The Right Sort of Girl

by Anita Rani

  So, that’s the plan. To love it all, the bulges, rogue hairs, the tan, the lines, the wrinkles. Just learn to accept myself as I am. I’m still working on being the best version of me, I haven’t suddenly decided I’m cured from insecurities now that I’m 40. I’m trying to be kind to myself, to really try and give myself a break once in a while. I’m trying to dismantle some of the nonsense that was imposed on my childhood brain, stop the constant pressure from an internal dialogue that constantly tells me I’m not good enough. My nose doesn’t resemble a pakora and, even if it does from certain angles, who doesn’t love a pakora?!

  I’m learning to like, no, love, who I am. It’s a good place to start, the most important place. I realised it’s all been such a waste. What a waste of time. So, work with me. Own it. Step out into the sun, not with your back to it, but with head raised, arms stretched. Own it all. All your glory. You.

  Yorkshire Will Always Take Your Breath Away

  She. Is. Beautiful. My God, she’s a stunner.

  Breathtakingly beautiful. A timeless beauty. A beauty that inspires. A beauty that commands respect. A beauty so overwhelming it can make you fearful. A beauty that’s both welcoming and terrifying. A wise, ancient beauty. The finest beauty, because she is so old, because she knows so much. Because she is tender and delicate and needs our care, because she is stronger than you and I and will be here radiating her beauty long after we are gone. Beauty so magnificent it touches your soul. A beauty that makes you weep. A beauty that will receive you with open arms.

  She’s always there, waiting for you. She’s kissed by every season. Colours resplendent, not flashy or gaudy, painted by a master, the original priceless masterpiece. Golden, brown, grey, blue and more purple than you’ve ever seen anywhere else in nature. She adapts to her needs. She makes me ache with longing. She makes me weep with desire. I yearn to see her when I’m sad, to feel her consoling embrace. She always understands me, soothes my pain. My deepest secrets and fears are hers, she keeps them safe. She never judges.

  She knows everything about you, but you’ll never know her secrets, her depths. You’ll never truly know her and you will respect that because you love her unconditionally. She is greater than you or I. Her anger is a storm that will batter you into submission. She can test your love, your loyalty, definitely your patience, and push you to your limits. She can make you feel fear as quickly as she’ll make you feel safe, capricious by nature. She commands our respect.

  God, I miss her. I have to tell everyone I meet about her, desperate to share her wonder with the people I love. Don’t just take my word for it. Meet her, experience her, she has love in abundance for us all.

  My Yorkshire. Mi Yarkshar.

  Like everyone else born in God’s own county, I carry a pride in my heart for the place of my birth. I may have a multitude of other identities but cut me and I bleed Yorkshire. Too dramatic? Not dramatic enough, I say! Knock on any door in Bradford, doesn’t matter what ethnic background, what religion or how much money they have in the bank, ask them where they’re from and they’ll tell you straight: ‘Bratfud, innit?’

  Places stay within us. Even though I’m not there, living just off the M62, Yorkshire has seeped into me for life. It has taken up home in my heart. Yorkshire penetrated my soul and I can’t get it out. I’m permanently stained and scented by Yorkshire. We are so indoctrinated and spellbound by it from birth that jokes are still made about Lancastrians and being from ‘the right side of the Pennines’, even though the Wars of the Roses ended well over 500 years ago.6

  Even when someone posted worms through our letterbox when I was 12. I opened the envelope very confused and Mum just threw it away and we never spoke about it again. Even when I stared at the National Front graffiti at my local bus stop every day when I was a tot, even when I was asked funny questions about my ‘Indian’ life and people shouted ‘Paki’ across the street at me. Even then. Yorkshire is different, Yorkshire is mine. No one can take that away from me. They can try, but I won’t let them get anywhere near it.

  What is it that makes Yorkshire folk so annoyingly loyal and what is their identity made up of that makes them so proud? The language, food, history, sense of humour, architecture, the accent, water, sense of humour, good working-class folk, the white working classes and the working-class migrants, and most importantly, the breathtaking ancient landscape. Oh, and did I mention the sense of humour? Pie and peas, fish and chips, baps and bread cakes, parkin, Yorkshire pudding, curry. Is it the soil? Soil so fine it produces the best rhubarb in the world, in the rhubarb triangle of West Yorkshire. Eating raw rhubarb nicked out of someone’s garden is a sheer delight. The more face-screwingly sour, the better! There’s definitely something in the water, the finest tap water in the land. It’s so good, I’d fill bottles of the stuff from my mum and dad’s tap to bring back south. It’s nectar.

  I see my London media life now and how ridiculous it all is through my Yorkshire eyes. I worry I’ve changed, become one of those types who left 20 years ago and now loves my adopted home of the big city. I ponce around buying expensive sourdough bread. ‘Over three quid for a loaf of bread? Av ya gone mad?’ said Dad when I took him to my local Sunday farmers’ market. Yorkshire folk don’t spend unnecessarily. My friends now include east London clichés and I love them – I’m one of them! Bankrupting themselves on natural organic wine, debating coffee filtration, the latest cheese to be grown in an actual sewer for added flavour or something. But my Yorkshire eyes see it all and take it with a massive shovel of salt. I now live in an area where children and dogs are given the names Milo and Fifi! I also live in an area where, a stone’s throw away, children are still on free school meals and there are people sleeping rough. I always get asked ‘What d’ya go and do that for?’ about moving to London when I’m in the North. They might not like the answer, but it’s true: London is the greatest city on earth and I love my cosmopolitan adopted home, I think of myself as a Londoner in many ways. I love that there are people from all over the world who live there. I hear a multitude of languages and accents – Turkish, Jamaican patois, Vietnamese, French, Polish, Punjabi, Somali, Estuary, Cockney and Yorkshire – all in my local nail salon. But London is great at telling everyone it’s great. It’s in constant competition with other flash gits like New York, Paris, Berlin, Beijing. It needs to boast and flex its pecs to the globe.

  Yorkshire doesn’t have to prove a pig’s shit to anyone. Yorkshire is too down-to-earth for that. She’d never really boast. She doesn’t need to. If you know, you know, and if you don’t know, you will, once you experience her. She’s warm and welcoming. She doesn’t judge you if you come as your true self, she demands that: no bullshit here, please, just you. And if you do carry an air of pretence, she’ll soon batter it out of you with her disarming sense of humour. She’ll look at you, listen with a deadpan stare and cut you down to size if you sound like a dickhead. Like the goat farmer I met filming once, whose opening line on first meeting me was, ‘Anita, wha were that coat you were wearing on Countryfile last week? So blooming big on ya, looked like it were ya dad’s.’ I thought it was cool. That’s me told.

  She’ll treat you, or rather, ‘tret ya’, like you’re a member of her family. She’s cultured and talented and has produced some of the finest talent in the land: the Brontës, Nicola Adams, Tasmin Archer, Nadeem Ahmed, Barbara Castle, Jessica Ennis-Hill, Dynamo, Helen Sharman, Effie Bancroft, Zayn Malik, Nina Hossain, Jodie Whittaker, Mel B, Matthew Krishanu, Dame Judi Dench, Dame Barbara Hepworth, Govinder Nazran, Andrea Dunbar . . . It goes on. Can you tell I’m a bit proud? I’m spellbound by the landscape, the drystone walls, the rolling Dales, the windswept moors, purple heather carpet. Even if they’ve never set foot in the Yorkshire countryside, town folk are stained by the faded grandeur of Bradford city centre, a city that was once the centre of the universe.

  We’d make the pilgrimage to York whenever we had people come to stay or when we fancied a day trip. Pretty much every weekend of my entire chil
dhood we were bundled into the boot of Dad’s Rover hatchback, heading out on adventures across Yorkshire. York, the Dales, Malham, Skipton, Harrogate, Ripon, Flamborough Head, Scarborough, Whitby. Dad’s a Yorkshireman so his love for the land is never in question. Mum is a migrant to Yorkshire but, like a convert to anything, she’s devout and loyal. Mum lurves Yorkshire and she lurves nothing more than to show Yorkshire off: ‘Wait until you come to visit WHERE I LIVE. We have BEAUTIFUL scenery, beautiful hills.’

  So keen were my parents to show off their Yorkshire, they’d pick up waifs, strays and total strangers to take on weekend jaunts throughout my childhood too. Like the family who approached Dad in Bradford city centre to ask where they could get the best Indian curry. They were originally from Suriname but lived in Holland. Suriname is a former Dutch Colony in South America. In the 19th century the Dutch did a deal with the Brits for indentured labourers from India after the abolition of slavery. So much for the abolition. As a consequence, Hindus now make up around 20 per cent of the population. More of that massive British history that no one talks about – just how many Indians were moved around the globe for work and now cannot trace their ancestry. How about we start telling some of this history in schools? From 1834 to the end of the World War I, Britain had transported about two million Indian indentured workers to 19 colonies, including the West Indies, Fiji, Mauritius, Sri Lanka (then known as Ceylon), Trinidad, Guyana, Malaysia, Uganda, Kenya and South Africa.

  This family were on a road trip through the UK and someone had told them to head to Bradford for authentic Indian food. They were so lost! Getting an ‘authentic curry’ in a curry house in the eighties was as authentic as the Indian guy in Short Circuit.7 The only place to get real authentic curry anywhere in Britain, as every Asian will tell you, is in an authentic Asian home. Dad suggested to this family of complete strangers, that he’d just met on the street, to head home with him and his wife would cook for them. Just like that. Standing on the street with total randoms, he invited them home for dinner. He didn’t consult Mum, he didn’t need to – he knew she’d be fine with it and would happily prepare a feast. Not only did they eat with us, my parents insisted they stay the night and even gave up their own bed for them. They admitted to my parents they were a little scared spending the night. No shit. They’d obviously never come across an overbearing Punjabi family before! They were overwhelmed by the experience and their kindness and returned the favour when we spent a weekend in Holland with them.

  There was always a steady stream of various students, doctors and nurses, usually from India, that Mum would befriend and, the next thing you know, we are taking them along with us on a Sunday adventure to show off our beloved Yorkshire. If you love a Sunday lie-in, my house was not the place for you. Sunday was anything but a day of rest. It was a day for adventure regardless of the weather – in fact, the wetter the better! Blackpool, the Dales, the Lake District, any number of beautiful northern destinations for a day trip.

  Sunday adventures across Yorkshire are the happiest memories of my childhood. I’ve been asked on numerous occasions what qualifies me to be a Countryfile presenter (well, apart from the obvious – I’m a presenter, but for some reason this is often not enough). I’ve never birthed a lamb or owned a pair of wellies, but my love for the land is deep and runs through me. There are so many places I’d love to take you, so let’s get going.

  Saltaire, frozen in time – we could walk the streets of the perfect Victorian village created around the mill built by Sir Titus Salt. We could even pop into Beatties (not Betty’s) tearoom, where I spent a summer as a waitress, having to boil up pigs’ trotters in a giant pot, with a hangover from Hull, not hell, to celebrate Yorkshire day. (Of course there’s a Yorkshire day!) Serving bacon butties in the shop to council workers in hi vis vests, who loved it when I served. The rule was two rashers in a large bap, but this was too stingy for my greedy Indian eyes so I’d ram in an extra couple when the boss wasn’t watching. Then I’d spend the afternoon serving cream teas to a steady stream of artistic locals, American tourists and well-dressed retired couples off to see the Hockneys in the mill. I’d chat to them all. The lead singer of Terrorvision’s mum popped in for tea and I dined out on that for a while.

  Finish up that scone, there’s more sightseeing to do! We could head out across rolling Dales scattered with sheep, peppered with villages and market towns tucked into the dips and crevices of the hills, the kind that transport you to another time. Not overly manicured or wealthy second home spots, this is rustic and real, proper Last of the Summer Wine territory. Along narrow roads with expertly hand-stacked drystone walls on either side, with only enough space for one car. So narrow you hold your breath if there’s oncoming traffic. This is England’s rural heartland with a raw natural old-fashioned beauty. I’d take you to Bolton Abbey to cross the stepping stones across the river Wharfe and I’d show you where I fell in on Alina’s birthday party aged six and had to go home in soggy knickers. We’d walk through the woods on the other side following the river and, if we’re lucky, maybe spot an otter. This is the same river the monks of the priory would have walked along when Henry VIII booted them out. It’s a history and nature tour too!

  Then we’d go up a bit higher. We really couldn’t miss the wild and untamed moorlands, exposed and inviting, sometimes hiding in heavy clouds. We’d have the right gear on so you’ll be cosy. Your nose will be cold, being kissed by the weather, reminding you what it feels to be alive. We’d stomp across the moors, over bumping mounds of soft purple heather, wading through muddy marshes, splashing through streams. We could walk for miles and miles, under a grey sky that highlights every branch and twig on leafless winter trees, until the sun starts to set and the silhouette of the landscape appears on the horizon. Distant hills and crags are revealed against a bright navy blue sky, with the North Star winking at us. Give me a dawn or give me a dusk, when everything is a little twinkly and the world is full of magic, so we realise how magnificent it really all is. This, to me, is heaven.

  On to Whitby. My favourite place on earth. On my 30th birthday, this is where I wanted to be, with its ruined Abbey, cobbled streets, pier, lighthouse, aging whale bone, Dracula legend, vintage sweet shops and silversmiths selling Whitby Jet stone jewellery. It’s the perfect coastal fishing town where, on a hot summer’s day, a wasp might try and share your pint and seagulls your fish and chips. The best bit about going to Whitby is the drive across the North York Moors, up the east coast. The landscape opens up and it becomes otherworldly and freeing. To this day, that drive takes me out of myself. All the different colours between the sky and earth, purple heather, green bracken, grey rocks and fluffy cream hardy sheep dotted around, make my chest expand just thinking about it. The road through it is smooth and exciting, an opportunity for the more adventurous to put their foot down.

  We knew we were going on an extra-special and extra-long day trip to Whitby, or anywhere in Yorkshire, if Mum was up at the crack of dawn and in the kitchen preparing a picnic for the day. When I was a kid, my mum’s picnics were something I dreaded. That’s because it was a picnic very different to those found in the Famous Five books I loved to read. No melt-in-the-mouth shortbread, no ginger beer, no tomato sandwiches (no sandwiches of any kind whatsoever), no lashings of anything – just the threat of a lashing if we didn’t get the hell out of the kitchen.

  We would either travel in the van (we always had a van, you can’t run a factory without a van), or our car depending on how many people were coming on the trip. We have been known to cram ’em into the van. My dad was probably suspected of smuggling illegal immigrants, but we were really just on a trip to Whitby. An ordinary family saloon can take five passengers comfortably and legally; a car owned by Indians in the eighties, however, has the capacity for eight people at least. Driver, front passenger, as many as you can squeeze onto the back seat and all the kids in the boot. Kul and I were regularly relegated to the boot of our maroon Rover hatchback. Quite a flash motor back the
n, a sign that the business was flourishing. We all loved that car. Plus, the boot was very comfortable, especially once all the coats had been shoved in, as they made a lovely soft furnishing. It was like having our own den and we could giggle and fight quietly enough not to catch Dad’s attention.

  ‘Chalo! Chalo! Chalo! Come on, Kids. Jaldi jaldi!’

  ‘Tehro.’ Wait. Mum had forgotten something. Dad huffs and rolls his eyes.

  ‘Mein achaar pulgai.’ I forgot the achar.

  Not the pickle! Anything but the dreaded pickle! The jar of stinky pickle is tucked in with all the other snacks and we’re off! (Pickle is an essential part of an Asian feast, but my God, it’s going to kick up a stink.)

  Before we showed any guests the sights and sounds of Whitby, it was time to eat. Out came the dreaded picnic and Mum had packed everything. Parantha, essentially a stuffed and then fried chapatti. You can stuff it with spiced grated cauliflower, gobi wala parantha, Asian radish, mooli wala parantha, butter or plain parantha and then the classic Aloo or potato parantha. That’s right, it’s a spiced carb-on-carb bonanza and there’s nothing better than sitting round a kitchen table having them freshly prepared and slid onto your plate, hot off the tava. Pickles, bottles of Coca-Cola, disposable plastic cups, a flask of chai, more disposable polystyrene cups, disposable paper cups. A few homemade samosas, chutney and the all-important ketchup. Samosas and ketchup is the ultimate combination and you’ll find it everywhere: dinners, birthdays, engagement parties, parties of every variety, absolutely at weddings and part of a Punjabi picnic. If you’ve not tried a samosa with ketchup, you’ve not lived. This picnic sounds amazing, doesn’t it? For me, it was a curse. Growing up, most of us want to fit in, not stand out, but we might as well have been a rare species being watched as part of a David Attenborough documentary. Put on your best Attenborough voice and continue to read: