reproving, tucking her large feet underneath the folds of her sari. âHe didnât see anything. He wasnât there. I am not letting him see things like that. A woman has to have the private thingsâa husband neednât be involved in body-business, in a ladyâs
. . . parts.
â
Niece-of-Shame, who is sitting between them, sucks her teeth.
âBloody hell, Alsi, he mustâve been involved in your parts sometime, or is this the immaculate bloody conception?â
âSo rude,â says Alsana to Clara in a snooty, English way. âToo old to be so rude and too young to know any better.â
And then Clara and Alsana, with the accidental mirroring that happens when two people are sharing the same experience, both lay their hands on their bulges.
Neena, to redeem herself: âYeah . . . well . . . How are you doing on names? Any ideas?â
Alsana is decisive. âMeena and Mala¯na¯, if they are girls. If boys: Magid and Millat. Ems are good. Ems are strong. Mahatma, Muhammad, that funny Mr. Morecambe, from Morecambe and Wiseâletter you can trust.â
But Clara is more cautious, because naming seems to her a fearful responsibility, a godlike task for a mere mortal. âIf itâs a girl, I tink I like
Irie.
It patois. Means everything
OK, cool, peaceful,
you know?â
Alsana is horrified before the sentence is finished: â âOK?â This is a name for a child? You might as well call her
âWouldsirlikeanypoppadumswiththat?â
or
âNiceweatherwearehaving.â
â
ââAnd Archie likes
Sarah.
Well, dere not much you can argue wid in Sarah, but dereâs not much to get happy âbout either. I suppose if it was good enough for the wife of Abrahamââ
âIbra¯him,â Alsana corrects, out of instinct more than Qurnic pedantry, âpopping out babies when she was a hundred years old, by the grace of Allah.â
And then Neena, groaning at the turn the conversation is taking: âWell, I
like
Irie. Itâs funky. Itâs different.â
Alsana
loves
this. âFor pityâs sake, what does Archibald know about
funky.
Or
different.
If I were you, dearie,â she says, patting Claraâs knee, âIâd choose Sarah and let that be an end to it. Sometimes you have to let these men have it their way. Anything for a littleâhow do you say it in the English? For a littleââshe puts her finger over tightly pursed lips, like a guard at the gateâ
âshush.â
But in response Niece-of-Shame puts on the thick accent, bats her voluminous eyelashes, wraps her college scarf round her head like purdah. âOh yes, Auntie, yes, the little
submissive
Indian woman. You donât talk to him, he talks
at
you. You scream and shout at each other, but thereâs no communication. And in the end he wins anyway because he does whatever he likes, when he likes. You donât even know where he is, what he does, what he
feels,
half the time. Itâs 1975, Alsi. You canât conduct relationships like that anymore. Itâs not like back home. Thereâs got to be communication between men and women in the West, theyâve got to listen to each other, otherwise . . .â Neena mimes a small mushroom cloud going off in her hand.
âWhat a load of the codswallop,â says Alsana sonorously, closing her eyes, shaking her head, âit is you who do not listen. By Allah, I will always give as good as I get. But you presume I
care
what he does. You presume I want to
know.
The truth is, for a marriage to survive you donât need all this talk, talk, talk; all this âI am thisâ and âI am really like thisâ like in the papers, all this
revelationâ
especially when your husband is old, when he is wrinkly and falling apartâyou do not
want
to know what is slimy underneath the bed and rattling in the wardrobe.â
Neena frowns, Clara cannot raise
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