LITMIR.BIZ

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but his tales of sexual escapades were like those created in the mind of a teenage boy. I’d never met any of his so-called conquests. He would constantly tell me that once he found somebody he was serious about‚ he’d introduce her. I knew him and I indulged him‚ but Shaz was well and truly cemented in the lonely hearts club. His heavy consumption of weed had turned him into a wreck when it came to the opposite sex.

      ‘At least send me her photo.’

      I couldn’t help but laugh as he sheepishly trudged back to his desk.

      ‘What’re you going to tell your Khala? What fault are you going to find with this one? That she’s just too beautiful?’ He shook his head in disappointment. ‘You need to man up‚ Imy. Tell Khala the score and then deal with whatever she throws at you.’

      For once‚ Shaz was right. Khala deserved to know the truth and I had to be a man about it and deal with the consequences. But I wasn’t ready. As always‚ the time wasn’t right.

      *

      I signed off from work early with a list of viewings for the next day‚ and went back to the flat to get ready. I didn’t overdo it with the outfit. If it was up to Khala she would have had me turn up in a suit. As it was‚ I opted for smart casual dark denim jeans‚ a navy blue shirt and Chelsea boots. I drove the short distance to Khala’s and pulled up outside her modest home. I was about to hit the horn when I noticed her waiting impatiently at the kitchen window‚ even though I was ten minutes early.

      I got out and opened the passenger side door for her as she walked down the path‚ wearing a parrot-green Indian suit that I hadn’t seen before. Khala eyed me up and down before deciding it’ll do‚ then planted a kiss on my cheek. She handed me the address. It was an East London post code. I cursed under my breath as I entered it into Google Maps. I was going to be so late for Stephanie and Jack.

      I indicated and pulled out‚ as she filled me in at customary breakneck speed.

      ‘Both parents retired but still involved in running an Indian fashion boutique on Green Street. I can’t remember the name. You would have seen the advert on Star Plus.’

      ‘I don’t watch Star Plus‚ Khala.’

      ‘You don’t watch Bollywood films anymore?’ She seemed shocked. We had spent many nights together eating our way through a three hour song-and-dance fest.

      ‘Anyway‚ you were saying?’

      ‘They have lot of money‚ I saw picture on Facebook‚ they have gold fence around their big house.’

      ‘Okay‚’ I rolled my eyes discreetly.

      ‘They have two sons‚ Nadeem and Kareem‚ one is accountant and one is lecturer. They both live at home with their parents.’ I could sense her eyes lasering into me. I kept mine straight ahead on the road‚ praying for the traffic to open up.

      ‘Are you going to tell me about the girl or...?’

      ‘Her name is Rukhsana. She is graduate!’

      ‘What subject?’

      ‘Don’t know. Just know she is graduate.’

      ‘Okay‚ graduate‚ got it.’ I thought I could just ask Rukhsana directly in the name of small talk. ‘Anything else?’

      ‘I told them that you still live at home with me.’ She said it straight faced.

      ‘Why couldn’t you just tell them the truth?’ I asked‚ redundantly.

      ‘Astaghfirulah. That you live in a chicken shop.’

      ‘Above a chicken shop.’

      ‘Sometimes it is better to tell small lie than to lose face‚’ Khala said‚ in fortune cookie wisdom.

      ‘I’m thirty-six‚ Khala. I can’t live with you forever.’ She didn’t reply. Stony-faced silence. I understood. You don’t leave home until you are married. ‘Anything else?’

      ‘I told them that your parents died of natural causes.’

      I could see her looking at me‚ checking like a mother would that I was okay. She placed her hand on mine. I just nodded to no one and nothing in particular. She couldn’t exactly tell them that my father was beaten and my mother raped‚ before both being shot dead in their home by British soldiers.

      Khala was right. Sometimes it was better to tell a small lie.

      *

      The gold fence around the house was as tacky as a gold fence around a house‚ but behind it‚ the house was spectacular. They had set the security light to constant‚ probably for our benefit so we could fully appreciate just how rich that they were. The grounds were beautifully manicured with a double garage‚ no doubt home to a couple of luxury motors. We approached the door coolly‚ without acting like this was the first nice house that we had ever been invited to. Either side of the door sat a lion statue.

      ‘Plant pots would be better‚’ Khala whispered loudly‚ as I pressed the doorbell.

      The door was opened by four beaming faces who had gathered around the large hallway. The men heartily shook hands and the women embraced. Aslamalykum’s bounced from one to another as quick introductions were made. The sheer excitement as to what could potentially be was apparent. The two sons‚ Nadeem and Kareem‚ sized me up from behind their wide judging smiles and cardigans. Mr Bashir‚ Rukhsana’s father‚ carried an air of contentment‚ a man of pride‚ happy with the cards that life had dealt him. He snaked his arm around my shoulders and escorted me to the living room. Mrs Bashir seemed like one of those modern Aunty-Ji’s; she was wearing a sari‚ with a good portion of her stomach showing through the sheer drape of the fabric. She slipped her arm into Khala’s as if they were old friends and they followed behind us.

      In the dining area within the stylishly-decorated living room‚ I wasn’t surprised to see the food on display. The Bashir’s didn’t seem like the kind of people who would dream of getting away with shop-bought samosas and watered-down chutney. They indulged us with fish pakoray‚ sizzling seekh kebabs on skewers‚ papdi chaat‚ and a carrot salad that both Khala and I avoided.

      As we sat around the dining table they casually bombarded me with questions‚ a hair’s breadth away from an all-out interrogation. They tried to make it sound casual‚ a friendly getting-to-know-each-other conversation‚ but everything was covered. Childhood‚ education‚ hobbies‚ occupation‚ all of which Khala answered on my behalf – Imran is in the property market‚ sounded a damn sight better than estate agent. I wasn’t taken aback by the sheer intensity of the social dynamic; I’d been to plenty of Rishta’s before‚ so I expected the examination. Fair play‚ they had to think about their daughter. It was‚ after all‚ her future in question. But they did expel a touch of arrogance‚ as though they were above us. Little gestures‚ I noticed. An amused glance amongst themselves as Khala used her hands to eat the crumbly fish pakora‚ rather than the fine cutlery laid out. The way Mrs Bashir addressed her‚ speaking in crisp English – the exact opposite of Khala’s diction – and using unnecessary words to highlight their superior grasp of the language.

      After the questions and the food‚ the men moved into the living area with our cups of masala chai‚ whilst Khala was led away by Mrs Bashir for a tour around the house. As soon as she was out of sight‚ the men of the family seemed to visibly relax. Nadeem switched on the television and Kareem turned his attention to his phone. Mr Bashir started to comment on whatever cricket match was being shown. It was clear that Mrs Bashir pulled the strings of the household. I wondered what that would have meant for me if I was here with genuine intention. Would she be the kind to interfere in her daughter’s marriage? Yes‚ almost certainly. I didn’t give it too much thought as my phone vibrated in my pocket.

      It was a picture message from Stephanie. Jack had built a small camp in his bedroom. A single mattress on the floor and a few plastic chairs acting as walls with a large bed sheet thrown

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