Bely is tirelessly tweaking and gathering and pinning material, eventually resigned that I am not, unlike in the best fairy stories, transforming into the new-look Cinderella. Standing back, she observes me swathed in the delicate peach, tottering on her high-heeled, strappy, gold sandals, my hair crudely tied up.“Now, Anne, you are true Bengali wife,†Hasina says. “Turn this way, and this..."She and Bely talk rapidly over my head. Bely claps her hands delightedly and rushes out of the room. I hear excitement in her rapid, high-pitched speech, and the careful repetition of “Bengali wife†as she talks to the house girls.“She tells that now you must learn to cook Bengali. Come.†Hasina smiles. “We make samosa. Try. Is so easy. Try.â€â€œBut Bely’s beautiful clothes…†I protest. It will be like trying to make scones in a wedding dress, trying to keep it pristine for the ceremony whilst egged on by several intoxicated bridesmaids.“Bah. It...