by Anita Rani
I’m telling younger me to keep writing and keep expressing, even if she’s embarrassed or ashamed, even if, when she reads it back, she hates herself for sounding weak, for sounding as though she couldn’t cope, when my mantra as a girl and beyond was always, ‘I got this’. I wish you’d kept writing, young Anita; I wish you’d let the pen do the talking rather than that blade. From great pain can come great art. And that writing was good. It had meaning. At such a young age, there was an intense purpose to my words, but my old friends, shame and anger, came and took over. They dominated and took away my creativity, they hardened my tender spaces. I’ve always wanted to tell stories. We are no more than our stories; our stories are all that will matter. I love hearing and telling your stories and the more we tell and the more we listen, the more we learn about who we are.
I’ve told you a story that reflects my experience in a landscape that was always totally white. A story of trying to navigate and succeed in a career in an industry that, even after 20 years, I feel on the outside looking in. Trying to figure out how to dismantle some of my cultural conditioning to live the life I want, alongside the double whammy of not being seen by my own culture or wider society. But my experience has made me who I am. So, this is for my younger self, but it’s also a reminder for me now. A look back to see how far I have come and how I got here. A reminder of who I am.
I’m done with living a half-life, and if this story can be an intervention in someone else’s life at whatever age, then it is worth sharing my pain. It’s bloody lonely carrying it around with you. It’s been weighing me down for years and I didn’t even notice. I’ve carried a lot of shame my entire life. It’s crippling, debilitating, it crushes you and makes you small. The strangest thing for me is when you get to an age at which you are meant to have found your groove, I have fear. I fear, I fear. And I hate it. I’ve spent a childhood trying to be brave, going forth regardless, being single-minded in my drive and determination and, now all of a sudden, I smell my fear. I stepped into writing this memoir at my most fearful and confused, and I have had to dig deep to find my courage to write these words. The bravest and most vulnerable me has emerged.
Writing this book, I wanted to empower you, the reader. To stare down the shame. I’ve talked about everything, bloody knickers and all, which would have been unthinkable to little me. I’ve called out what I see. I’ve shared my experience of being a brown woman in Britain. It’s felt great to put my anger onto the page. To use words to express my pain. As the eldest daughter of a South Asian family, the first to be born in a foreign land, all I know to do is do. I can’t relax. I don’t have the privilege of just being me and that being enough. I have to strive, I have to work, I have to excel. I can’t be average, or just sit back and let things play out, no, not me. I’ve spent years, especially when starting out in my career in TV, adamant that I wasn’t there to represent anyone. How could I be? I was an individual with my own experience of life, I’d never felt part of any community, so why would I claim to represent one now? I denied that I was any kind of role model, mainly because I didn’t feel like I’d done anything to warrant such a title. I just wanted to make strides doing something I loved and succeed, especially as there were so few like me doing the job. Now, I feel completely differently. Now, I accept that I represent, I proudly represent, and I take the role seriously. If I don’t acknowledge and talk about what it means to be a brown woman in Britain, then who will? I used to hate talking about my race, because I didn’t want to be defined by it. I was always aware of the roll of the eyes from others if I were ever to bring it up, even in the most casual way. I could feel people bristle. But I have been defined by it in so many ways, whether I like it or not. So, I own it. I own my identity and I bask in its beautiful, sun-kissed glow. I will take the mantel, take a deep breath and tell you about my experience. Because I know I’m not alone and, if no one talks, nothing will change.
When I appeared on Strictly Come Dancing in 2015, I had no idea what the audience would think of me, seeing as I was no major celebrity, not a soap actress or a pop star, just a girl who was mistaken for every other brown girl on telly! Nothing prepares you for Strictly, apart from dance classes starting from the age of four. It’s only having gone through it that I can see it’s an interesting interplay of self-confidence and stereotypes. The public want to see someone grow in confidence over the weeks but remain humble. It’s a difficult balance to achieve, especially if you’re not a white man. Too much confidence is unappealing in a woman and viewers can see it as aggressive, while too much humility reinforces the stereotype of the servile and oppressed brown woman being given a chance to shine by white liberals. Considering it’s a show about ballroom dancing, there’s a lot going on under the surface.
My only plan from the start was to not look like I was trying to remember my steps and to enjoy myself. For those 90 seconds on that dancefloor, it was the only thing that really mattered – I danced as freely as I could to make people feel something, even if I did spend a lot of it being thrown around the dancefloor. I didn’t question the insane moves I was being asked to do, I just got on with it and worked as hard as I possibly could to make sure I nailed each dance every week. It did feel as though I was having an out-of-body experience at times. What the heck was the little Indian lass, most comfortable in a pair of Dr. Martens or raving in a nightclub, doing gliding, shimmying and heel turning, often with her backside exposed, ON NATIONAL TV? This would never have happened even ten years earlier on British TV. I absolutely smashed it and, unbelievably, the wonderful British public voted for me every week and got me to the semi-final.
And then I was out. I won’t lie to you, I still find myself wondering whether I would have got into the final if I didn’t have a brown face. It’s a question I often find myself asking about my work: How would it have played out if I was white? You would too if, every time someone looked at you, the first thing they thought was, ‘They’re Asian.’
So, this book serves as the lessons I wish I had known when I was younger, now I know there really is no such thing as the right sort of girl. There can’t be. Such a person doesn’t exist. Therefore, there can’t be the right sort of woman, either. What a relief, which I’m thankful for as I head into my fourth decade, with more freedom and now more courage than I’ve ever had before. So, young Anita, here is my last letter to you, my last piece of advice I want to share:
Dear young Anita,
Take a deep breath, expand your chest, roll your shoulders down, ground your feet into the earth. Ready?
Life is always going to be full of failures and fuck-ups, and also moments of happiness and fun. This is how it’s meant to be. Some moments will hurt. Other people will hurt you, you’ll hurt yourself. The world is unfair and you will rage against the injustice. You will feel crushed at times, you’ll crawl into a ball and feel so small. You’ll fear the outside world. It will knock you sideways. It will try and squeeze the life out of you. Will you let it? Will you let anyone else define your existence?
The minute you were born, you announced your arrival by using your voice. Screaming your lungs off. We come out with a howl to the universe. That voice is in you, still, as it is in us all. All of the pain and shame that you experience will make you grow. Let it all sink in, let it sit in your belly, let it swoosh around and make you feel sick. Then digest it, have a good burp, whack on some red lippy and step out in the world to proudly own your space.
Break the rules, own your otherness. You are a proud outsider, a card-carrying misfit, an evangelical oddball. You are completely original and that’s what makes you special. Forget about trying to belong and to fit in. Your magic comes from being uniquely you. Own all your identities: you are a Londoner, a raver, a global citizen, a loon! Put your fear to bed. You will feel as though some spaces aren’t for you, but those are the very spaces that need you. You jazz them up, you are stopping them from going stale, you are doing those spaces a favour and, beyond all of that, you’ve more than e
arned your right to be there.
Did you know that you are pretty cool, you’re independent, you work hard? You go on to do awesome things, you get an incredible job on the telly, you’re self-made, don’t answer to anyone, you still wear trainers and Dr. Martens, but can now also rock a pair of stilettos. And you have excellent taste in music.
You’ll always feel you need to appease everyone around you – your family, men, colleagues, bosses. But do not stop speaking when you have so much to say, just because someone wants you to stay quiet. Recognise your power and who you are – then, and only then, will you meet someone worthy and someone who lets you be you.
You will make a ton of mistakes. But you’ll always have power, so much magic power. You do own it and use it. You own every aspect of you: the great bits and the slightly dodgy bits. What’s the alternative? Let the fear of never being the right sort of girl control you? Sod that. There is no right sort of girl, so just be you.
Do you remember that now is your time? That the pressure cooker has started to whistle? It’s speak or explode?
So keep on speaking.
Love,
Anita
Rani’s Dhal
This is my take on a simple and classic yellow dhal. Pour yourself a glass of something yummy, then put on some music. You will love how easy this is.
Ingredients:
200g split yellow mung beans
200g split red lentils
2 cloves of garlic, minced
1 medium onion, finely chopped
2-inch piece of ginger, grated or minced
3 green chillies, finely chopped
Half a tin of tomatoes (200g)
1 tsp cumin seeds
1 tsp salt
1 tsp turmeric
1 tsp garam masala
1 tbs butter
1 tbs oil
1 handful of chopped coriander
Method:
1. Rinse the lentils, then cover them with twice the amount of water in a pan.
2. Add the salt and turmeric, bring to the boil and then simmer until the lentils are soft. If it gets too thick, add boiling water.
3. In the meantime, add the oil and butter to a frying pan and heat.
4. Add the cumin and fry for 30 seconds.
5. Add the finely diced onion and slowly brown for 20 minutes. Take your sweet time!
6. Blend, grate or finely chop the chilli and garlic and add to the onion. Fry for 5 minutes.
7. Add the grated ginger and stir fry for another 5 minutes, making sure nothing sticks – if it does, add a dash of water.
8. Add the garam masala and tomatoes and simmer until the oil separates from the onion and tomato. The tardka (curry base) must cook out.
9. Now mix the tardka you have just prepared with the dhal. Stir, then simmer for 10 minutes.
10. If the dhal is too thick, add a splash of boiling water. It should be the consistency of a thick soup.
11. Sprinkle coriander over the top, to garnish.
Eat with basmati rice, an onion salad, plain yoghurt and pickle of your choice. Enjoy!
Acknowledgements
I’d just like to thank a few people who are very important in my life and without whom this book would not have happened.
Firstly, thanks to you for choosing to spend time reading my words!
Mrs Bird, my English teacher, who made me feel like I had a gift for telling stories – I only went and wrote a book! Thank you for enjoying my naughtiness and encouraging my imagination.
Beth, Beth, beautiful Beth, my kind, patient editor, who basically talked me off a ledge every other week. I will miss sending you rambling messages. Thank you for your commitment to my book and your belief in my writing. High fives all round to the brilliant team at Bonnier: Perminder Mann, Madiya Altaf, Emily Rough, Nikki Mander, Clare Kelly, Jess Tackie, Ella Holden, Stuart Finglass, Mark Williams, Laura Makela. Top gang.
My powerhouse deal makers and ball breakers at Curtis Brown. My badass book agent, Cath Summerhayes, who basically told me I could do this. You rock. The force of nature and most incredible agent a woman can have, Meryl Hoffman – what a ride this is turning out to be!
Josh Byrne, Jess Molloy and Olu Abulude, for somehow keeping my life in check and on track.
Big up to team Dundas, my PR heavyweights. Max Dundas, thank you for getting me from day one. You are the best. Ross Clarence-Smith for your drive and all round wonderfulness, and Abi Etchells for always being positive and patient.
Team Glam – Oskar Pera, Sarah Jane Wai and Krishan Parmar, thank you for making me look shiny and boosting my confidence.
To all the people who have listened to me bang on about writing this book, or have wonderfully listened to me reading sections out to them, or have just made me believe I could do it. Thank you for being my trusted crew. Reva, Sangna, Nerm, Simon, Selina, Reju, Amy, Adrian, Ben, Yen, Henry, Camilla, Cinz, Rex, James, Hannah, Johnny. Alison, Rachel, Jo and Robyn, Geoff, Sinead, Aneel, Nikesh, Anoushka, Anita, Meera, Nisha, Aisha, Gurinder, Riz, Laura, Vivek and Sam.
My treasured WhatsApp groups that have kept me sane and anchored – the Ladies Curry Group and the Nasty Aunty Party. You know who you are.
Special nod to a few gooduns I’ve met along the way: Barry, Katie, David, V, Tommy Nagra, Sham Sadhu, John Noel. Steve Pemberton who told me to vomit on the page. I vommed a plenty.
My beautiful extended family. Even the people I no longer speak to. I hope you are all happy.
And to the people I love the most in this world. Mum and Dad, thank you for giving me life and the fire in my belly. Thank you for encouraging me to speak my truth in this book, to hell with the consequences. Thank you for everything. My brother Kul, for his constant counsel and impassioned discussions, Shivani for helping put the world to rights and Vaneesha, our light.
Rafi – the wonderful soul who came into our life with unconditional love, loyalty and a waggy tail.
Last but not least, I want to thank my darling husband Bhupi, for living with a wife who never sits still, apart from when I wrote this, and for letting me get on with what I have to do. Thank you. X
