A Christmas Tale

My first Christmas in the UK. In 2011. The first year that I did not fly back to India with my son to be with my family and friends. And it did not disappoint.

I have always resented my husband's family for being. Sometimes, just being. For being around him when he needs them. Whereas I always have had to pretend that I am happy to be thousands of miles away from home, content with just three weeks holed up with them every year. So every year I fly back to India to be with my own people, especially during Christmas. But this year was very different. I stayed put in a foreign land, taking part in a foreign fuss.

I often get asked if I celebrate the big day or whether I make turkey curry on the day? Curried turkey? Not everything can be made edible by adding in curry from a jar.

What makes a celebration, any celebration is when family and friends get together. Not all my near and dear ones in this country celebrate Diwali, and anyway it is not even a holiday, making it so much more difficult to arrange a feast on the day. So Christmas it is then. Add excitable kids to any of these occasions, and it makes it so much more memorable.

My son made my Christmas. He was almost at bursting point on Christmas Eve, making the day just perfect. Trips to Santa's grotto, Christmas tree, Christmas dinner with all the trimming, a never-ending mountain of gifts, Christmas markets. This was one of the best ever in a very long time. But not the only one. It reminded me of how my sister and I used to celebrate in India.

Coming from an Indian middle class meant that we were both sent to an all girls overly-strict Catholic school and therefore the images of Jesus Christ, Mother Mary and even Mary Magdalene stayed with us through our growing years. Our Christmas day started with our parents driving us to the local orphanage as bearer of gifts for those "not as lucky as us" and spending time with them, followed by us building a "shrine" for Mother Mary and the baby in our garden. Me and my sister used to spend hours looking for the choicest flowers and stones to build our shrine, followed by some tinsel, balloons, and Christmas decorations going up on the guava tree in the garden. We were then joined by our two favourite cousins for a Christmas feast. Mamma, a teacher at our school (she's still there!), at the time must have felt duty-bound to join in the Christian fun (it is a marked day in her calendar these days, which she celebrates just as she would observe Baisakhi) and would bake cakes and samosas. And of course any excuse for gifts. We were of course the lucky ones, who would get presents for not birthdays alone but also for Diwali, New Year and Christmases.

But our festivities did not end here. We took it extremely seriously.

One year, we planned to put on a play-- it was some sort of a ghost story. I think I was 12, my sister nine years old and my two cousins 13 and 10. We wrote the script, did costumes (spent months!), and even managed to convince the 14 yr old son of one of our family friends (who I used to have a crush on) to come and join us in our production! We wrote invites; rummaged the drawers in our homes for any old junk that we could wrap and then give away as Xmas gifts at the end of the show. Come the day of our show-- December 25, 1985-- and the four girls and one rather tall, gawky lad were all ready to go, dressed in some white robes held by safety pins. My sister and my 10 year old cousin were both statues who come alive (it was a ghost story). We had an audience of about 15 people in our garden, and the play progressed beautifully I think, though the din of the crunching of samosas and gurgling through the straws failed to cease. We were finally coming to the end, when the two statues who had been still for a rather long time started getting a bit itchy, resulting in my sister's robe getting undone. Unflinchingly, she just picked it up and resumed being a statue. Always the pro. But me and my other cousin collapsed on the stage in a fit of girly giggles, the 'other' statue joined in. Forsaking all reverence for Baby Jesus, whose picture was on the 'stage', we were rolling on the floor hysterically, my sister was crying in anger and the boy walked off the 'stage' in disgust- with the rest of our audience. We never managed to finish the final scene of our play, and anyway the audience had had enough and were being called to get back to their homes and finish homework.

Never one to give up,  a year later it had to be done differently.

This is one of the best memories of childhood. Me dressed up in a padded red jacket riding on my red bicycle around the city of Chandigarh, shouting "Merry Xmas" to everyone. Perfectly choreographed, the 'Santa' on the bike was followed by my three helpers- my little sister and my two cousins. My sister and my two cousins, running after me singing Jingle Bells. My bike was adorned with balloons and I was throwing hard-boiled sweets at everyone! Naturally.

I love being free....

I was made redundant, a few weeks ago. For the second time. And from the same publishing house that made me redundant the first time, rehired me, and made me redundant again. Obviously, this time I knew the motions. How to be singularly focused on getting the best deal for myself while maintaining a sense of dignity. It's never easy.

Like everyone else around me, I took it for granted redundancy is not something that happens to you. My first close encounter with this dreaded 'R' word was five years ago, when my husband, a civil servant, took voluntary redundancy. I must confess that it did not really matter much to me. I had always earned more than him, I loved what I did, and he hated his job. So absolutely failed to understand why his self-esteem hit rock bottom or why he appeared depressed at the best of times. It is that constant feeling of being 'finally found out' that gnaws at you, something I do now know. Combined with that sense of the enormous amounts of time that you wasted worrying about work-stuff. And that feeling of not belonging, and being made to feel like an outsider. I felt like the foreigner I truly am.

I came across Louise Chunn's (editor, Psychologies) outpourings on redundancy when she was "dumped" from Good Housekeeping. (It was around the same time I was reflecting on my sufferings) . I understood every syllable of that piece, and because I knew Louise it struck more of a chord with me. I even cut out the article to keep at my bedside. It was one of those many things that told me why I was at home and out of work when I was at the top of my game. All this time I was surrounded with love and affection from all the people and the industry I had written about, but it wasn't till I found another job that I got my mojo back.

The second time around, redundancy was more mind-numbing. I don't remember feeling anything. When I think back to that hot summer day when I was told I was being redundant (again) I remember a robotic-self. Very calm and collected. The only time I shed some tears was when I called up home to talk to Papa.Can never bear to disappoint him. He was of course more than encouraging. And hubby dear, as always, demonstrated his 100% faith in me. "You will find something better," he said!

But what surprised me most was how I felt this time. I was ready for a new challenge, ready to take everything I had learnt with me and start afresh. Most importantly for the first time I felt sort of free.

I remember walking around Soho in my ridiculous heels ricocheting across cobbled streets and finally falling into a pub to enjoy my afternoon G&T. And it felt so good. I sat there for hours. Not drowning my sorrows, but remembering the shy 26 year old shy Indian girl who celebrated her first job in this country with a double espresso outside Carluccio's in Soho. It was my first taste of the Western world, where no one even looked let alone judge a lone woman.

And if there is one lesson I have learnt in these 11 years of living in the Western world is the importance of freedom. The beauty of freedom of thought and action. Simple everyday pleasures that allow me to live the life I want.

And that is what redundancy meant the second time. I'm not sure if paying off the mortgage with my redundancy gave me that sense of abandonment or my middle age. It might be knowing that what I left behind was a job. Just a job.

I have learnt that I will always have the skills to look forward to and enjoy in the next challenge. And that the freedoms that this world has offered me has allowed me the ease of spontaneity.

I am on to pastures new soon, and I am willing to go full throttle again.

I long for the Indian monsoon

I was 10 yrs old when the 1984 anti-Sikh riots erupted in India. Unabated violence in Northern India against Sikhs, following the assassination of the then Indian Prime Minister Indra Gandhi by her two Sikh bodyguards. It is not a time that I've thought about or ever remembered in any great detail. But last night, the haunting images of my tearful mother and a distraught dad shaking every time the doorbell or the telephone rang during those riots just would not leave me. I remembered after all these years how my father had to hide in the Hindu household next door for a few nights. And how we were holed up in our house, with curtains drawn and no lights, for several days. Horrible memories triggered by the images of London burning last night on my TV screens. Something that I've never talked about loud and shudder to think about even now. I was only a little girl then.

But it wasn't the London riots itself that gave me a sleepless night and reminded me of that frightening time in India, but the more shocking images of a helpless police standing by and not doing anything.

I insisted that my son slept in my bed, I became so paranoid. It did not help that living in Croydon, one of the more severely affected areas, made me feel very vulnerable.

The background of the 1984 riots in India and how the violence was characterised at the time are both hugely different to what happened on the streets of London and beyond in the last 72 hours. But as a law-abiding citizen what sent a shiver down my spine is how bloody helpless we are when violence erupts. The State always fails to come to rescue. And you could be anywhere in the world.

Coming from India, like many others I was led to believe that nations such as Britain have the willingness to look after its citizens and their welfare. Living in this country for the last 11 years has dissipated that belief to a large extent (Six years ago when my car was vandalised in front of our house and two of the car wheels stolen by joy-riders, the only luck we had with the police was an incident number we managed to get on the phone. The police did not bother to grace us with their presence. "It's a common occurrence," we we were told). But it is the urbane corruption and the hypocrisy of this country that make me tremble with both fear and rage.

Living in England in 2011, I should not be living in fear of my life, my family's life. I should not be driven to keeping my passports & valuables within reach or forced by fear to keep a knife under my bed. I need to have faith in the system and the people around me.

Tonight I shall go to bed wishing for an Indian monsoon. A downpour of heavy rain, booming thunder and plenty of lightening and wash away this melancholy.

Tonight I want to sleep safe again.

The Buckingham Palace is like a doll-house!

Every summer our tiny Victorian terraced house becomes like the Piccadilly Circus, home to Indian relatives touring London from around the world. Endless trips to Heathrow Airport, followed by all the tourist hot spots in London. Rows of suitcases around the house,queues outside the toilet, and no empty room in the house. Not that I mind.

It's the time of the year, when my house is finally full of the sounds, noises and smells that I grew up with but seldom experience anymore here in my own house. Like the early morning high-pitched singing on Sunrise Radio, the loud dramatic music from Indian TV serials and the smell of butter, spicy omelette and Indian bread (parathas) for breakfast. Ah! Heaven.

The other thing that is always remains the same, every time these visitors arrive is their response to this part of the world. "Oh my God! Everything is so tiny. So small. So very sweet."

I remember the first time my parents arrived from India. My mother pursed her lips when she did a tour of the house. A very quick tour of the house. Her first words: "Don't worry darling, you won't remain this poor always. I'm sure you'll do better than this.At least you have a garden."

"You should have thought of this before you arranged my marriage," I wanted to scream. No, I didn't. I wouldn't dare of course.

And then there was this time when we went to the Buckingham Palace. "Do you call this a palace?" asked my father. "My college (where he was the head at the time) is bigger than this. This is a doll-house," he laughed.

This evening watching The Secret Life of Buildings on Channel 4, it therefore came as no surprise when the presenter revealed that England is building some of the smallest houses in the Western world. Quite sad, I thought. How our neighbours around Europe are living in relatively desirable conditions, in this country things are looking pretty bleak. And to think that the Sterling is stronger than the Euro. And the programme not only explores the social impact of housing in Britain, but also the emotional and physical implications as well. We are all fucked!

Maybe the reason why the first generation Asians settled in this country continue to show a rising tendency in depression and anxiety. I don't have any hard data, but see enough evidence around me to perhaps suggest that one of the factors that make some of us a bit depressed about living in this country is how we live, the houses we live in when compared to the big, airy homes that we come from and which are always full of family, friends and neighbours.

I meanwhile continue to live in my three-up three-down home. Sorry to disappoint, Mamma.

Who's ever heard of a Pinocchio play-date?

Crates of juicy sticky mangoes. Siestas on bare cool marble floors. Board-games 'tournaments' with Mamma and Papa. And that tower of note-books that had to be filled in with home-work exercises-- the same every year. Keep a diary in English and Hindi on how you spent your summer holidays. This is my enduring memory of the hot dusty days during my summer holidays growing up in India. And these are happy memories. Memories that always fill me with a nostalgia for the smells and sights of home.

But summer holidays for my 5 year old in Britain are very different and not that simple.

He gets bored rather easily, for a start. I can't seem to remember using that word at his age. So while we wait to go away for our summer holiday, queue up for hours at the air-port, endure the humiliation at the hands of budget airlines and feel embarrassed every time my husband refuses to try and speak a foreign language, I have to make an elaborate plan on how to entertain the five year old. And not allow the 40-year old to strangle the son, who insists on Daddy playing with him "all the time." My son's logic is simple. "I am a boy, Daddy is a boy, a big boy. We play together all the time."

Swimming at the local pool is not enough. The days that I have to work, all hell breaks loose. "Too hot to go out to the park." "Been raining today, so can't play football outside." "Grandma tired in the heat, so can't have him around all day."

Never mind, I say, taking in a deep breath. Let's organise a play date. Drive to Sainsbury's and pile the car with biscuit tins, chocolate bars, sweeties, synthetic sugary drinks. I do have to live up to the reputation of the Asian mummy. Always polite and always armed with a gift at the door of my son's play-dates.

All that is not enough anymore. I had to spend a few anxious hours coaching my son for his play-date tomorrow.

When his friends come to ours, out comes the Wii, chicken nuggets and chips and orange juice, and sometimes ice-lollies. And a big thank you when it is finally time to say goodbye.

Tomorrow however my son is going to a Pinocchio themed play-date.

The mother will be teaching puppet making to the kids, followed by a story telling game that will encourage the kids to come up with exaggerated tales. Each child will be given a few toys, such as a dinosaur, a drum-kit, a transformer, and the child will then be "encouraged" to weave a story.

I sat down with my son today to teach him how to fabricate stories. There are after all prizes to be won.

Is kids' TV sexist? Ask my boy, he wants to be Atomic Betty

Children's TV is sexist. There is a lack of strong female characters. And broadcasters are obsessed with pink and princesses, thus harming the self confidence of young girls across the country. Says Lib Dem MP Jo Swinson.

The woman with an agenda. The one who has always tried to protect us against the patriarchal misogynist evil society we live in. Remember she was the one who stood up against air-brushing in glossy magazines? Something that we all want. A glossy title that shows us warts and all.

I digress. Ms Swinson, the 'original campaigner' for real beauty cites a 2007 study which showed almost two-thrids of lead characters in UK children's TV were male. According to her this is what starts the "socialisation of inequality" and could "restrict girls' views of themselves and boys perceptions of girls too." She would like to force broadcasters to ensure sexual equality on screen. She should know. She doesn't have any kids. (Ok a cheap shot. C'mon this is a woman who got engaged on twitter!)

I guess I don't have authority on the subject either. I am a mother to a boy.

A boy, who got a toy kitchen set for his second birthday because he asked for one, after watching endless series of Big Cook Little Cook. Granted the show has two male presenters (one of whom is a night time presenter for a sex show, my husband tells me!), but he has since graduated to I can cook, presented by an ebullient Katy Ashworth and wants Mummy to turn into one. (No, not a sex show presenter. But turn into Katy).

And while my house has now turned into a shrine for Ben 10, we all have to watch Peppa Pig every night before bed-time and sing the Bing Bong song. 

But the reason I fear that the Lib Dem MP is chasing a few headlines is because of what my little boy said to me recently. Quite saddened by the fact that he would be leaving his favourite teacher Ms Shillingford behind in Reception when he graduates to Year 1 in September he finally decided what he wanted to be when he grew up. A teacher.

"That means I will have to change my name, Mummy," he pronounced, after dashing all my hopes for his bright future as a doctor, lawyer, banker or the owner of a corner shop. For him his "pretty" Miss Shillingford is a superstar throughout the galaxy who can easily take on inter-gallactic super villains. Why else would he say: "My new name will be Atomic Betty."

"Are you sure darling? Do you not want to be Ben 10 instead?"

His reply: "All the teachers in my school are girls. I think I will have to turn into Atomic Betty, Mummy."

I am no 'Tiger Mom', however.....

I haven't read Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua, a proudly politically incorrect account of how to raise kids in the 'Chinese way.' Nor do I want to. I was born and raised in India and know how my own parents are mostly shocked and sometimes (quietly) horrified at how I raise my son, at the kind of independence that he gets at an age when he can just about read and write but is allowed to make decisions for himself. Or how he's allowed play-dates instead of private tuitions to help him get ready for the tough world outside. And why the naughty step and not a simple whack around the ear (did you no harm, I can always hear Papa      say!)                                                                                                                                                                  

Mamma and Papa this will however make you proud (of me). My son's end of school term report (Class: reception) this week made me hugely proud. Straight As. In personal, social and emotional development; communication, language and literacy; problem solving, reasoning and numeracy; knowledge and understanding of the world; and physical development. Knowledge and understanding of the world? I am yet to get a 'D' in that, but here is my little boy who "uses all of his senses to explore and investigate new things and able to identify the things he likes and dislikes."


But. Yes there is a big BUT. He got a B in creative development. MY son, and a B in creativity. He can even recite all the primary colours and mix them to create new colours. I then headed to the parent teacher meeting wanting some answers. Why a B and not an A? 


He insists on drawing people with their arms sprouting out of their heads, and sometimes the moon under the sea-- came the reply. 


I kissed my brilliant boy. He is truly gifted, I announced to the teacher. 


Ah well, was the response, followed by a long sigh. (and that look!)


I have turned into a Tiger Mother, who never accepts a grade lower than an A. I actually topped that. I made sure the teacher knew that. I made her change the grade from B to A.


Year 1, here we come. We are more than ready for our spelling tests. 


Mamma, Papa smile. I am no longer weak-willed or indulgent.