in art. It was also the convenient option because I had to juggle my studies with working in the shop every evening. The news did not go down well with my parents. Mum was horrified that I would be painting pictures of naked people and Dad couldn’t understand why I wanted to be a painter/decorator.
I went on to study an art foundation course at Manchester College for one year, which I needed before applying for an art degree. My parents found it strange as they expected me to apply for a degree straight after A levels. They got suspicious that I was re-sitting A levels and using the foundation as an excuse. I, too, wasn’t keen on it. It felt like my life was shortened by a year. However, if I had chosen academic subjects I’m sure my life would have been shortened by many more.
The institute, based in the city centre, was my first step into the outside world. It introduced me to a tapestry of people I had not experienced at school. The students were made up of many overseas nationalities– Japanese, Cypriot, Swedish and American – that I’d never been exposed to before. The teachers were less rigid and were approachable, making it
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