We’re now all seated on the ground in the garden, with a spread of different dishes set out before us. On the right, my mum and dad, on the left Satya and Surjan opposite them. On my end, me, Aman and his brother. On the other end, Jasbir and her sister. We will all eat with our hands, except dad who even after all these years still insists on using a spoon.
‘This looks amazing,’ says dad as Surjan spoons mammoth portions onto his plate. ‘I haven’t seen a spread like this for years.’
‘You know how to make a Punjabi thali,’ smiles Satya.
‘Ben doesn’t cook,’ says mum, ‘that’s my job.’
‘Really?’ asks Satya. ‘I’m sure he had cooking lessons way back.’
‘I did,’ smiles dad, ‘but I’ve never been able to compete with my beloved.’
‘Nonsense,’ says mum, ‘you’re just lazy.’
‘Some things never change,’ laughs Satya.
‘Ignore them, Ben,’ says Surjan. ‘The ladies always gang up on us.’
Dad just smiles, and fills his mouth with dal. I watch my parents intently. What is it that other people see in them, that I don’t see myself. Nothing special really. They’re just mum and dad, the same pair I’ve lived with for the past seventeen and a half years of my life. My mum’s beautiful of course. Dad’s just… dad. A balding white guy with middle-aged spread. He’s lucky to be with my mum, I guess. Is that it? Beauty and the beast?
No, but what is it that people see? What is it that Jasbir’s seen in an hour of meeting them, that I just can’t see myself. Here’s all I see: they’re sitting so close together that their legs and arms touch, as if they fear the air will separate them. Whenever my dad speaks, she turns her full face towards him, smiling at every word. Sometimes her hand lands on his back, as if it will help the words come out. What else? What else is there? Nothing really. Dad mutters bismillah with every mouthful. Mum’s all alhamdulilah, over and over. Me: just inshallah, inshallah. No, I just can’t see what Jasbir says she sees.
‘So what do you do for a living, Ben?’ Surjan asks him.
‘He presses buttons on a computer keyboard all day,’ I laugh out loud from my place.
‘As my son says,’ shrugs dad, ‘that’s pretty much it. Big data, business intelligence, data modelling, that kind of thing. I absolutely hate it, but it pays the bills.’
‘How did you end up doing that?’
‘One of life’s great mysteries,’ sighs dad. ‘I guess I’m lucky really, after dropping everything to join Dad’s Army.’
I watch as mum glares at dad. ‘Ignore him,’ she says, ‘I didn’t marry an idiot. He has a Master’s degree in data science.’
‘Wow, that’s great,’ says Surjan.
‘Yeah, I guess so,’ says dad. ‘Anjana made sure I went back to college, then on to university as a mature student. So it’s her fault I have such a boring job. You wouldn’t believe the reports I have to compile for the great and the good. Can’t tell you though: it’s all classified.’
‘Sounds like you’re Q from James Bond.’
‘I’m afraid not. It’s mostly big corporations.’
‘You work contracts?’
‘Yep. Generally two years at a time. Managed to stick around four years in my current role. Mostly because that company is a shambles. I’ve been there longer than most of the permanent staff.’
‘Ben’s indispensable,’ says mum. ‘Without him, they’d be sunk.’
‘Not quite,’ says dad, ‘but I have just trained up my new boss. Makes me laugh really. Young guy. Some graduate recruitment scheme. Too confident for his own good. Wrote me off as an ignorant old fool who knows nothing. That was until he thought he’d deleted a four teraflops of data. He hadn’t, of course, but he believes I saved his skin, so now he treats me like I’m a sensei of the dark arts of data. I don’t have the heart to tell him that he simply flipped from one virtual desktop to another. If his ignorance means they renew my contract for another year, I’m all for it.’
It’s funny. This is the first time I’ve ever heard what my dad does for a living. He always downplays what he does, describing himself in the most disparaging terms. I should’ve known from the array of screens in his office and all those computers that I’m not allowed to touch that he was not really just a glorified admin. I had no idea my dad had a Master’s degree either. He’s always described himself as a school drop-out, and I believed him. Maybe that’s what he believes himself.
‘You know, all that computer stuff is gobbledygook to me,’ says Surjan.
‘I doubt it. I heard you’re a doctor.’
‘Consultant psychiatrist,’ says Satya.
‘Oh dear,’ says dad, ‘so you’ve diagnosed me already?’
‘I’m on my day off,’ smiles Surjan. ‘In any case, I think you’re doing great, considering.’
‘Considering I was raised by the mafia of fools?’ Dad sniggers. ‘Well, I have Anjana to thank for that. She did a pretty good job of mending me and putting me back together. I’m almost normal.’ Dad glances down at me. ‘Yes or no, Ibby?’
‘Yeah, almost,’ I say.
‘I’d call that success, Ben,’ says Surjan. ‘We’re all almost normal. Even me.’
‘What about you, Satya?’ asks mum. ‘What are you up to these days?’
‘Oh, not a lot,’ she says.
‘Just full time mum, full time gardener and full time hope of the hopeless,’ laughs Surjan.
‘Ibby was singing your praises,’ says mum.
‘Oh well, that’s something,’ she smiles.
‘How’s your family? Parents, siblings?’
‘We had a rocky few years, my parents and me, but we’re on okay terms now.’
‘Rocky? Why?’
‘My dad never forgave me for dropping out of uni.’
‘You dropped out?’
‘A surprise, isn’t it? But, yes, totally true. And as you can imagine, that didn’t go down very well with my dad, after spending a fortune on my education. I was a failure. No, it was worse than that: I became a fanatic in their eyes. I threw away all those opportunities I’d had to become whatever it was I became.’
‘Servant of the people, Satya,’ says Surjan.
‘Some people say that, but my parents? No, no way. The only reason we’re on good terms now is because I married a successful doctor. They don’t value the work I do at all.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ says mum.
‘No, they’ll boast about my postcode, about my husband’s job and my kids being at private school… but to them, what I do is demeaning. Which is fine. Totally fine. It’s not what we were raised to do. So yes, our relationship is still a little frosty. As for my siblings…’
‘How are they doing?’
‘I don’t really have a relationship with them at all. My little sister, she took my place as the highflier of the family. Studied law, works for some global law firm. She’s doing well, as far as I know.’
‘Still local?’
‘Oh, no, migrated down south like the rest of you years ago. Lives in Handsworth Wood, very exclusive.’
‘Not as exclusive as our suburb,’ laughs Surjan.
‘Well it’s Birmingham, so what can I say? She seems happy. My parents sing her praises, constantly. She’s a great success, a true model of assimilation.’
‘Are you bitter?’ asks mum.
‘No, not really. It could’ve been me. If I had my time again, maybe I’d pursue that world and seek success, and become an ethical philanthropist, doing good that way. Maybe my kids will. They have better goals than I did.’
‘But if you’d done that, we’d never have met, would we?’ says Surjan, ‘And I can’t imagine my world without you.’
‘How sweet,’ says mum.
‘That is true. The experiences I’ve had in life: I wouldn’t change them. But envy? When I see what my little sister’s achieved… I admit, I question myself: why did I choose this course of action? Why did I choose to walk this path, and not just chase after maya like everyone else?
‘Maya?’
‘You’d say dunya. The world. Wealth, status. The beautiful house in Handsworth Wood, the Mercedes on the drive.’
‘It seems like you’re doing okay, though,’ says mum. ‘You should see our little house. Tonnes better than what we had growing up, but, still… nothing like what you have here. But we’re content. We’re doing okay.’
‘Well you two always had that humility I admired. And, in truth, maybe I was inspired by what you had. Yes, you two… I wanted what you had.’
‘What a family of violent racists?’ coughs dad.
‘I don’t mean that.’
‘What do you mean? Because, as far as I know, I had nothing worth emulating? A broken home? A seriously dysfunctional family? Extreme poverty?’
‘Your faith… your state of mind… I’ve never seen self-sacrifice like I saw in you two. You, Ben… does Anjana even know the lengths you went to? No, those sacrifices you made: they blew me away. And so, yes, I’ve spent my life trying to emulate you.’
‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘That’s a lie! You sacrificed your love for Anjana to save her. And then you sacrificed yourself to save me.’
‘I don’t know what your mean.’
‘You know, the trouble with parents is that while they insist on keeping secrets from their own children, they love to tell stories to their grandchildren. How crazy that I learnt what you did from our Jasbir.’
‘What did you do?’ asks mum, glancing at dad.
‘Beats me,’ shrugs dad.
‘Still modest, then? Well, I won’t embarrass you. Your secret’s safe with me. But suffice to say, I’ll forever be grateful to the two of you. It’s so beautiful that you ended up together, despite all the odds. And just looking at you two now: you were made for each other. But of course I knew that years ago. The way you defended Anjana, even when…’
‘Let’s not talk about that now,’ says mum.
‘You’re right. It was twenty-five years ago. My eldest two are older than we were then, and so much more mature.’
‘Yes, a lot has happened in all that time. But lockdown… it’s brought it all back. Everyone I speak to says the same.’
‘The mountain of regrets?’ ask Mrs Dhillon, ‘True. Regrets and envy.’
‘But what have you to envy? You have a beautiful family, a beautiful house, a beautiful garden, a beautiful view…’
‘You’re absolutely right. I have everything I could ever possibly want or need, but really, envy is like a mental illness. We shun the immense blessings we find directly under our nose, to focus on the apparition of what others have…’
‘But of course we only see a snapshot of those other lives,’ says Surjan, ‘Who knows what life’s like behind closed doors? Who knows the troubles which afflict them?’
‘Surjan is talking about my siblings, of course.’
‘I’m talking about mankind in general.’
‘No, but with my family in mind. And it’s true, we’ve all had successes and failures in our own ways. My middle sister seemed to be doing great: successful in business, has her own company, big employer, but it turned out all these years she’d been living with horrendous domestic violence at the hands of a man we’d all thought was a pillar of the community. Happily, she got out of that marriage, but she lost her home in the process and is left raising her kids all alone. Reality: life’s so tough for her.’
‘I can imagine,’ says mum.
‘And Meeta? Outwardly, she’s doing well for herself, no doubt about that. She’s beautiful, of course, but then she always was. She’s confident, self-assured. A fitness fanatic too: always in the gym, keeping herself in shape. An avid cyclist. Living the good life, completely assimilated. The very model of success.’
‘But?’
‘I don’t know, is she happy?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘She drinks like nobody’s business. Wine, gin, beer, spirits. Whenever I see her, she has a drink in hand.’
‘Everyone drinks nowadays,’ says Surjan.
‘In our community, yes, but it was never like this… my parents’ generation… even though they didn’t do religion, even they deferred to Gurbani. Forget Cabernet Sauvignon, everyone knew that saying, “Even if the wine’s made from the water of the Ganges, leave it.” But now? Just look at our shops. Just go to our weddings. It’s just as the guru says: “his intelligence departs and madness enters his mind.” This is my community. We’re doing very well materially, without a doubt, but we’ve lost our way completely. My family… we never did religion, but we held onto our culture. It used to mean something to us, but I see nothing of what we had in my sister.’
‘She’s happy, Satya,’ says her husband, ‘you’re just unhappy for her because you live on the sharp end, dealing with the fallout.’
‘Well, most of the people I work with have mental and behavioural disorders due to alcohol use, so what do you expect? It’s across the board, across all communities. I just take it personally with our community because I believe we had something better. But I suppose the truth is we haven’t walked the path for generations. To be Sikh? It’s just a cultural identity. Does my sister believe in it? I doubt it.’
‘The same can be said of most people, can’t it?’ asks mum.
‘True. Growing up, we were never taught about sat santokh… contentment with God’s decree. We were just taught to pursue maya, at whatever cost. It seems to be the same everywhere. We’re just taught to become materialists, celebrating what we own. I’m not immune to it. I’m still dealing with lobh and ahankar after all these years… greed and ego… It’s hard, really hard, especially with an upbringing like ours.’
‘Still,’ says Surjan, ‘we’re happy, we’re content. Right?’
‘We are,’ says Satya, ‘most days. Though the past year has challenged me like nothing before. Both of us, I guess. We’ve both wished we’d done something else with our lives this past year.’
‘Is that working through the pandemic?’ asks dad, ‘That must’ve been tough?’
‘You can say that again,’ says Surjan, ‘It’s been exhausting. I’m burnt out. I’m thinking of throwing in the towel and opening a florists.’
‘Ha, maybe I’ll join you.’
‘Yeah, but Satya won’t let me.’
‘Still have a mortgage to pay?’
‘What, around here? No, houses here are still worth peanuts.’
‘What’s stopping you then?’
‘Satya’s devotion to the underdog of course. She won’t let me quit while there are people in crisis.’
‘Well I guess she has a point.’
‘Too right I have,’ says Satya. ‘Austerity has obliterated this town. This is the land of the left behind. It’s way worse than the nineties. It’s absolutely atrocious.’
‘I didn’t think it could get any worse,’ says dad.
‘Well you were on the sharp end then. Me: I was just emerging from my private school cocoon, so maybe I didn’t see it at first. But, yes, I see it now. It’s madness. Of course, the government celebrates what we do as the Big Society in action. Yes, families living in flats without furniture, not even a bed… that’s a cause for celebration. I just think: yes, this is the age of Kali Yug.’
‘It’s tough when the whole system seems to be stacked against you,’ says my dad. ‘I don’t think our kids would believe me if I told them my mum used to sell everything we owned, just to make ends meet. Even the kitchen table.’
‘I remember that,’ smiles Satya.
‘Then that pressure cooker you gave me. Actually, that was the last straw for me. You’d never think you could get emotionally attached to a saucepan. It was ironic really. All that pent-up pressure. Years and years of it. It was like it all just exploded. And that was it. Mum and me were through.’
I watch mum hug dad and wipe away his tears with the end of her headscarf.
‘I have no idea what that pressure cooker helped fund. I always hoped it was our rent and not…’
‘Don’t dwell on the past, Ben,’ says Satya, smiling at him. ‘Your mum’s back now. She’s been dry twenty years. She’s achieved so much in that time. Embrace that.’
‘You’re right,’ mutters dad.
‘Our job now is to be there for the next generation. That’s our mission. To make sure there’s a safety net for today’s lost generation.’
‘I suppose so,’ says dad.
‘Not, I suppose; for sure. The pandemic has decimated the poor, made everything even worse, but that bloke in charge: he’s clever. Because if there’s going to be a revolution, it won’t be against him and his cronies. It will be against us. Brown people. Refugees. Immigrants. That’s where the backlash is.’
‘It was like that in the 80s and 90s,’ says my dad.
‘Yes, but it’s much worse now. The new generation makes your dad look like a saint. It’s all on social media now. They’re agitating against us. I honestly fear what the future holds.’ She thinks for a minute. ‘But someone has to do what we do, because this government doesn’t give a stuff. So yes, that’s why I won’t let Surjan resign… because without people like him who actually care, the poor will suffer in unimaginable ways.’
My mum is gazing at Satya thoughtfully, like she’s in awe of her. I am too. ‘You’re really passionate about this, aren’t you?’ she asks her.
‘Surprised?’
‘It’s just that you had a different vision when we knew you,’ says mum.
‘That’s true. I had a different trajectory. Looking back, I cringe remembering how selfish and obnoxious I was. Convinced I was going to uni and be some big-hitter. Well, that never happened. I hit a wall. Made me re-evaluate everything. Realised I wanted to do something completely different with my life.’
‘But you were never into politics back then.’
‘Well, all these experiences… they change you. I always thought I’d be apolitical, but the reality is, you can’t separate politics from your situation. Most of these people are in the situation they’re in because of some decision someone made in Westminster. To cut disability allowances. To go to war. To remove a safety net for the poor. I admit it’s made me very angry over the years. Every day, I get angrier and angrier. But you have to be, because it motivates you to keep going. I have a positive relationship with my anger. This is the one place I dispute with our wise ones. The anger of desire… kam krodh… yes, throw it away. But krodh itself… pure anger… no, embrace it, I say. If you’re not angry, you haven’t been paying attention.’
‘But don’t you ever want to rest?’ asks mum.
‘I’ll rest when I’m dead,’ says Satya. ‘But for now, there’s too much work to be done.’
‘But she’s right,’ says Surjan, ‘I worry about you.’ He looks at my mum. ‘Maybe she’ll listen to you,’ he says, ‘Convince her to slow down, if you can.’
‘Oh, I’m fine,’ she replies, dismissing him.
‘She’s not,’ says her husband, ‘she’s been ill for months.’
‘And who isn’t? Everyone on the frontline has long Covid. We’re all in the same boat, but the work still has to be done. I said it to your son the other day: come and work with us. Forget about buying a plane ticket halfway around the world. It’s all here on your doorstep. A world in need.’
‘Ibby mentioned that to me,’ says mum.
‘We have a volunteer down at the centre called Ibrahim. Such a lovely guy. So down-to-earth. He never lets me down. I know I can always count on him. He really gets it.’
‘I saw you had a Muslim volunteer last night,’ says mum. ‘The girl in hijab.’
‘Oh, that’s Simran. Sorry, she’s definitely one of ours. Our dear, modest Sikh superstar. She’s amazing too. But, yes, we have all kinds of volunteers with all different beliefs. Outwardly, anyway. Personally, I’ve never been interested in dwelling on all the differences between us, for the common ground between us: it’s immeasurable. I’ll work with good people, whoever they are.’
‘That’s so good to hear,’ says mum.
‘You know, a lot of our clients are Muslim. Refugees. Syrians, Iraqis, Afghans, Kurds, largely thanks to a certain champagne socialist. It’s been interesting these past two decades. By interesting, I mean very difficult, of course.’
‘Hasn’t it just?’ says mum.
‘But unfortunately not everyone sees the world the way we do. I honestly fear what the future holds. The young generation: half of them are playing identity politics, sowing division all over. Bullying our girls, stirring up hatred.’
‘We had that in our day,’ says dad, ‘The National Front on one side, Hizb ut-Tahir on the other.’
‘Yes, but unfortunately we now have our share of idiots too,’ moans Satya, shaking her head, ‘I’m afraid I have no patience for them whatsoever. I never thought I’d see the day when we had activists from our community partnering with the EDL. Can you imagine it? Forty years ago, these people were beating up our parents, and today we’re making alliances with them. Are you crazy?’
‘Some people might say the same about us…’ says dad, ‘you and me sharing dinner like this.’
‘Well that is true,’ laughs Satya. ‘It’s funny, but it’s only in recent years that I discovered that my dad knew yours at school in the early ‘70s.’
‘Really?’
‘Yep. He never told me, of course, but my dad’s spent a decade filling Jasbir’s head with these tales of his. I suppose I shouldn’t really be surprised. We’d lived in the same catchment area for years.’
‘What does he say about him?’ asks dad.
‘Jas, why don’t you tell us what my father told you?’
We all turn to tune in to Jasbir.
‘Well, it’s been a while now, but, yes, nanaji told me all about your dad. He said he was a couple of years younger than him, but he remembered him well: a skinny kid then, with a ferocious scowl.’
Mrs Dhillon interrupts her.
‘Apparently the scowl was because his own dad insisted on total loyalty to his own particular faction of fascists, who he believed were the rightful heirs and saviours of white nationalism, not the BNP and National Front which were taking hold all around them.’
‘That sounds about right,’ says dad. ‘That loyalty was enforced with fists and Doc Marten boots.’
‘Yes, which your dad learned the hard way when his two older brothers showed him what happened to renegades,’ says Mrs Dhillon.
‘Nanaji said that after that, his loyalty was unquestioned,’ says Jasbir. ‘In other words, he quickly became the leader of the gang that used to regularly beat up the black and Asian kids.’
‘It’s hard for us now to understand what life was like then,’ says Mrs Dhillon, ‘I’ve experienced a lot of racism in my life, but never anything like my dad did. When he was my kids’ age, they had to contend with skinheads roving around in gangs just looking for any solitary young man to set upon.’
‘Don’t I know it?’ says dad. ‘That was the reason my dad was detained at her majesty’s pleasure for most of the ‘80s.’
‘Yes, but before that,’ says Mrs Dhillon, ‘one day it was my dad on the receiving end.’
‘Are you serious?’ I ask.
‘Unfortunately,’ she says. ‘Yes, they gave him a kicking on his way home from school. He returned home covered in blood.’
‘That’s awful.’
‘Yes, truly awful, but worse still that it was your dad’s family that led the charge.’
‘Is this true, dad?’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me, at all,’ he says.
‘There are other things nanaji told me though,’ says Jasbir. ‘He said he remembered when it was your dad who used to get bullied by his older brothers and their friends.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me either,’ says dad, ‘they did the same to me. My dad seemed like a nice man compared to my uncles, which is saying something. They were truly the worst people I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.’
‘Yes, that’s what nanaji says too, but he says he never learned to fight back. He just learned to fight like them.’
Mum is looking at dad’s face now. Her hand is stroking his back.
‘Unfortunately, I know this already,’ he says, ‘that was the only thing that angry, illiterate man learned in his entire life. Not to defend himself, only to deploy violence against anyone who got in his way. It didn’t matter who it was: a little kid in the playground, his girlfriend, his son, a stranger minding his own business in the street. Yes, I know this.’
Dad looks all around him.
‘Yes, I know this was the route that man took. But in a way, I don’t blame him. I don’t mean I excuse what he did, what he became. I just mean I understand, because I was the same. I gave in too. Yes, for a time, I just submitted to all they stood for, because I could see no other way out.’
‘But you did escape, dad…’
‘Yes, because I had one thing my dad never had: my faith.’
‘Were you Muslim already then?’
‘Not in the sense we are now. I was an agnostic for a long time, but the worse things got, the more certain I was getting that your mum’s faith was true.’
‘But you weren’t with her then.’
‘No, but I carried her in my heart. I treasured her faith. That faith we used to talk about when we were friends.’
‘So what were you then?’
‘I suppose I was a bit like the pre-Islamic Hanifs. My faith then didn’t have a name. I just sought refuge in this pure innate monotheism. Yes, and that was when I said that sincere prayer of mine: the most sincere prayer I ever said in my life. I asked God to take me away from that life. In my mind, I thought I was praying for him to take away my breath, to return me to him. But he had a different plan. He sent these two amazing women here instead. Without them I wouldn’t be alive today, I’m sure of that. Between them, they saved my life, literally.’
‘Do you think your dad might’ve changed as he got older?’
‘Not for the better. Not as far as I know, anyway. Who knows what the last two decades brought? Am I curious? No, not in the slightest.’
‘Even though he’s your dad?’
‘Let’s not go there, Ibby,’ says mum, ‘not now.’
‘But you say…’ I begin, only to hear dad asking to be excused, Surjan leading him inside to use the bathroom. I wait until he’s out of of earshot, then glance at my mum and auntie in turn.
‘Isn’t all this is a bit strange?’ I ask, ‘Jasbir’s grandad telling stories about my grandad? Why did he tell her all these things?’
‘My dad has his reasons,’ says auntie. ‘But it’s true, your dad was never forgotten. Why? Because he wasn’t like his dad. He didn’t take that route. He stood up against it.’
‘But my dad just admitted he gave up in the end and joined them.’
‘And that’s why he’s married to your mum, is it? That’s why he moved her and her parents two hundred miles away from here? And before that? That’s why he protected me from school bullies? That’s why his best friend was a Bengali guy? No, your dad rejected everything his family stood for. It’s true he was never a fighter, but he’s the strongest person I’ve ever known. Yes, in a fight, he’d be finished just like that. But in standing up for what’s right, he was stronger than his father, his uncle, his grandfather and all of his cousins put together. Maybe that’s why my father has so much respect for him.’
‘But what’s his link to my dad?’
‘He’s linked through me and decisions I made, through my brother and decisions he made, and in ways I’m not able to speak about. These are the secrets of time. It’s enough to know that our two families are linked in inexplicable ways. Our lives have been intertwined for generations. For all I know, they’ve been twisted together since the days of the British Raj.’
‘Do you really believe that?’
‘The last part is merely my imagination running wild, but all the rest: absolutely. Is it our place to relive five-hundred years of history, to unpick the rights and wrongs of the past? The partition of India caused deep wounds for a whole generation of our grandparents. Before that, the British Empire. Some of my Sikh brethren believe that was our golden age, but most of us only recall the utter brutality and barbarity of British rule. And before that, and before that, and before that… conflicts and atrocities like this down through the centuries. Where does it end? And who does it end with?’
‘I don’t really know much about history,’ I say.
‘No one ever does. Do you think they’d teach us Indian history in school? What would be gained from teaching the children of immigrants they have a rich and diverse culture spanning five-thousand years of time? How many English people do you think know anything about the British Empire at all? Hardly any. Maybe if they did, they’d leave us alone to live in peace.’
‘Do you think it’s relevant to today?’
‘That’s a whole other discussion. But is it relevant to what we’re talking about now? Most definitely. You have to decide, Ibrahim, what role you’re going to play in the world. Are you going to rake over the past and dredge it for meaning, or are you going to decide that it ends with you? That’s what your father decided. All that strife in his family: he said, no more. He left it all, and allowed himself to fall in love. Perhaps he was the first one in his family who ever did.’
‘But isn’t it important to understand the past to understand the present.’
‘To a degree, yes. But now you’ve learned what your parents left behind, you leave it. Seriously. Move on. Your dad’s a good man. That’s really all you need to know.’
‘So you’ve been told,’ laughs mum, wagging her finger at me.
‘Are you alright?’ asks mum when dad returns.
‘Yes, fine, just eaten too much. Stuffed.’
‘So how’s life treating you, Ben?’ asks Surjan. ‘Must be a bit strange being an English Muslim. We have a white Sikh down at the gurdwara. He’s a lovely guy, but he’s a bit of an oddball.’
‘I think we number about the population of Bognor Regis, so yeah…’
‘Ben doesn’t really get involved with the community locally,’ says mum. ‘He goes to the mosque for Friday prayer, that’s it.’
‘I have my own community,’ says dad, shrugging.
‘Converts like you?’ asks Surjan.
‘No, a mix. But we’re an eclectic band of brothers, that’s for sure. Africans, Asians, black and white… well, the whole world really, meeting in our teacher’s living room.’
‘Sound pretty amazing,’ says Satya.
‘Well it’s everything I longed for growing up. It doesn’t matter where we came from: we’re one, united by the One.’
‘Sounds beautiful,’ says Satya.
‘It is really. The one place I can go to escape identity politics. That lovely Kenyan guy: he’s my brother. Same with each of them. My Japanese friend: he’s my brother too.’
‘But not your local community?’ asks Surjan.
‘I have nothing against them, but there’s a language barrier and it’s just a bit too sectarian for my liking. Not really my cup of tea, that’s all.’
‘You feel out of place?’
‘We get on fine, and they’re used to me: the grumpy gora in their midst. The youngsters don’t know what to make of me, but the old folk just treat me like I’m just part of the furniture. Always chatting to me like I know exactly what they’re saying: Theeka? Ki gal hai? Funny.’
‘You speak Punjabi?’
‘Maim nahim.’
‘Not bad, Ben,’ laughs Surjan, ‘So it’s a Punjabi mosque?’
‘To be honest, I’ve never been entirely sure. It’s a bit confusing. The old men all seem to speak Punjabi, but the imam seems to speak Urdu, and the youngsters seem to speak neither.’
‘Hence you preferring your little multicultural community?’
‘Yeah, pretty much.’
‘That’s a shame,’ laughs Surjan, ‘I was going to make you an honorary Punjabi.’
‘You still can if you like. The old men have.’
‘I’m so glad. We have a lot of love for our Punjabi Muslim brethren. We’re a part of them and they’re a part of us.’ He smiles, nodding. ‘Really, we’re the same people: we speak the same tongue, we’re from the same lands. We were always a people of many faiths. It’s a tragedy we were divided.’
‘It’s a tragedy we let ourselves be divided,’ says Satya, shaking her head. ‘It’s a tragedy we walk straight into that trap, over and over again. Divide and rule, divide and conquer.’
‘Quick,’ laughs Surjan, ‘someone say something before Satya goes off on another rant.’
‘Very droll,’ says Satya. ‘See, still opinionated after all these years. My fame precedes me.’
‘Not at all.’
There is a pause here.
‘So how’s life treating you two? How’s life down south?’
‘Life’s good, generally,’ says mum.
‘We can’t persuade you to come back up here?’
‘No, I don’t think so really. We’re settled now. It’s all our kids know. Up here: it would be like another country to them.’
‘We’re not that bad,’ laughs Surjan.
‘I don’t mean good or bad, I just mean different. We’re content with what we have. We have a beautiful view to wake up to everyday. Ben has a good job. Kids are happy. They’ve never had to worry about a thing. We have a peaceful life, really.’
‘What about the cost of living?’ asks Surjan.
‘Well, yes, we’re in the London commuter belt, so of course we’re stuck in the house we bought fifteen years ago.’
‘I expect for the price of a tiny end-of-terrace house down there you could buy a massive semi in the suburbs up here.’
‘I’m sure we could,’ says dad, ‘but would we want to?’
‘Now you’re hurting our feelings,’ smiles Surjan.
‘Don’t take it personally,’ says mum. ‘Yes, it would be lovely to live near old friends, and reconnect with those we left behind. But the truth is, we fled this town.’
‘And that’s no exaggeration,’ says dad. ‘We were thinking about it… planning something… thinking to the future… but in the end…’
‘We just ran. It was the culmination of a week of such extreme and relentless harassment. In the end, my dad picked us up in the middle of the night and put us on a train. Midnight: that’s when the harassment stopped for the day. And in the morning, we were gone.’
‘Wow, that’s…’
‘Insane?’ asks dad. ‘Well the harassment was insane…’
‘We were being terrorised in our own home,’ says mum, ‘so, yes, we just ran, just like that in the middle of the night. We had one bag between us. We left with next to nothing. And yes, we never looked back.’
‘Anjana’s dad looked after all our affairs for us after we left. Told us where to go and what to do. He helped us so much.’
‘And that’s how we ended up where we ended up. He loved his job lecturing here, but for us, the day we left, he started looking for new positions. Turns out that was a good move for him… for his career. We basically settled where he settled.’
‘Which was the cheapest place to live with a direct line straight into central London. It worked out well for him. And for us.’
‘The truth is,’ says mum, ‘I told myself I’d never, ever come back here. It left a deep scar on my soul.’
‘It’s a different town today,’ says Surjan. ‘A lot of those trouble estates: they’ve all been demolished. The housing stock has all been renewed.’
‘It’s easy to demolish and rebuild a house,’ says mum. ‘But the people? Who helps them?’
‘That’s my job,’ laughs Surjan. ‘Satya’s too.’
‘But is it working?’
‘Baby steps,’ says Satya. ‘Look at your mum, Ben.’
‘My mum was never a violent fanatic,’ says dad. ‘She was terrorised by them too. Half my family, I know, are in prison, or in and out of prison. But the other half?’
‘This is why we’ll never come back here to live, however much you think the place has changed. It’s not our home anymore.’
‘You sound just like my little sister,’ says Satya. ‘She’s hardly been back since she moved down to the midlands twenty years ago. This town seems to have that effect on people.’
‘I’m sure it’s nothing personal,’ says mum, ‘We all just get stuck in our little worlds, raising our families. Busy, busy, busy.’
‘You may be right,’ says Satya. ‘But I do wish Tamy would call from time to time, or answer my calls. But then we never did have a very good relationship: I was always just her annoying big sister.’
‘I can’t imagine that,’ laughs mum, teasing her.
‘Ha ha,’ says Satya, ‘yes, I was high maintenance back then, wasn’t I?’
‘Just a bit,’ smiles mum, ‘but all is forgiven.’
‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ says Surjan.
‘You’re lucky you met me when you did,’ says Satya. ‘If you’d met me four years earlier, you would’ve been horrified.’
‘No, I won’t believe it.’
‘Ignorance is bliss.’
‘And what about you?’ asks mum, smiling. ‘How’s life treating you?’
‘I can’t complain,’ says Satya. ‘I have a husband who loves me. I have four wonderful children. My parents are still alive and well. I have a lovely house and a beautiful big garden. What more could I ask for?’
‘Are you happy?’
‘Happy in my own life? Yes, I’m completely content. But in the world? Nobody should be happy in this dark age of Kali Yug, where those who act like tyrants are celebrated and embraced. We’re not meant to be content with a world of injustice and oppression.’
‘Satya…’ says Surjan.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not about to go off on one.’
‘What about on the faith front?’ asks mum, ‘Do you have an active community here?’
‘There is an active community, but I don’t personally feel drawn to it. A bit like Ben, I suppose, I’d say it’s not really my cup of tea either. I’m too busy anyway.’
‘I thought you would’ve thrown yourself into it,’ says mum.
‘Not really. Surjan’s more engaged than I am. He’s involved in a lot of inter-faith outreach work. They’re developing plans to build a new gurdwara, which seems to excite him.’
‘Not you?’
‘I’m indifferent,’ shrugs Satya.
‘Satya begrudges us khalsa Sikhs taking over,’ laughs Surjan.
‘He jests, but there’s honestly some truth in that. My family was never on that line. I’m on what my dadaji was on. The older I get, the more I’ve come to appreciate his immense wisdom.’
‘Satya has two heroes: Mata Khivi and her grandfather.’
‘I don’t deny it.’
‘She thinks the rest of us have it all wrong.’
‘I’ve never said that. It’s just not what I’m on personally.’
‘But I love you anyway,’ smiles Surjan.
‘I love you too,’ she laughs back, ‘despite your itchy beard.’
‘What happened to the Satya we knew who was insistent on growing her hair sooo long?’ asks mum.
‘She died a long time ago,’ says Satya. ‘I got all that from books I found in the library. I admit I was hurt the first time dadaji told me he had no interest in the five Ks, but in the end I just found myself saying the same thing. Now I just tell everyone what dadaji told me: centre your life around those five virtues. Truth, compassion, contentment, humility and love.’
‘That’s beautiful,’ says mum.
‘So how come you ended up with a guy like Surjan?’ asks dad.
‘Hey, what are you saying, Ben?’
‘I mean a turban-wearing Sikh.’
‘Thought you were calling me a weirdo,’ he laughs, winking. ‘Truth is, I pursued Satya.’
‘And I’m so glad you did. I’m blessed. Truly.’ She glances at my mum. ‘He’s my counterweight. Keeps me balanced.’
‘And vice versa,’ says Surjan. ‘Don’t believe her when she says she’s not a real Sikh. She’s mastered the inner dimension of the path better than any of us.’
‘Rubbish,’ says Satya, showing him her hand.
Surjan recites a raag in Punjabi, then translates it for our benefit:
‘What are the clothes I can wear to captivate my husband? Humility is the word, forgiveness is the virtue and sweet speech is the mantra. Wear these three robes, O sister, then you’ll captivate him.’
‘Ah, Satya, look at that man at your side,’ laughs mum, ‘He’s besotted with you.’
‘I certainly am,’ he says. ‘She’s one in a million is my Satya. I’m blessed to have her as my wife.’
‘Yes you are,’ says mum.
‘Just like me,’ says dad, nudging her.
‘Alhamdulilah,’ she smiles. ‘We both landed on our feet, Satya.’
‘We did,’ she says. ‘In the end.’
‘No,’ says Surjan, ‘that was us. Right, Ben?’
‘No doubt about that.’
‘Face it ladies, you rescued us, each in your own way. I don’t know how we can ever express our gratitude.’
‘Well there’s always washing up,’ laughs mum.
‘Good one,’ laughs Satya.
And now my dad rests his head on mum’s shoulder, like he is still completely in love with her, pushing his hand into hers, their fingers intertwined. Is that what Jasbir sees? Is that what she means? I still don’t get it. I’m going to have to ask her to explain.
‘Hint taken,’ laughs Surjan, rising to clear the plates.
When Surjan begins collecting the plates together, I decide to help. It’s not my generosity though. I just want to catch Jasbir in the kitchen again. I wander back inside, dishes in hand.
