The Bengali Wedding

العرس البنغالي

Bengali weddings last forever.

Five days of ceremonies, a thousand relatives, enough food to feed a small army. My cousin Nadia is marrying into Dhaka money, and the whole clan has gathered.

That's where I meet Rashid.

I'm Taslima.

Thirty-one, British-Bangladeshi, back in Dhaka for the first time since childhood. I work in finance, live alone, and haven't been on a date in two years.

Rashid is the groom's uncle.

"You look like you'd rather be anywhere else."

I turn. He's fifty-ish, silver-haired, wearing his sherwani with the ease of someone who doesn't need to try.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Only to someone who feels the same."

"Why are you here if you don't want to be?"

"Family obligation. The groom is my nephew. I couldn't miss it."

"Same. The bride is my cousin."

"Then we're practically family." He smiles. "Rashid."

"Taslima."

We keep finding each other.

At the mehndi night, we share a corner away from the singing. At the holud, we escape the turmeric chaos together.

"Why aren't you married?" I ask bluntly.

"I was. She passed. Five years now."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. We had twenty good years. That's more than most."

"And since then?"

"Since then, work. Travel. The occasional family wedding where I meet interesting women."

"Occasional?"

"You're the first."

The wedding itself is overwhelming.

Two thousand guests. The bride on a flower-covered stage. I'm expected to smile and make small talk with relatives I don't recognize.

Rashid rescues me.

"Come. There's a garden. Quiet."

The garden is a relief.

Night blooming flowers, fairy lights, the distant sound of music.

"Thank you," I breathe.

"I know the feeling. Big weddings make me claustrophobic."

"Then why do you stay?"

"Duty." He pauses. "And now, you."

"We barely know each other."

"I know enough. I know you're intelligent—I've heard you talk. I know you're kind—I've seen how you treat the servants. I know you're lonely—it takes one to know one."

"That's presumptuous."

"It's also true."

He kisses me in the garden.

While a thousand relatives celebrate nearby. It's forbidden in seventeen different ways.

I don't care.

"This is inappropriate," I say.

"Completely."

"You're the groom's uncle. I'm the bride's cousin."

"Second cousin. And uncle by marriage. The technicalities matter."

"They really don't."

"No. They don't."

He takes me to his hotel room.

Away from the wedding, from the families, from everything proper.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

"I haven't been sure of anything in years. But I want this."

"Then take it."

He undresses me slowly.

My wedding finery—the saree I spent hours draping—falls away.

"Beautiful."

"I'm not thin like Bengali women are supposed to be."

"You're like a painting. All curves and colors."

He worships me.

With the patience of someone who isn't rushing to the next thing. When his mouth finds me, I cry out loud enough to scandalize the hotel.

"Good?"

"Don't stop—please—"

He enters me while the wedding rages across the city.

Slow, deep, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Ya Khuda—Rashid—"

"I know. Me too."

We make love all night.

Missing the reception. Missing the sendoff. Tomorrow there will be questions.

Tonight, there's only this.

"What now?" I ask at dawn.

"Now you go back to London. And I come visit."

"Just like that?"

"Why not? We have money. We have time. The only question is whether we want this enough to make it work."

"I want it."

"Then that's the only answer that matters."

Two years later

We're married now.

Split between Dhaka and London. He handles the family business; I handle mine. We meet in the middle—literally and figuratively.

"Happy?" he asks.

"Happier than that wedding."

"That's not hard. You hated that wedding."

"I loved what I found there."

He pulls me close.

The same intensity as that garden, that hotel room, that impossible first night.

"Best wedding scandal ever," he murmurs.

"The best."

Alhamdulillah.

For weddings that bring strangers.

For gardens that offer escape.

For uncles who see you.

The End.