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Sunday, 11 April 2021 

I thought we’d never prise dad away from his mum. We had breakfast together at ten, which we managed to make last all the way to midday. My treat to them, with a little help from mum. Alright, a lot of help. She doesn’t trust me not to burn anything I touch with a frying pan to a crisp. But I make a good waiter. We planned to leave gran’s house at 2pm. It was 2.55 when we finally left. We should’ve been here at 3pm, but we’re late. Now we’re standing at Satya’s front door, hoping someone will answer, but it’s been five minutes already. Mum’s fiddling with her phone, checking for messages. She’s asked me to do the same. She’s just about to ring when the door opens and Satya’s youngest daughter peers out. 

‘Hi,’ she says, smiling shyly, ‘sorry, my mum’s… she’s…’ 

Her brother Khushwant appears at her side. ‘It’s okay,’ he says, ‘dad says come through. Follow me.’ 

Mum leads the way and begins removing her shoes, but the boy tells us not to worry. We all follow straight through, exiting out onto their patio at the back. He asks us to take a seat, telling us his dad will be down soon. We sit on the garden chairs for a few minutes, gazing up their very long garden, until Aman appears. 

‘Hey,’ he says, stepping out. ‘You okay?’ 

‘Hey,’ I reply. ‘My mum and dad,’ I say, pointing at them.  

He nods at them, smiling. ‘Sorry about this,’ he says. ‘Not sure what’s happening. My dad’s with mum. Can I get you anything?’ 

‘We’re fine,’ says mum. ‘We can cancel if it’s not a good time.’ 

‘No, please… Just… er, just relax.’ He smiles at us awkwardly. ‘Er, let me show you mum’s garden. Come.’ He leads us down the winding garden path. ‘Mum takes after nani in the garden. They’re in competition I think. Nothing compares to nani’s garden, but mum’s not far off. It’s her pride and joy.’ He points at the flowerbeds. ‘Not much to see here, but you should see it in the summer. It’s amazing. Mum loves her flowers.’ We walk past a trellis half way. ‘This is how mum feeds us,’ he says, pointing at raised beds filled with leaks, cabbages and potatoes.   

‘Do you help?’ asks my mum. 

‘Only by staying out of the way,’ he laughs. ‘Mum does try to get me involved, but it’s not really my thing.’ 

‘Sounds familiar,’ says mum. ‘Ibby’s just the same. You boys are such lazy bones.’ 

‘Not lazy,’ says Aman, ‘just otherwise engaged.’ 

‘I like that,’ I laugh. ‘I must pinch that line.’ 

We walk further up the garden. ‘And this is mum’s little orchard,’ he says, pointing at fruit trees new and old. 

‘How does she find the time?’ asks mum. 

‘That I really don’t know,’ shrugs Aman. ‘She seems to be able to just magic time up for anything she wants to do. I sometimes think she lives in a parallel universe where time is all stretched out. Either that or she has a time machine. The amount of stuff my mum gets done just blows my mind.’  

‘Well it’ll soon be your turn,’ says my mum. ‘When you have kids, you’ll have to develop those magical powers too.’ 

‘Nah,’ he says, ‘I have at least six years of study ahead of me before I need to think about that. I’m following in my dad’s footsteps.’ 

‘Into medicine?’ 

‘I meant marrying late, but, yeah, I guess.’ 

‘It worked out well for him.’ 

‘Yeah, it did,’ he smiles, ‘So I don’t mind waiting another eight years for the girl of my dreams.’ 

Dad sidesteps towards me and nudges me, a smile on his face. ‘There you go, Ibby,’ he laughs, ‘patience.’ 

My dad’s humour causes me to wander off, hiding my face from mum. I don’t want to go there with her. My dad’s so childish sometimes; it’s embarrassing. I wander all the way back to their house and take a seat on my own, waiting for them to meander back. Mum’s taking a shining to Aman; she’s engrossed in conversation with him on her way back. Dad’s just following on silently. He’s always like this in company: so shy. Like me, really.  

Arriving back at this end of the garden, mum and dad remain standing on the patio, smiling at Aman. From my place, I watch his sister appear at the door and my dad seems to stumble backwards. 

‘Satya?’ he begins, confused. 

‘No,’ laughs Aman, ‘this is my sister, Jasbir.’ 

‘Ben thought you were serious about the time machine,’ laughs my mum. 

‘Sorry,’ mutters dad, ‘that was stupid.’ 

‘Don’t worry,’ smiles Jasbir, ‘Happens all the time.’ She steps down from the step and approaches my parents. ‘I just wanted to apologise about yesterday,’ she says, glancing at my mum. 

‘Don’t be silly. If anyone should be sorry, it’s me.’ 

‘May I…’ She lurches forward and hugs my mum. ‘We’re all travellers on this path,’ she tells her as she releases her. ‘I wanted to tell you that I think you’re too hard on yourself.’ 

‘That’s kind of you,’ says mum, ‘but I say things as I see them.’ 

‘Anjana has always taken the principle to heart: be hard on yourself and easy on others,’ says dad. ‘But you’re right. I tell herself the same thing all the time.’ 

Jasbir looks at dad and smiles. ‘It’s nice to meet you,’ she says. ‘I’ve heard good things about you.’ 

‘I don’t know how,’ says dad.  

‘Modest like auntie Anjanaji too,’ says Jasbir. 

‘No, just honest. I never did anything worthy of praise.’ 

‘That’s not what I heard,’ she smiles. ‘But I can sense I’m embarrassing you, so let me leave it.’ She glances around at us all. ‘Can I offer you tea? Coffee?’ 

‘Coffee sounds good,’ says mum. 

‘How do you like it?’ she asks. 

‘Let me help,’ I say, getting up. ‘I know how they like it.’ 

‘Sure,’ she says, and I follow her inside. 

In the kitchen, I watch her fill the kettle at the sink and go in search of fresh coffee. She shows me a French press cafetiere and I nod my head.  

‘Sorry about my parents,’ I tell her. ‘They’re high maintenance.’ 

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ says Jasbir. ‘They’re nice people.’ 

‘So your mum’s been singing my dad’s praises?’ 

‘Not my mum, my uncle.’ 

‘How do all these people know my dad?’ 

‘Your dad’s famous in my family.’ 

‘Is that good or bad?’ 

‘Good,’ she says.  

I watch her pour scoops of coffee into the cafetiere and pour hot water over them.  

‘There’s a lot of respect for your dad amongst my relatives.’ 

‘Why?’ 

‘Maybe it has something to do with where he came from.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ 

‘Well the story I heard from my grandpa is your dad’s family was notorious around here thirty years ago, but your dad stood up against it. He rejected everything they stood for.’ 

‘That’s not the story I heard. My dad said he gave up in the end and joined them.’ 

‘That’s not the whole story. There was before that and there was afterwards too.’ 

‘How do you know all this?’ 

‘Because my uncle spent twenty years trying to find your dad. And because my mum spent twenty years working with your grandmother. She’s always been like our third granny.’ 

‘So you must be my cousin or something.’ 

‘Something like that,’ she smiles.  

I watch her go to the fridge for milk. She shows me the bottle and I nod my head. She plunges the plunger and pours coffee into two mugs, topping them with milk. She hands them to me and I carry them out to my parents, only to return inside straight afterwards. On my way back, I see Jasbir and Aman talking in the hall and hear them talking about their mum. When she sees me, she wanders back to me. 

‘Is your mum alright?’ I ask. 

‘Not sure,’ she says.  

‘Not Covid, I hope.’ 

‘Not that, but I’m still worried. Dad says she’s been ill for weeks. She never told me, but I can see it in her face. I’m worried it’s something serious and she’s just not telling us yet.’ 

‘Shouldn’t we cancel then?’ 

‘Dad says no. From what he said, it sounds like a panic attack,’ she says. She looks at me worriedly. ‘Do you know anything about the last time my mum ever saw your parents?’ 

‘Was that the time he swore at her?’  

‘I haven’t heard that story,’ says Jasbir.  

‘I think it was your mum who told me.’ 

‘Doesn’t sound right to me,’ she says. 

‘What’s the story you heard?’ 

‘Your dad was in intensive care, and your mum was waiting for him.’  

‘Hmm, yes, my mum told me about that just yesterday. She said your mum shielded my dad during a riot.’ 

‘Yes, and then she never saw him again. Nor your mum.’ 

‘So they’ve come back from the dead for her?’ 

‘Not exactly, but not far off.’ 

‘Surely it’s best we cancel then? My parents won’t mind.’ 

‘Dad says no.’ 

‘And your mum?’ 

‘She’ll be down soon. My mum’s the strongest woman you’ll ever meet. She’s worked with some of the hardest, toughest people in this town and still persuaded them to change their lives for the better. She’s not easily defeated, my mum.’ 

‘I heard that.’ We turn around to see Jasbir’s mum poking her head through the door, surprising us, her husband behind her.  

‘Sorry, mum,’ says Jasbir. 

‘Welcome again Ibrahim,’ she says, wandering in, stroking my forearm as she passes. She wanders over to the cooker and lifts lids on the pans. ‘Looking good, Jas,’ she says. ‘Thanks for sorting. Did you do it how I explained?’ 

‘Taught by the best, mum.’ 

‘You’re my star,’ she says, kissing her daughter on her cheek. Then she looks at me. ‘Now Ibrahim, are you going to introduce me to your parents?’ 

‘If you’re ready,’ I say. 

‘I’ve waited a quarter of a century,’ she says, guiding me ahead of her.  

‘Mum, dad,’ I say, as I step through the door. ‘Your butterfly… guardian angel…’ 

As I say this, I watch my dad stand up out of respect, bowing his head, his palm resting over his heart. Mum glances at him and back at Satya, rising to her feet too. Stepping forward, she embraces her old friend. 

‘Oh, how I’ve missed you, Satya,’ she says. 

‘Likewise,’ she says, stepping backwards. ‘You’ve met my husband.’ 

‘Yes, we met yesterday.’ 

Her husband steps forward. ‘Hello again,’ he says, then paces towards dad and thrusts his hand out towards him. ‘Good to meet you,’ he says, shaking hands. ‘Surjan.’ 

‘Ben,’ replies dad shyly. 

‘No Muslim name?’ he asks. 

‘Anjana used to call me Abdul Haq, but it never stuck.’ 

‘I used to call you Aadil; it was my dad who called you that.’ 

‘Either way, Ben’s just fine. I am who I am.’ 

‘True,’ says uncle Surjan, a moment before glancing back at his wife. As if presenting her, he says his wife’s name: ‘My Satya.’ 

Dad bows his head again, his eyes fixed to the floor, his hand back on his heart.  

‘Hello Ben,’ she says, but dad doesn’t reply. Satya smiles at mum. ‘Still as shy as ever?’ she asks. 

‘He’ll warm up,’ laughs mum. 

‘Relax Ben,’ says Surjan, gesturing towards a chair.  

I sit down beside them as they sit down on one side of the patio.   

I watch as auntie Satya turns to my mum embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mutters, ‘maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.’ 

‘It’s not you,’ says my mum, ‘The past few weeks have been an emotional rollercoaster.’ 

‘I can imagine. But I know granny Catherine is thrilled.’ 

‘You’ve spoken?’ asks mum. 

‘She loves to talk on the phone does granny Catherine.’ Satya glances across at my dad. ‘Your visit has meant the world to her.’ 

‘It’s meant the world to us too,’ says mum. 

I watch dad glance at uncle Surjan. ‘Will you allow me to say something?’ he asks. 

‘Of course.’ 

‘May I address your wife?’ 

‘Oh Ben,’ laughs Satya, ‘so formal! We’re all friends here.’ 

Dad rises to his feet again and stands for Satya. ‘I think there’s no way for me to say this without seeming very formal. So you’ll have to forgive me.’ 

‘Really…’ begins Satya. 

‘No,’ he says, ‘I’ve never had the opportunity to say this.’ Momentarily he glances back at Surjan then back at Satya. ‘Thank you for saving my life,’ he says. 

‘I was just in the right place at the right time,’ she smiles.  

‘But you had every right to leave me to my fate. I was on the wrong side of the fence.’ 

‘That’s wasn’t your fate.’ 

‘For what it’s worth, I never wanted to be there.’ 

‘And neither did I, as it happens. I just wanted to have a cup of tea with my dada, but God had another plan for both of us. That moment changed everything for both of us forever.’ 

‘Haq!’ says dad. ‘Or should I say, satya?’ he smiles.  

‘Truth?’ she asks. ‘Yes, that is the truth.’ 

‘Definitely,’ says dad. ‘I only know from Anjana what you did for me that day. All I know is that you saved me and you saved her. For calling Anjana to my side: from the bottom of my heart, thank you. For reuniting us: may the Most Merciful bless you.’ 

‘How could I have done anything else? 

‘You could’ve just abandoned me there in intensive care. You could’ve walked away.’ 

‘And you could’ve left me to be beaten up on my first day of sixth form. But you didn’t. Sometimes we don’t know why we act one way or another.’ 

‘You gave me another chance, when I thought I had none.’ 

‘So did you,’ she says. 

‘For donating me back to Anjana…’ 

‘I didn’t donate you. You were hers and she was yours. I just did the right thing for the first time in my life.’ 

‘And every day since?’ 

‘I’ve tried,’ she says. ‘Sometimes I’ve succeeded and sometimes I’ve failed. But yes, I’ve tried to spend my life doing the right thing since that day. Well, since about two months after that day.’ 

‘Like saving my mum’s life too.’ 

‘That was one of my successes. I suppose I was in the right place at the right time again.’ 

‘It was more than that. You searched for her. You devoted yourself to her. You turned her whole life around.’ 

‘What else could I do?’ asks Satya. ‘It was the least I could do.’ Satya glances at my mum and then back at dad. ‘I was just settling a debt.’ 

‘But now I owe you a debt.’ 

‘No, you owe me nothing. We’re even now.’ 

‘I don’t understand.’ 

‘Our lives have always been intertwined, Ben. Since long before I even knew you. With my brother, my father, your mother, your father, your wife, her mother. These twists of fate: they astound me. How our lives collided back then, and have collided ever since. We’ve been walking the same path all along.’ 

Satya glances around at all of us, her gaze finally settling on her husband. ‘Now may I say something too?’ 

Dad shuffles backwards and sits back down on his chair, only to find Surjan’s arm landing on his shoulder. Satya glances at dad and mum in turn. ‘I too have waited years to say this. Twenty-six years to be precise. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all that nonsense back then.’ 

‘We were just kids,’ says my mum. ‘Younger than my Ibby is now. Those days are long gone. Ancient history. All forgotten.’ 

‘Still, I’ve yearned to say sorry all this time.’ 

‘There’s no need.’ 

‘For coming between you two when you were on the verge of putting things right. For breaking everything again. For that day I came back from uni and for the things I said. For the hurtful things I said to you. I’ve regretted it all for years. And for taking that poem that wasn’t mine. That was unforgivable. And for the things I said at the hospital: what a cold and heartless person I was back then.’ 

‘I also said things I shouldn’t have,’ says mum. ‘So let’s call it quits. We were both young and foolish then. But without you, we wouldn’t be sitting here today at all. Who knows where we’d be?’ 

When mum says this, Satya bursts into tears. ‘To be forgiven: this is all I seek,’ she says, wiping her face dry. 

‘And to forgive,’ says mum, ‘I think my heart… I think this is what my heart has been telling me… yes, we’ve both carried this weight with us for far too long.’ My mum is crying now too. ‘So I forgive you, Satya. All is forgiven. I’ve seen all you’ve done to make amends, so of course… of course, I forgive you. May Allah forgive me for the bitterness I carried with me all these years. I’m sorry.’ 

‘Nothing to forgive,’ says Satya. 

‘Lots to forgive,’ says mum.  

‘All water under the bridge,’ she replies.  

‘Likewise,’ says mum. ‘All is forgiven.’ 

‘Thank you,’ whispers Satya, getting up to embrace my mum. They remain in that embrace for minutes on end. 

Watching them, I can’t help lightening the mood. I turn to my dad and thump him. ‘Aren’t you going to apologise for the time you swore at auntie Satya, dad?’ 

To my surprise, this causes everyone to laugh. Even Satya and my mum. 

‘Oh, Ibrahim,’ says Satya, ‘sometimes in life you have to shock people out their dream world to bring them back to reality. For me, not even violence could shake me from my sleep. No it took a respectful gentleman I had never, ever heard swearing to bring me down to earth. I’m glad your dad swore that day. It was the only way he could reach me.’ 

‘Maybe I should’ve tried that with mum and dad,’ I laugh. 

‘No, your way was better,’ says my dad. ‘Yes, you jolted us out of complacency. You’re wiser, Ibby, than any of us ever were back then.’ 

‘How very true,’ says Satya. ‘If I was your mum, I’d be very proud of you.’ 

I notice mum doesn’t say anything at all to that, but then mum isn’t a fan of praise. There is quiet now. We have all reverted to silent contemplation. 

‘So,’ says Surjan suddenly, ‘now that we’ve all made peace, shall we return to life? The past is finished. Let’s embrace the present and look forward to the future.’ 

‘Yes,’ says his wife. ‘Let’s. Let’s celebrate our reunion. Jas has cooked us a great Punjabi thali. This feast is long overdue.’ 

I watch as Jasbir wanders inside. I decide to follow on. 

‘Do you need help?’ I ask, joining her in the kitchen. 

Jasbir just smiles at me. ‘That was so beautiful,’ she says. ‘Made me cry.’ I watch her bringing dishes out of the slow oven, setting them on the countertop. ‘You’re a lucky guy, Ibrahim, having those two as parents.’ 

‘You say that, but two weeks ago I was contemplating running away from home. It’s been a tough few weeks.’ 

‘I hope you realise now how blessed you are.’ 

‘I don’t know,’ I shrug. ‘Am I?’ 

‘Yes you are. Even if you don’t, I see it.’ 

‘You know you’re praising Muslims here.’ 

‘So what? We have no problem with Muslims at all.’ 

‘That’s not the impression I get at college.’ 

‘Don’t judge us by some loud activist. Sikhs are like everyone else: they come in all shapes and sizes, with all kinds of beliefs and practices. You’ll find some who’ll be your friend, and some who’ll only be your enemy. I don’t deny that, but our mum and dad always taught us not to judge. You never know what people are carrying. You never know their backstory. Never assume anything.’ 

‘Your parents sound very… enlightened… progressive…’ 

‘You think these are modern ideas, Ibrahim? They follow the guidance of a man born in 1469. Over five-hundred years ago.’ 

‘I got the impression your mum doesn’t really identify as a Sikh anymore.’ 

‘No, you completely misunderstood her. She’s very much on the path. She just doesn’t believe it’s a badge you wear, a sticker you put on your car, a shield you weld to the gates of your house or some proud boast at family weddings. It’s something that can only come alive with practice. It’s not an identity; it’s what you are.’ 

‘So she is a believer?’ 

‘I think maybe you have a misconception of what it is we follow. At root, sikhi is a movement for social justice. I can’t speak for all Sikhs, nor do I claim to… plenty would dispute everything I say… but we don’t follow a path of rituals. That isn’t what our gurus taught us. That’s not our understanding, anyway. Obviously, I can only reflect how we were raised.’  

‘Maybe it’s the same for me. Sometimes I think what I’m taught by my parents and what I learn at madrassa are two different things.’ 

‘Well your parents are converts, aren’t they? So they had to stumble and find their way on their own. That’s not very different from my mum. Her father didn’t teach her what it means to be Sikh. She set out on that road by herself.’ 

‘Really? So what was she before?’ 

‘Culturally, yes, of course… it was in the background. But it wasn’t alive. My mum had to make it alive. That’s what you have to do. It’s a decision you have to take. A commitment you have to make. Just like your parents did.’ 

‘But there you are again, defending Muslims.’ 

‘And again, I see nothing wrong with that, because this is what Guru Nanak taught us: “There are five prayers at five times of day; each of these has a name. The first is truthfulness, the second honest living, the third charity in the name of God. The fourth is goodwill to all, and the fifth praise of the Lord. Repeat this prayer of good deeds, and then you may call yourself a Muslim.” This is what we hold fast to. This is what my parents raised us on. So naturally we embrace your parents. They’re good people.’ 

‘You memorised that, did you?’ 

‘I’ve memorised lots of things like that.’ 

‘Because of your auntie or whoever it was?’ 

‘Partly for that reason, I suppose. Some bigoted people think we should ostracise her.’ 

‘And you don’t?’  

‘Of course not. We’ve only ever known good from her.’ 

‘I can imagine a lot of people wouldn’t be happy that she converted.’ 

‘Only those who have no idea that the Guru Granth Sahib includes the shabads of Muslim bhagat.’ 

‘Shabads? Bhagat?’ 

‘Shabads are like hymns. Bhagat: it’s like a spiritual guide: someone who’s completely devoted to God. Yes, and the Adi Granth includes the writing of three Muslim bhagat.’ 

‘Seriously?’   

‘Of course. Guru Nanak said: “It’s difficult to be called a Muslim; if one is truly a Muslim, then he may be called one.” Yes, he said this. You’ll find this in the Guru Granth Sahib. You can look it up online: it’s all there. He explains how to be a true Muslim, and then he says, “And when, O Nanak, he is merciful to all beings, only then shall he be called a Muslim.”’ 

‘Wow, I had no idea.’  

‘So of course we support our auntie Andeep. To us, Waheguru, Allah and Para Brahman are one and the same. Sikhs will always support the true Muslim; we only oppose injustice, oppression and tyranny. If a Muslim is true, we’re with them. If they’re unjust, we stand against them. The same for a Hindu or a Sikh. If a Sikh spreads lies and hate and acts unjustly, we oppose them too. That’s the path we follow.’ 

‘I thought you Sikhs hated us.’ 

‘You have to understand that Sikhs are a people who’ve suffered a great deal in their history. The traumas of 1984, 1947 and 1919 are still raw. So of course, we watch our backs. It’s what people who feel vulnerable do.’ 

‘So it’s to do with Pakistan?’ 

‘It’s to do with lots of things. Fear of the BJP. Memories of Partition. Activist scaremongering. Grooming gangs. Political Islam. Islamophobia.’ 

‘Islamophobia?’ 

‘Yes, of course, because Sikhs have been the target of anti-Muslim hate crimes for twenty years too. It causes resentment.’ 

‘But not for you?’ 

‘We’re not immune to it, but my parents raised us to treat all people equally and to understand that everyone has a history. As I said earlier, we’re not for or against anyone. We’re pro-justice and anti-oppression. That’s it.’     

‘It sounds like your parents are amazing people.’ 

‘And yours too, Ibrahim, if only you would see it.’ 

‘Maybe I’m too close to them to look beyond everything that happens behind closed doors.’ 

‘Maybe you are. Maybe you should step back. Just watch your parents, Ibrahim. At dinner, just sit and watch. Don’t think. Don’t speak. Don’t dream up funny jokes to make us all laugh. Just sit there and watch your parents. Take time to notice them. You’ll see exactly what I see.’ 

‘You only just met them.’ 

‘But I feel like I’ve known them forever.’ She looks at me seriously. ‘Put your ego to one side and watch them with your heart.’  

She picks up a dish and passes it to me. ‘Now help me lay out this feast.’ 

She takes another dish and I follow her out into the garden, where we find the adults seated on the ground around a picnic blanket, waiting to be served.