What Happened at the Hindu Hen Do in Hendon
Upon the evening proceeding the honorable event of Harish and Heena's hitching, Heena gathered her girlfriends to gossip in Gretchen's garish Golders Green kitchen. (It wasn't really a hardcore Hindu hen do; though Heena was of course a desi, at least two of the hens were Bangladeshi. Allesia was a Catholic ascetic; Helen was agnostic, having found faith and then lost it; and Gretchen of course was a Jew.)
“Ha ha!” then “Fuck!”howled Heena, as Helen plucked her hairy upper lip; she sucked her teeth and reminisced about the time when underneath the willow trees on Hampstead Heath, she'd snogged a gora boy named Keith. It was moments like these that Heena had reflected upon in the lead up to her wedding; she'd replayed them over and over again, as if reflecting on previous misdemeanours would wipe the slate just a little bit cleaner.
And so it was that Heena hardened her hintent to hold Harish in high regard and pardon him for all his sins; his love of TV shows like 'Skins'; his dodgy right wing politics; his hatred of Mohammedans. Harish was a handsome, wholesome newsagent from Harrow (it was this obscure fact that sealed the deal, for their relationship had been predicted – nay, you could say, revealed - in a tarot reading by a healer in Vietnam, who confirmed the fated mating by reading Heena's palm). His parents lived in Harpenden. His skin was darker than it could have been, considering his roots were Arian; on the plus side, he didn't smoke, he was a teetotaller and vegetarian.
But something just wasn't right... and thus it was that fated night she did what any mere mortal might; in the company of her friends, Heena expressed her doubt. Kvetching, Gretchen shrugged and said, “Come on! It could be worse! You could have married a goy!” Sound advice from a Jew; and though it was true - Harish was a good Indian boy - nobody could have foreseen that it would have been at her predominantly Hindu shabeen, on the borders of Hendon and Golders Green, that Heena would choose to come out.
“Ha ha!” then “Fuck!”howled Heena, as Helen plucked her hairy upper lip; she sucked her teeth and reminisced about the time when underneath the willow trees on Hampstead Heath, she'd snogged a gora boy named Keith. It was moments like these that Heena had reflected upon in the lead up to her wedding; she'd replayed them over and over again, as if reflecting on previous misdemeanours would wipe the slate just a little bit cleaner.
And so it was that Heena hardened her hintent to hold Harish in high regard and pardon him for all his sins; his love of TV shows like 'Skins'; his dodgy right wing politics; his hatred of Mohammedans. Harish was a handsome, wholesome newsagent from Harrow (it was this obscure fact that sealed the deal, for their relationship had been predicted – nay, you could say, revealed - in a tarot reading by a healer in Vietnam, who confirmed the fated mating by reading Heena's palm). His parents lived in Harpenden. His skin was darker than it could have been, considering his roots were Arian; on the plus side, he didn't smoke, he was a teetotaller and vegetarian.
But something just wasn't right... and thus it was that fated night she did what any mere mortal might; in the company of her friends, Heena expressed her doubt. Kvetching, Gretchen shrugged and said, “Come on! It could be worse! You could have married a goy!” Sound advice from a Jew; and though it was true - Harish was a good Indian boy - nobody could have foreseen that it would have been at her predominantly Hindu shabeen, on the borders of Hendon and Golders Green, that Heena would choose to come out.
posted by Shane Solanki at
8:01 AM
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