Desh Read Online Free Page B

while Aila stayed in bed, with the phone glued to one ear.
    After the wedding, she and Nayan had gone back to her parents’ house and she “died a thousand deaths” to see the makeshift wedding gate her mother had put outside the house in Morden and the decorations on the front door. So embarrassing, and then there was more horror to come, as they sat through the whole gift thing while her mother analysed who gave what and how much each piece of gold was worth.
    Aila changed ears. “So we had lunch. We’re ready to leave and then you wouldn’t believe the performance. She cried and sobbed and wailed and showed more emotion as I leaving than she’s shown in my entire life.
    â€œBut Dad was so sweet – he just smiled and kissed my forehead and we drive drove to Nay’s and it’s all fine, no decorations out the front. But I was offered a glass of the ‘ceremonial drink’ which actually tastes like bat’s piss, I tell you.
    â€œBy this time I’m exhausted and Nay’s room’s been done up with flowers and garlands and petals across the bed, never mind that I know the bed quite well. We crash out early. No action; we’re both dead and have a long lie in the next day.
    â€œThen talk about true colours. Day one and I have to cook lunch. Now I’m his mother’s personal slave. She hasn’t lifted a finger to wash up or clean since I got here. I can’t come at calling her Mata and I’m thinking ‘bitch face’ won’t work. Nay says he understands and I should just be patient, but he doesn’t. I can’t wait to get back to work.”
    Aila cut in. “You’ll be allowed to work?”
    â€œGot to save before we start a family. But no more bunking off.”
    â€œGuess not.” She brought Shaf up to speed on the goings on at the club to giggles and omigods until duty summoned them both and Shaf was gone. “Coming Ma,” Aila called out and, as she went downstairs, she wondered what the next crisis would be.
    Nessa waited at the old mahogany table with a brown envelope on her lap, “There’s been some news,” she said, without looking up. “We’ve had a proposal.”
    So Aila sat down. She’d dealt with this one before. “Oh God, not Shamim again. It’s getting out of hand, you know. Every time I go to the restaurant he does that hang-dog thing and I just want to swat him, Ma. Can’t you speak to Dad about him?”
    â€œNo, it’s not Shamim, it’s a proper proposal.” She opened the envelope and slid a photo across the table. “This is he.”
    Aila snorted. “I could eat this one for breakfast.”
    â€œIt’s not a laughing matter.”
    â€œMum, come on, look at him,” she passed the photo back. “He’s a stick insect. We’d look like an eighteen together.”
    â€œYou can’t judge by looks alone. Here.” Nessa gave her a typewritten page.
    â€œWhat’s this? A CV? Are you kidding me?” She scanned the page. “Gourab. Gourab the Fab. Sorry. Gourab Syed BA in I.T. Dhaka University. Waste disposal operative. A janitor? Oh, please.”
    â€œIt’s hard to get work in the capital. He’s done well.”
    Aila continued reading. ”Son of Mohammed. Nephew of Fadil. Born 1986. So we’re the same age. It’s all good then. The fact that he’s a janitor who looks half-starved and he’s got a head like a beehive – what’s that about? – won’t matter at all. I’m sure we’ll get on famously. Can’t wait to hear his views on recruitment strategies and I’ve always been interested in rats. Liiiike Ben. Oh wait. He’s a freshie. Does he speak English? Do we know? Not that it matters – we can communicate in grunts.”
    â€œNot everyone’s had your good fortune, Shuna.” Her mother’s use of the cultural name had the effect