Now, there’s something you should know about me—I don’t really like clichés. I mean, I don’t think i am an Indian girl cliché. I certainly didn’t want a cliche relationship with my in-laws. I wanted our parents to hang out, maybe even go on holidays together. I didn’t realise, back then, how little of that was in my control. I was going to be trail blazer not boxed into narrow stereotypes or expectations. Surely times were different now, this was going to be achievable in my lifetime? In particular in my life. Spoiler alert – it wasn’t.
The perfect Indian girl for marriage is someone educated to at least degree level. Not too ambitious, but able to earn her keep, if required. Not too tall, But too short—Goldilocks vibes. Skin tone, the fairer, the better. An acceptable marriageable age, around 25. Come from a “good family.” A homely girl (can cook) . A family girl (can look after anything that comes in/out vagina and all interested parties). There also needs to be an ability to take lots of shit, as and when required.
Parents of daughters, are almost submissive to the boy’s family. When the boy’s family comes over for dinner, and one of them asks where the bathroom is. You’re expected to say, “No, no, no, no need! You’re my guest. In fact, this is more your house than mine. Please, do me the honour and shit in my mouth.” Coming from a family of all girls we were used to it
I met my FH parents early on in our relationship. It was while we were at university. I was over at his place and they turned up one day. I wasn’t introduced as his girlfriend—just one of his university friends (though we were fucking). I naively thought I’d made a good impression in my little white dress. In hindsight it did look like a (trashy) nurse’s uniform. His dad was fine—polite, even. His mum gave me a quick once-over, and that was it. I dismissed it at the time; after all, he had a sister just two years younger than me. I thought I’d win her over eventually if i needed to.
An issue i have is i don’t really see the point in lying. I don’t see the point in pretending to be someone that I’m not. For example, at a family event if a girl is offered wine, she’ll cleverly decline. Claiming “she doesn’t drink,” then quietly mix vodka into her juice. Me? I’d say fill me up! This puts me in the loose Indian girl category—not exactly the nice Indian girl.
The second time I met them was two years later, at my FHs graduation. I was sitting with his mum, dad, and sister, wearing a pinstripe skirt (part of a Next suit) . It had a small slit at the knee, a sleeveless grey tank top, and black pumps.. Making conversation while we waited for my FH, I casually said, “Oh, it’s so warm today.” His mum shot back with, “Well, you couldn’t be wearing less, could you?” Umm i fucking could.
That was the first time my clothing had ever been questioned. My parents never cared what I wore. . But here I was, suddenly doubting myself. I looked down at my outfit, wondering if I didn’t look as smart as I’d felt. In hindsight, this was my first red flag—one of many. I didn’t know how to navigate the situation, so I stayed quiet.
After Uni, I used to go over my FH house quite a lot in the evenings. To be honest, I really liked it (at first). Everyone had dinner together at the table, and they were allowed fizzy drinks at every meal. In my house, fizzy drinks were strictly a Fish and Chip Friday treat. Every Friday you would hope the person who had the pop last put the lid on properly—otherwise, it’d be flat. A bottle used to last us weeks. My sister and i were allowed one small glass. One would pour the other would get to choose first, we made sure there wasn’t even a milliliter of difference.
But at his house? Everyone had their own can! Sometimes even two! After dinner, they’d sit in front of the TV, and I’d head home. Perfect. No bother. Apart from the times I wanted a fuck—that was annoying as shit because they insisted we stay downstairs. So sometimes we used to fuck in the car in some dimly lit cul de sac!
One time, his sister recommended her hairdressers to me. By pure coincidence, we booked appointments at similar times on the same day. She was already in the chair when I arrived. At first, she didn’t notice me, she was chatting about a date she’d been on. But when our eyes met in the mirror, she clammed up, whispered something to the hairdresser, and the conversation stopped.
Later, I said to her, “If you like someone and want to introduce them to your parents, I can help. I know it can be daunting.” She looked at me, full mean-girl energy. She replied, “You’re just my brother’s girlfriend you are nothing more to me.”
I was taken aback but quickly thought, “Fair enough,” and moved on with my day. The hairdresser wasn’t worth the bother. Supercuts at Hammersmith station gave a better service for £25.
A couple of months after that, I said to my FH, “I’d love to take your sister shopping”. She wore really baggy and shapeless clothes with zero tailoring. His response? “No, thank you. Some people don’t feel comfortable dressing like you. She’s far more conservative.”
I thought to myself, “You chose me, mate, so shut the fuck up,” but outwardly, I let it go. If she wanted to dress conservatively, fair enough—I thought it might be a nice way to bond.
Then came what I like to call Karma Day.
My FH sister loved celebrating her birthday. Not a one-day affair, mind you—a week long extravaganza. Now, each to their own. I grew up in a house where birthday celebrations were limited to about two minutes. This was while cutting the cake. There’d be the obligatory Happy Birthday song, the claps, and the ceremonial feeding of cake to each other. That was it. Done.
The real fun? The morning shop for party supplies. Not that you got a say in the menu. You were just there to carry the basket and haul the bags home. My hands still naturally curve inward now, thanks to years of plastic bag straps cutting into them. We would then get to home, clean the house, this included dusting the plastic fruit. Then move onto sous chef duties. During the party we would be serving and clearing up. The next morning, you would hoover all last shreds of evidence. No week long princess act. We considered ourselves lucky if we got a card.
So, back to his sister: despite her weekly birthday fiestas, we were never invited. She told us she didn’t have parties. Lies.
On her 21st birthday, her friends arranged a surprise party and invited us. We had to keep it a secret—not difficult, given I barely spoke to her.
I wore a sleeveless polo neck, a faux leather burgundy midi skirt with a slit, and knee-high boots. At the venue, we met her friends, they were nice enough and kept asking why we didn’t all hang out more. Apparently, my SILs excuse was that we were too busy!
When she arrived, all smiles and surprise, I nearly choked. She was wearing a very tight and revealing dress. It was a wrap dress with spaghetti straps, the top was a very low V, the bottom of the dress was a mirroring the top V. When she took step i see her vagina wink at me. Oi Cheeky!
I leaned over to my husband and said, “I agree we do have different dress styles, she is more a free spirit. Maybe i should ask her to take me shopping”
He looked like he was about to faint. We were sat opposite the birthday girl. At one point in the evening, he dropped his napkin. I offered to pick it up for him. Later, on the drive home, I said to him, “I don’t think your sister left the house wearing that dress”. If anything ever happened to your sister, and the police asked your parents what she was last wearing. They wouldn’t say that dress. But don’t worry I could identify her by her vagina.”
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