The Right Sort of Girl

by Anita Rani

  I always say my dad’s childhood was like the film East is East, but worse. Back-to-back houses, cobbled streets, outdoor toilet and a tin bath. A tin bloody bath that they’d put in the living room in front of the fire and take it in turns to wash in. Not sure I’d want to be the last one in the water! And if you didn’t fancy the tin variety, there was always the public bath. The kids basically did what their parents said and that was it. And if they didn’t, all hell would break loose. It was a hard life in Yorkshire in the sixties if you were working class, but life was harder in rural Punjab, so my grandparents’ generation just got on with what they came here to do and put up with all the racism and feeling second class. At least the outside toilets here were not an open field. Don’t be too shocked by this – I know outdoor dumping is not alien to this land, I saw someone taking a shit in central London in broad daylight just the other week!

  Dad had to grow up fast. I think the worst thing for him was that Grandad took him out of school at 15 to get him to work. My very smart dad has never really forgiven him for this. What little foresight, regard and understanding of education my grandfather had. He didn’t care at all about his children bettering themselves and learning. The joy in Dad’s life was when he joined the ATC, the Air Training Corps, a youth organisation sponsored by the RAF. Dad’s dream was to join the RAF, he even tried to sign up at 15 but he was too young. All the things he could have been, all that potential, but he was never given the chance. At least Dad had Captain Kirk and Mr Spock as his besties: Star Trek was Dad’s escape. So ahead of its time, with its multicultural cast and first mixed-race kiss, and predictions of plasma screens and mobile phones, and wonderful stories of adventure and exploration, not afraid to tackle topical issues. Dad has been a loyal Trekkie his entire life. (Which means we are all devoted.)

  My memories of visiting my grandma and grandad at their home are defined by food, music and TV. There was always a kind of comfort staying at Grandma’s, not because she was particularly loving – she wasn’t not loving, but she just didn’t show her affection in an over-the-top way, there was no smothering with love in this household. I’d stay the night sometimes when I was very young. She’d hand me a hot water bottle and I’d roll over in the bed and stare at her false teeth sitting in a glass of water on the bedside table and imagine them talking to me. My aunts loved us both when we were little, at least I think they did. They particularly loved Kul, but then everyone loved my brother – my aunts and my uncles, total strangers, anyone who met him, and you couldn’t blame them. Kul came along two years after me in 1979 and was so unbelievably cute, absolutely adorable, the kind of kid you’d stop to coo over in the pram (people did), the kind of kid people would look at and he’d make their heart smile – he was Hollywood cute and had an amazingly sweet temperament to go with it. He didn’t say much, I guess he had me to do all the talking for both of us. I was very aware that Kul was the cute one. He was a wide-eyed, floppy-haired, cherub of a child and I was a cheeky-faced, often frowning, loud-mouthed, questioning kid.

  When I visited, I loved watching The Cosby Show and listening to my aunts gossip into the night, usually about girls who had run away from home. My youngest uncle was my favourite and the one me and my brother had the closest relationship with. He went to art college in the eighties and managed to pursue his dream (as he was the youngest and a boy), smashing all Asian stereotypes early doors! He’d drive back from Lincoln in his imported left-hand drive VW Beetle and swoosh into my gran’s in his big Dr. Marten 18-hole boots, massive green parka and black eyeliner. Gran’s nickname for him was ‘Gandu’, basically calling him gay. There’s Granny’s unique sense of humour for you . . . He’d disappear into his bedroom in the attic. It was a wonderful world of mystery and fantasy, when we were allowed in it, that always smelt of patchouli, with art and polaroids all over the walls, an easel set up and a pair of bongos on a stand. He once had a pet rat called Bastard in there, who did a runner. It was sitting outside his bedroom door where I first heard the music that embedded itself somewhere in my brain.

  In the darkness on the top step in the attic of my grandparents’ house, a musical agenda was being set without me even realising. The Cure, The The, Frankie Goes To Hollywood. My uncle Gov, or Gindha Chacha, or Govinder Nazran, was unique. He was an Asian man who didn’t fit my own generalisation about ‘Punjabi uncles’. He was tender, vulnerable and thoughtful, funny and beyond cool. He was brilliant. He was, for me and my brother, an absolute hero and role model. He somehow broke free from his own upbringing to live the life he wanted as a very successful artist. Until the trauma of his youth caught up with him.

  My dad was also a frowning, questioning kid, like me. Once he was put to work by his dad, he turned into what you might call a bit of a bad lad. Or maybe he was just a frustrated and angry teenager. My grandparents panicked and did the only thing they knew to do: arrange his marriage to a young woman from India so he was no longer their problem. At 19, he was ‘married off’. The worst thing my grandparents did was to take Dad out of school even though he loved it, closely followed by arranging his marriage at 19. I do appreciate if my dad hadn’t married my mum I wouldn’t have been born, but I wouldn’t know any better and maybe my parents would have had a life less stressful. They met for the first time at Heathrow airport, having only seen a photograph of each other before that point: ‘There is the person you will spend the rest of your life with.’ The TV show, Married at First Sight, if remade for the Indian market, would be called Marriage.

  ‘Surprise. I’m yours for life!’

  What if one of them had had a sticky-out belly button?!

  * * *

  I spent a lot of my childhood trying to figure out the adults around me. They were an extreme and capricious bunch: extremely busy, extremely energetic, extremely angry, extremely fun and extremely sad, but I didn’t recognise the sadness until much later. I listened in on their conversations like a nosey little blighter, I watched their moves, I was highly attuned to the energy in a room as, at the drop of a hat, it could go from laughing to screaming. I was constantly walking on eggshells, waiting for the situation to turn. Wishing I could be transported somewhere else with a ‘Beam me up, Scotty’.

  There is a shift in perception at some point in all our lives, where you start seeing your parents as humans rather than just the people trying to ruin your life. They had lives before you. Childhoods that defined who they would become, or not become. I’ve spent a lot of time piecing together my parents’ stories, who they were, what lives they lived, their relationship with their own parents. Putting them, as individuals, into some kind of context.

  In doing so, I learnt to ease up on their flaws, because I understood they too had it tough when they were little and they were just babies when they had me. Plus, my parents’ lives were so completely different to mine – they grew up in another universe. Within one generation so much changed within our family and, on the other hand, some things stuck around for centuries. I’m trying to dismantle it all, really. I’m trying to understand how my parents and their parents have shaped who I am, the qualities I possess, the good and the bad. Which are the cyclical habits that have clung on, like the reek of fenugreek in your armpits, that I don’t want to take forward? When you’re in a land where you are constantly made to question where you belong, it’s vital to understand where you came from and not be made to feel shame about your story, but to be empowered by your epic tale of survival. Whatever the circumstances, you take what you’re given and somehow figure out what to make of yourself.

  Who your parents are defines who you become, and my parents were not straightforward. Neither were my grandparents. They took a huge leap of faith in coming to the UK. Setting sail for a land on the other side of the planet, with no idea who or what was waiting for them when they arrived. Their objective was simple: make a better life for themselves. Some of those who came to the UK maybe thought they’d work hard for a few years and then return home, but once children a
rrived, this was no longer a viable or sensible option. Their kids were British and this was their land. My grandparents went back to India pretty much every year, checking up on the home they kept in Punjab their entire lives, the home that was supposed to be for all their children, who never set foot in the place. Since my grandparents died, we have no physical connection to the place, no land, no home. Britain is home, whether people like it or not. Britain looks like me.

  They worked hard, my grandparents, and their lives were tough. I wonder what went through their minds when, 50 years after they set foot in Great Britain, they saw their granddaughter on television. They might have thought the entire operation, on some level, was worthwhile after all. Progress had been made in leaps and bounds since they arrived. It took resilience to build a life in Britain, which was a skill I had to pick up very early too.

  Families Are Never Simple

  On the day my mum gets married, in August 1976, Mum is 23 and Dad is 19. She steps into a three-storey terraced house, her new home, where she is to live with all her in-laws. An extended family set up. She’s in the attic, surrounded by the wide-eyed girls of her new family, who look at their beautiful new Bhabhi (sister-in-law), all shiny and new and speaking English (able to quote Wordsworth – not sure my British aunts had ever heard of Wordsworth!). They compare their forearms to hers, wondering how she is fairer than them, even though she is from India. Her sisters-in-law, still children. She can hear raised voices, deep guttural shouting, charging up the staircase. It’s hard to tell the difference between Punjabi men arguing and having a good time, but the girls’ faces give it away. The little girls’ wide eyes become even wider, their breathing stops for a second, their faces switch to terror, a fear that these girls know well. All hell has broken loose and there’s a blazing row going on downstairs between my grandfather and someone else. Drink is involved. Drink is always involved.

  My firecracker of a mother, in her innocence, goes downstairs to break up the fight. She stands in the living room, in her full wedding regalia, with her hands held in prayer position, asking my grandad to stop the fighting. It’s a scene straight out of a Bollywood movie. It might have worked, but she was 20 years too late.

  This was the welcome my mum got on her first day in her new home, a massive family bust-up. Not quite the ‘cream teas and ballroom dancing’ England she’s dreamed of.

  Welcome to Bradford, luv.

  * * *

  There was always fighting. Grandad was always angry and whenever he was at home, everyone would scarper out of the living room, his domain. There was always tension. Grandma and my aunts hid in the kitchen and if my uncles were in, there was never any conversation with their father. Just a lot of grunting. Both my grandparents spoke no English and their kids hardly spoke any Punjabi (well, my aunts did, but their three sons didn’t. An excellently dysfunctional set up).

  As well as excelling in dysfunction, my dad’s family were all rather remarkable in their own way, too. Remarkably clever and creative and beautiful and Bradford. One uncle was a tattoo- covered motorbike-riding martial arts obsessed deep-sea diver, who introduced us to kung fu movies and David Lynch. I had two drop-dead gorgeous aunts, often found in Wham T-shirts. I never got to know my Dad’s twin as she was married three years before my dad, at 16, but my favourite relative of all was his youngest brother, who went off to art college. They were all very cool. They were all proper Bradford.

  Working-class Asians fit in quite well up north because pretty much everyone was working class. Men worked hard, women worked harder, and you brought up your kids as best you could. Life was tough but you just ‘ged on w’it’. My gran had no time to be cooing and cuddling. We weren’t really a huggy kind of family. Between working, cooking, bringing up six kids and dealing with my grandad, you’d forgive her if she was a bit emotionally exhausted with no space for extra love. She probably gave all her attention to my dad, seeing as he was the first-born son. Indian mothers love a son, especially the first-born. I know that his twin sister was not given the same love or attention and it didn’t help that my dad was fairer-skinned.

  Life for everyone soon got worse when Grandma and Grandad started trying to marry everyone else off. My dad’s middle brother (the tat-covered, motor-bike loving, deep sea diver) had a massive fight with Grandad when he discovered they were trying to arrange a surprise marriage for him. Arranged to the point of the girl’s family arriving at my grandparents’ house to ‘seal the deal’. Only, they’d failed to mention any of it to my uncle. More drama followed this time, not so much Bollywood but kitchen sink:

  The guests in the living room with my grandad, drinking tea and exchanging sweets to celebrate the union.

  My gran in the kitchen, breaking the news to my uncle, trying to convince him to just say yes to save face and then turn down the marriage later. Great plan, Gran!

  My mother trying to tell Gran that you can’t play with young girls lives like that.

  The women in the kitchen panicking and trying desperately to keep the peace, knowing full well that a serious hoo-ha was about to go down.

  We are exceptionally talented when it comes to fighting in my family. Another Punjabi skill. Why talk when you can just have a good old ruck? It was all sorted by my uncle going into the living room and stating he had no desire to get married by shouting this in my grandad’s face. Did I mention we have major communication issues in the family? Cue the punch-up. This resulted in Grandad kicking my uncle out and changing the locks. There was so much drama. Sounds traumatic, doesn’t it? And I guess it was, only when I talk about it with my dad, we find the entire thing hilarious. Maybe that’s the Yorkshire sense of humour. Maybe that’s a good way of dealing with it. In hindsight, you see how farcical it all was.

  Both my uncles left home to live the life they wanted, but I never found the fate of my aunts very funny.

  ‘I know no one. I’ve just married a man I don’t know. I’m on a rooftop of an old house in a village in Punjab. My head’s down, thankfully protected by the heavily embroidered wedding veil I’m wearing that I didn’t choose. This is called mu dikhai. My face show. For the first time, my in-laws will see my face. I’m scared and don’t bloody belong here. I want to be home in Bradford. I should smile. I need to lift the veil.’

  She’s my aunt and she shouldn’t be there. Like so many other women, her life is traded like a commodity, one that isn’t worth a great deal. This is what I imagine went through her mind. I’m pretty certain neither of my aunts wanted to get married, but, essentially, they had no choice. They didn’t have the same option as my uncles – of just leaving home and doing what they pleased. My aunts both married men from India and all I remember is how stunningly beautiful they were (solid tens) and how the men were nowhere close to their league, ugly to my eyes. They were all forced to do what my grandad wanted and it definitely didn’t seem like happiness. He consulted no one about anything, just made decisions and expected everyone to go along with them. Do as I say, not as I do.

  They were all over the shop as a family before my mum came into the equation. But when she did, it gave my dad the perfect excuse to get out. There was an almighty row about something – surprise, surprise – and my dad decided it was time for him and his little family, which at this point consisted of baby me and Mum, to leave. In 1978 we walked1 out of the door and we never returned. This is quite a major event in traditional Indian households, where everyone lives in a giant shoe together and somehow makes it work. Sons stay in the house, their wives join them, everyone works and brings money into the family, grandparents are there to help bring up the grandkids. In theory the system is good, but you need to like each other for it to work. Not realistic for my family. I think this rather aptly sums up the complexities of it all: ‘They fuck you up, your mum and dad’.

  * * *

  My dad’s upbringing was tough, but you never really know how it’s going to affect you until later in life, when you have to go off and figure out your own p
ath with the tools at your disposal, the tools your parents gave you. Or didn’t. You really have to stare your issues in the face to overcome them. At some point the legacy of all the anger, all the fear, all the fighting, all the silences and pent-up feelings will blow like a volcano and take you out when you’re least expecting it. You’ll continue to make choices based on a self that you don’t fully understand. Childhood trauma can manifest itself in many ways in adults: anxiety, depression, self-harm, addiction, violence, suicide, memoirs. We’ve had it all. It can mess up your future relationships, impact your sense of self, your self-worth. The sad legacy of my father’s family is that we are now estranged from them. I haven’t spoken to any of my dad’s side in years.

  I absorbed it all, growing up. Watched quietly, often while holding my breath. I didn’t know what the hell was going on most of the time but, without me even realising, I was slowly filling up with rage. My inner Kali was awakening. My family and the world around me was teaching me how little value there is placed on a woman’s life and that every aspect of her life is dictated to her. And I hated the injustice. I hated how infantilised women were and are. I hated the dialogue of control. When I was very young, I was used as a pawn in the battleground between my granny and Mum. Grandma would declare, ‘Your daughter will run away from home, too.’ I was only three when she said this. This is the same granny who also said, ‘We don’t celebrate girls’, the day I was born. Thanks, Gran.

  Why did she say it? Probably because she was so bitter about her own lot in life. Or because she had a sharp tongue, which could also be very funny, and would cut anyone down, including her own grandchild. Did I mention Punjabis are dramatic? She was a straight-talking woman, my gran. She was basically telling my mum that I would bring her great shame and there is nothing worse for a Punjabi family than a daughter bringing great shame. Running away from home, which seemed to happen a lot back then, was a major act of shame. Surely anyone who had run had made a very difficult decision to go and live their own life? Just that – made a choice for themselves. SHOCK HORROR!