"The Pakis Are Here!"

All Aboard The Darjeeling Express

A few weeks ago I went for a well overdue catch up dinner with a very dear friend who I have known since we were at school. We went to Darjeeling Express on Carnaby Street; I had been keenly following the head chef and owner, Asma Khan, on social media since back when she used to host her supper clubs in Kensington. The images of her dishes and descriptions of her techniques have repeatedly elicited wonderment and salivation, and I was silently ecstatic throughout the day. The food did not disappoint. We savoured authentic street food like paapri chaat and puchkas, immersed ourselves in the decadent Mughlai venison koftas and robust Bengali goat curry, and finally, full to the brim and slightly tipsy thanks to my irresponsible compulsion to sample one too many of the gloriously sweet and fragrant whites, we settled on ordering just the one bhapa doi to share. I find the term “mind blasting” ideal for the sensory experience that followed: a thick and creamy, very slightly set, steamed yoghurt with a deep and raw – yet never overwhelming – sweetness much like that of jaggery or treacle, delicately perfumed with cardamom and garnished with dried rose petals. There was silence.

What ensued immediately after was, to me, a very interesting discussion.

I am not sure where it came from, but we were suddenly talking heatedly about ethnicity and identity. My friend’s parents are from the former British West Indies, part of the diaspora of indentured Indian labourers sent across the colonies after the end of slavery. She herself was born and raised in London. If I remember correctly, I was either attempting to unravel the mystery behind where in South Asia her family originated, or I was bemoaning yet another incident where I had observed fellow South Asians failing to unite, continuing to publicise and promote ideas of segregation within the community, and / or distance themselves from their ethnic identity. I suppose it was always the same with me, and my friend had expressed earlier on in the evening that she refused to get into any sort of conversation on such topics.

“I don’t really care,” she declared wearily, laboriously going in for another spoon of that irresistible bhapa doi.

“See, this is what’s wrong with our lot,” I said. “No one cares. Everyone wants to do their own thing: get their heads down, earn a bit of money, start a family. It’s typical contemporary Indian mentality. No one wants to deviate from the norm and nurture the arts, or to delve extensively into, or even promote, their own history… Like…What happened to your acting…?”

“I’m not Indian.”

“Okay, well from a South Asian back – ”

“I don’t consider myself Indian,” she reiterated clearly before putting down her spoon.

I have to admit, I was shocked. And speechless, for once. But not for too long. Could it be the wine? She did not really drink as much as I had. Was she just really full, and therefore exhausted after a hard day’s work? It was also a pretty stuffy evening. Perhaps she was not able to think straight. Unless she was genuinely annoyed at my bringing up the subject yet again, despite her insistence, and was trying to shut me up.

I questioned how she could say that. Were the names of her family members not of Indian origin? Were her parents not practicing Hindus, enough to convert an entire bedroom in their home into a puja room? Did they not wear saris and kurtas at religious and ceremonious events? And what about the food? Was she not comparing the daal we were served earlier to the one that her mother made? She replied, quite matter-of-factly, that it was West Indian culture.

Okay, but she was not ethnically West Indian. Did she have Arawak, Wai Wai, or Carib ancestry? Did Afro-Caribbeans not acknowledge their African roots and history? But she kept insisting that she was not Indian, and that she did not identify as South Asian in any way whatsoever. “So what are you?” I asked. She was British West Indian. So that would mean I could refer to myself as British East African, seeing as my dad was the second generation to be born in Uganda. Apparently, I should.  

We argued back and forth: she maintained that identity was by no means tied to ethnicity, and that she and her family associated their part of the West Indies with Back Home. As long as she had no existing ties to the Subcontinent, why should anything relating to that part of the world shape her identity? I, on the other hand, still incredulous, took the unnecessarily dramatic route, bringing up factors such as DNA and physical characteristics, criticising our media for failing to represent us, lamenting our education system for offering us neither a place in history nor a story to present our very existence on this island. More interestingly, why was it more acceptable to express pride in West Indian cultural ties over South Asian ancestry? In the same way, why do some British South Asians like to identify themselves as something other than what they are?

The Totally Buzzy New Zealander

I had taken in a lodger a few months back. Funnily enough, my dad had introduced him to me, leaving me an excited voicemail enquiring over my spare room. He said that the guy was from India, that he was looking for a room specifically in East London, and that he bore an uncannily similar resemblance and manner to me. So much so, that my dad relayed having to do a triple take when he first saw this young man eating dinner at the Spiritual University in Dollis Hill. So the guy turns up for a viewing, and he looks absolutely nothing like me. I am not sure if my dad is blind, or if he has a questionable sense of humour (I actually moaned to my mum, and she was not best pleased with my dad!). He did, however, speak with a charming and unmistakable Indian accent, he was polite and engaging, he seemed really laid back, – almost eager to please – and we ended up having a laugh.

I asked him what he did for a living, how often he planned on using the kitchen, what he considered best hygienic practice. I asked him where he was from, and he replied, “Actually, I’m from New Zealand”. That didn’t seem right. Where was the accent? Did he recently move out there for work? Was he studying there? And then it came out that he was a Tamil Brahmin from Hyderabad who, after a number of years, had become a naturalised citizen of New Zealand. It was not that I really cared, I was just interested to know if I had visited the part of India that he was from, but if we put it this way: an Englishwoman born in Surrey with roots in Dorset moves to America to study. After gaining her Green Card, she decides to travel across Europe, settling in Prague for a few months. Does she tell the people there that she is from America, or does she refer to herself as English? I communicated this example to him a month or so later when he was briefing me on his “totally buzzy” weekend one Monday evening, and casually dropping how he introduced himself to the spaced out, hipster “bitches” as being from New Zealand.   

Never mind looking absurd, my point is that South Asians already have a stereotyped image attached to them – and they always have had, from the turbaned lackeys of yore to various exotic but obsequious, and frankly ridiculous, restaurateurs near the turn of the century – thanks to the media. In today’s America you have the submissive, heavily accented IT workers and taxi drivers, and here in the UK you have your arrogant and contemptibly avaricious business owners and opportunists.  Both stereotypes remain conservative and religious, always tied to their culture. And here was someone, my lodger, who could be perceived as “cool”, as “different”, as “refreshing”, “for an Indian”. Someone that was a trance DJ, was always experimenting with astral projection on psychedelic drugs, was not working in finance in Canary Wharf with an arranged marriage ahead of him next winter. However, he did fit the positive stereotypes: he practised yoga and chanted mantras every morning, he offered alternative healing therapies as his means of income, and he dressed and behaved like a white man in Goa. Why would you want to hold back on your Indian roots? He pondered over it for a moment, his bulging eyes looking to the ceiling, his mouth pursed in an ‘o’ shape, exaggerating his already herpetological features, before he beamed, declaring the revelation buzzy.

My friend too, being from a part of the world that is respected and acknowledged in Britain for its vibrant culture, for its community spirit, and most notably for its contribution to music. But how many know that people of South Asian ancestry also contributed a respectable portion to this culture? When I had first met my friend’s mother I was confused. I had never seen an Indian-looking person speak in a West Indian accent before. My next door neighbours growing up were from Jamaica, and I had heard Grandma and all the aunties and uncles speaking in their gentle, sing-song ways, along with some of the mothers at my school, and the stern nurses at the doctor’s, but they were all black. Would it not break the stereotype if it was widely known that there were South Asians from these parts of the world, whose mothers spoke in Jamaican accents (the entire Caribbean was Jamaica to us growing up – sorry, we were ignorant), and who legitimately danced at weddings in their salwaar-kameez to soca and dancehall music, as opposed to bhangra and Hindi film remixes? By at least being open about, if not proud of, your South Asian roots it offers an important opportunity to start discussions and question tired and offensive stereotypes.

In the end, my friend and I had no choice but to agree to disagree in order to avoid our delectable evening turning sour.

But that was by no means an isolated incident.

The Pakis are Here!

I have near and dear ones, all with the same or similar family stories of immigration and terrifying discrimination, who are with white British partners and spouses that voted to leave the European Union for reasons relating to such ludicrous ideas as immigration and the overpopulation of the United Kingdom being a direct strain on jobs, housing, and the NHS. But we are deemed okay because we have assimilated into the culture. I apologise to even have to explicate that ‘we’ have nothing to do with the European Union, and the European Union has nothing to do with the broad range of people, cultures, and races that are currently being accused of failing to assimilate. My near and dear ones grow to agree with their other halves because they are not part of those being ostracised by the whole of the “developed” world.  

I was speaking to my aunt the other day, now that it has been two years since I moved into the old family home in Stepney, and I was asking her what it was like to live in the area over forty years ago. As I had imagined, the row of quirky renovated houses along the charming cobblestone mews leading up to the old church of St Dunstan and All Saints, used to be a row of shops selling everything from children’s toys to ladies’ underwear. There used to be a pub on every corner, with the two almost adjacent to the block having since been converted to an NHS Health Centre and a chicken shop. “I used to go into both of them sometimes,” my aunt told me in her ever-strong East End accent. “Everyone used to know your name and ask how your family was.” She told me how in her teens in the late Seventies she used to spend most of her wages at a record shop run by an old Jamaican man on Grove Road, and how a group of black boys always protected her at school when the white kids used to pick on her and throw chewing gum at her hair. I asked her what it was like when they first moved to the block. My aunt described how the family – my grandparents, along with my dad, two uncles, and two aunts – were given many options to relocate from the RAF Camp turned refugee camp at Greenham Common in Berkshire, to such enticing destinations as Manchester, Leicester, India, and even Canada and the United States, but my grandfather was staunchly set on London, and that too the East End, with its textile and wholesale fashion industry on Commercial Road and the abundant possibilities of work for a tailor like himself.

After almost a year at the camp, my aunt remembered how a group of families finally hopped on board a minibus destined for London. One by one, not too dissimilar to a travel company coach dropping off families at their luxurious, all-inclusive destinations along a strip of glitzy yet oppressive hotels, my family was let off at their final stop: a smart and tidy council block just along Regent’s Canal. I was told that we were the first and only non-white family to move into the block, and that every resident of each flat had come out to see who had arrived. The woman that lived downstairs was a “racist bitch”, being the first to loudly bemoan, “the Pakis are here!” as my family huddled confused, unsure what to make of this new future ahead of them. “Pakis, Pakis, Pakis, Pakis, Pakis, Pakis,” my aunt whispered almost manically, “That’s all I could hear around me. And we were thinking, hang on! We were confused. Why were these people calling us Pakis?”

I had recently finished reading, and thoroughly enjoyed, Shappi Khorsandi’s autobiographical A Beginner’s Guide to Acting English, where she describes her own experiences as a child from pre-revolutionary Iran growing up in West London during the 1970s and 1980s. Many times in the book her family are insulted as Pakis, with one particularly memorable passage relaying a time with her father at Portobello Market. Her father is haggling down an item when the aggravated stall owner resorts to racial abuse, with someone ultimately calling him a Paki. Her mother is shocked at the ignorance of the English, who are not even able to tell the difference between a Pakistani and an Iranian. Khorsandi herself makes many subtle references throughout the book to distinguish herself from South Asians, be it mentioning the boys in the playground who enquire over whether she is an Arab, Pakistani, or Bengali, though “The boy himself looked Indian” (?), or even making one of her closest friends seem almost like an exotic alien because she came from India. Although, to be fair, Khorsandi also ardently differentiates herself from Arabs and Iraqis, and any ethnic group that is not Iranian.

Regardless of whether we are from the West Indies, East Africa, South Asia itself, or even evidently parts of Central Asia and the Middle East, when push comes to shove we are indistinguishable in the eyes of many. Before 9/11 we were collectively known as Pakis, and we have since turned into Muslims and terrorists regardless. I can imagine a contemporary role reversal of Khorsandi’s book playing out with North Indians: “Of course I am not an Arab / Iranian / Turk! How can I be a fundamental Muslim if I am Indian?” (and I have experienced a very similar example with a middle aged work colleague who, when staff were asked if they would be taking time off for Eid, flatly declared, “Why would I? I’m Indian”). What difference does it really make? Why succumb to their divide and conquer?

I understand and accept that it is fair to identify with what you choose, be it your ethnic or racial background, the country of your ancestors, the country of your birth, or even your adopted country. But all of that is superficial in the fight against ignorance and prejudice. There are many varied and beautiful cultures from all over the world in Great Britain, and I feel as if all the different ethnicities, from Moroccans, to Kurds, and even to Nepalis, who are still considered South Asian, acknowledge their ethnic identities with pride. What is wrong with the rest of the South Asian diaspora? 

May the Diaspora Unite

India has been in the media a lot lately, and almost always for the wrong reasons. For every positive news story there are around triple the number of articles countering the news: pretentious and patronising, imperialistic in tone and highly conceited. And the readers comments sections pack such unnecessary venom that it renders me speechless and choking, the inflicted poison refusing to wear off even after twenty-four hours. For months I have endeavoured to voice my own opinions, my notebooks full of resentful writings on random pages, but the level of indignance I have felt has been so overwhelming, I have been at a loss for where to start.

I was sent a link to an article featured in India Today by a friend the other morning: ‘India & A Blonde Tourist: an alternate account’, by Jane von Rabenau. It was a response to Michaela Cross’s report on CNN about her experiences studying abroad in India. Like most people, reading Cross’s report did upset me, brought up feelings of shame and disgust, but after all the articles and comments following the horrific gang-rape in Delhi almost a year ago now, and subsequent reports of violent sexual assaults on tourists, it was like listening to a bad broken record over again whilst desperately anticipating the delivery of a new one, a better one, one with a new and superior melody. Furthermore, the report garnered so much attention and appeared to be pounced upon by the US media as some sort of universal lesson for the developed nations to bear in mind about the culture and society of India. Indians are sexually repressed. Indian men are brazen perverts. Indians turn savage at the sight of fair skin. They scoff irately that India can even consider calling itself the world’s largest democracy.

I can recall such snidely deriding comments being made by both the British media and the public during the run up to the 2010 Commonwealth Games in New Delhi. India was ridiculed and the Western generalisation of Indians as lazy and incompetent was reinforced. This stance continues to embellish the majority of British articles I have read on India: the stench, dirt, and ubiquitous dire poverty appears necessary to adorn travel and culture pieces, with a primitive and backwards depiction of Indian mentality used to set the scene on its society and development commentaries. I observed sanctimonious national pride back in February when David Cameron, though apologetic, defended the British Empire over the 1919 Amritsar massacre and, whilst I was examined on the holocaust and apartheid as part of the GCSE history curriculum, such truths and important historical events relating to the British Raj – the reason anyone from the Indian subcontinent is in Britain in the first place - are swept under the carpet, replaced instead by a subtle, systematically inculcated anti-Indian sentiment. I am even seeing British newspapers commission Indian writers with set agendas, biased viewpoints that match those of the British media, to comment on Indian current affairs, denying the common British public any counter arguments or debates, further enforcing an already long established antipathy – or at least hopeless apathy amongst the reasonable – towards India and Indians.

This is why Jane von Rabenau’s article struck such a chord with me. Not because hers was a beacon of light, nor because I was sentimentally moved by her disapproval of Cross, her humble reasoning ability and her defensive stance, but because it took a white student to make people take note and perhaps accept a little perspective. When Indians talk in defence of their own country, not through pride, but because they are primary witnesses with the ability to objectively attest daily life in current climates, their statements are overlooked, passed off as blind patriotism. If a British newspaper decides Narendra Modi, currently the longest serving chief minister of Gujarat and a leading candidate to becoming India's next prime minister, to be a right-wing Hindu supremacist, then it must be true. Let us pore over all the reports focusing on his alleged involvement in the 2002 Gujarat riots and his condoning the murder of between 790 and 2,000 Muslims, and on the various speculated definitions of Hindu nationalism. Let us ignore the voices of the majority of Indians who, according to opinion polls conducted by such news mediums as The Indian Express and OneIndia News, chose Modi as the preferred next prime minister of their country. What do they know? I too was of this ilk from the moment I heard of the man, back in 2011. I was growing increasingly fretful learning of his possible rise to power, especially because all that was published about him here connoted his anti-Muslim stance, opining that he did not do enough to make minorities in India feel safe, and that he could incite further conflict with Pakistan. As a minority in Britain myself it is the safety, well being, and peace of mind of ethnic minorities worldwide that I hold closest to my heart; it is minorities I sympathise with and relate to. What was happening in India? I read comments from Indian nationals vehemently supporting Modi, but could not understand why. Then my own cousin who lives in India began posting his speeches and applauding him on Facebook. Finally, it only took a little bit of research, a little expansion of my sources of knowledge, to be able to see another side, to understand how millions of ethnically, socially, and religiously diverse people could see hope in someone our media misrepresents as another fascist nut job.  

Why do so many Indians, especially those abroad and those of the diaspora, lack pride in their ancestry? Even Indians in India fail to accept unity. The “modern” youth want to do things the Western way; they too want to pour scorn on the ancient culture and practices inherent in them. Vedic medicine and sciences, spiritual practices, and the universally Indian virtues of tolerance, humility, and benevolence (as noted by the 16^th Century Italian traveller Ludovico di Varthema upon observing the people of Gujarat, and the numerous examples throughout history of Indian kingdoms granting asylum to religiously persecuted refugees of Central Asia and the Middle East – communities that continue to thrive in India to this day) are rapidly being discounted as superstitious rigmarole, traits that make you weak and have no place in economic development. Rather than offer anything constructive, eminent Indians in the media, those turned to for insider information from personal experience, give the West what they want to hear, a variation of what has already been propagated. In a CNN interview with the Indian-born American model and television presenter Padma Lakshmi, she responds to the Delhi gang rape with, amongst other misguided statements, “[sexual discrimination] is ingrained so deeply into our psyche, into our religious texts”. Though she may allude to a suggestion or two towards resolving this serious concern, these are overshadowed by her anecdotes that describe being aggressively leered at whilst popping to the market for cilantro and unbearable sexual harassment on crowded buses on the way to school, both experienced as a teenager.

“So that literally would happen on the bus,” the newsreader asks, unable to conceal her confounded disgust, “that men would touch you and grab you…?”

“Sometimes, yeah.”

Lakshmi then laughs, perhaps nervously, as she describes India’s bus policy of providing reserved seating for women. Why does there have to be this hint of derision, this distinction to be verified between “them” and “look at me now, I've escaped the horrors”? Why the hypocrisy? Von Rabenau quite correctly points out the double standards between an Italian man’s wolf-whistles and stares, often considered a compliment, and an Indian man’s stare, deemed threatening. In most cases, speaking from my personal experience of visiting various parts of India, people are staring from a place of curiosity. Once, on the Delhi metro, I suffered an anxiety attack from the number of passengers I found staring at me, scrutinising me from head to toe. Perhaps the sight of a man with a 1920s inspired haircut, stretch-skinny jeans, and vintage tennis plimsolls was not something East Delhi commuters were accustomed to so early in the morning.

And how about some perspective? The first time I visited India as a preteen I stayed in Gujarat, where my elder cousin and I were driving back late one night from an uncle’s house on her scooter. Upon nearing her neighbourhood a couple of young men on a motorcycle began to follow us. They kept sounding their horns and whistling at my cousin for her attention.

“What are they doing?” I remember asking with fear in my voice. Images of distressing harassment scenes, so common in popular Indian cinema of the 80s and 90s, flashed through my mind. “Why are they following us?”

Just as we were approaching the narrow alley that served as a shortcut to the entrance gate of my cousin’s courtyard house, the youths overtook us and blocked our path. We had been cornered in a deserted and unlit side street. In true Bollywood style there was even an abandoned bullock cart of hay propped against a wall. My heart was racing and I went to hold my cousin tight, praying for the intervention of some hairy-chested, angry hero to leap down from a ten-foot wall. Before the youths were able to utter a word, my cousin leapt from her scooter and charged towards them. She threatened them with a slap so hard it would leave their cheeks burning as red-hot as an iron tawah. They promptly rode off, giggling and cursing to save face.

I have seen women harassed in the same way all over London. Men would call out to them, follow them, pester them incessantly for a hug, a kiss, or a number. I can see the discomfort and unease in these women’s faces as they initially try to ignore the louts. And when they can take it no more, disappearing into a taxi, behind a door, or telling the men where to go, they are met with laughter and abuse. They are ugly slags in any case; their mouths disregarded as unfit for urination. This scene is regularly played out up and down the country.

Of course India has a problem, but what nation does not? Is Britain branded as the paedophile capital of the world? Does every child abuse case look to indigenous British culture and psyche for explanations? And what about the self-imposed unemployed Britons, happy to sit at home or at the pub as they malign immigrants for their work ethic? Any mention of a lazy Briton and the public commentators hit the ceiling. How dare you suggest a Briton to be lazy! You lot need to give us our jobs back. Britain for Britons! Return the Koh-i-noor diamond? Illogical! Acknowledge British atrocities bringing about the devastation and demise of a once powerful civilisation? On yer banana boat mate.

This brings me to that primitive dullard Vinnie Jones and his recent comments to the Radio Times on an unrecognisable Britain, over which I initially lost much sleep. He readily handed himself over to our media to be ripped to shreds over his feeble-mindedness so I can save my time pointing out the baseless bigotry of his every word, but he did give me cause to mull over something of greater significance. His opinions, absurd as they are, seem to hold true for an increasing number of British people. When I was younger this resentment towards foreigners and immigrants appeared to be directed at ethnic minorities for being different, and spending more time with my mum growing up made this difference more apparent. Though my dad and his siblings spoke, acted, and thought like English people (even going so far as to decidedly condemn India as a filthy and smelly place, full of flies), we knew that they were not born here; their stories of racial abuse, although relayed light-heartedly, have marked my mind with a lasting terror to this day. Now we are seen as a threat, as direct competition for work, for accommodation, and for resources. Simpletons like Jones criticise immigration to the UK whilst seeing their own migration almost as an honour bestowed to their host country. In the same way, these people have no idea of the distress or insecurities their thoughtless words can induce in the hearts and minds of those ethnic minorities to whom Britain is the only home they know, a home they were born into, a birthplace that is their primary identity. Should the question arise, ‘where are you from?’, our immediate response is to proclaim Great Britain, or our British city, with as much pride as any full-blooded Englishman. Jones and his obtuse lot see all immigrants as one, be they black, brown, or Eastern European. They do not care to hear how some of our parents and grandparents have worked through blood, sweat and tears to contribute not only to the British Empire, but subsequently also to the British economy and society. How they have staunchly refused to accept a penny in benefits whilst saving up to buy family homes and set up businesses in order to survive, to live as responsible and law abiding citizens, to make something of themselves. In order to support Britons unable to work, pensioners, and the disadvantaged, a great deal of whom continue to fantasise about a Britain devoid of Pakis.

Rather than being so quick to scornfully distinguish ourselves as Punjabis, Bengalis, or Gujaratis, to distance ourselves from Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, or even freshies, all children of the Indian Subcontinent diaspora must stand united. Rather than choose to ignore racist comments, to sit quietly in a corner, we must speak up and correct the statements, educate the uninformed, even if it means stepping out of our comfort zones, confronting those close to us. My sister has a mixed bunch of good friends from working class, council estate backgrounds. She relayed to me recently how one of them, one she is quite close to, throws the word Paki about willy nilly. The latest episode occurred on a night out when some South Asian guy must have accidentally bumped into her in a crowded club. This friend’s instant reaction was to call him a stupid Paki. I asked my sister if she said anything to correct her. She did not. When asked why, my sister responded that it was not her that was being called a Paki. And besides, she was not from Pakistan. One of my closest friends told me just the other day of an incident she encountered on a visit to her boyfriend’s house share. A brother of one of the housemates had come to stay for a few days from out of London. She described him as boorish and opinionated; something about his manner made her feel uneasy. One night, as she and her boyfriend sat in the living room watching television, this man decided it was appropriate to announce that he was “just goin’ down the Paki shop”. My friend looked at her boyfriend in horror, who just shrugged helplessly in response. I asked her why she did not say anything to the man. Her reply was that she just did not want to get into it all with him. 

Consider the Jews of Eastern Europe, once the surviving victims of genocide and now one of the most powerful and influential communities in the United States. They have utilised their influence over Hollywood and the media to constantly remind the world of their plight. They have worked together to build their reputation and authority, not just for themselves but also for Jews the world over. How about African Americans, and the Afro-Caribbean community of Britain? They too have worked just as hard to break down stereotypes and aggressively challenge prejudice in order to achieve the respect and recognition that is owed to them today. All of these communities have used the media to push their stories and to educate the world, in effect glorifying their self-image whilst simultaneously promoting the ostracism of their critics.

What is happening in India should be of significance to us, but they are issues too vast and from which we are isolated. We are constantly reminded of our statuses on visits to the Subcontinent, how we do not belong, how the experience will always be novel for us; we are disregarded as foreigners who could never adjust. And when comments like those of Vinnie Jones explode onto the media, following the recent reports over the Home Office immigration vans targeting people of an “Asian appearance” in specific London boroughs, it is disconcerting because it is being indicated to us that we do not belong in Britain either. We cannot even be classed as nomads, for we do not travel from place to place. If anything, we are in danger of being displaced. It is now up to us; it is the responsibility of those who work within the media, of those who have some influence, to put their faculties to good use in order to educate and inform the masses. Indian history during the British Raj must be taught at schools, including such dark and disturbing truths as Macaulayism, in my opinion the inflicted root cause of Indian mentality today, the many Indian famines under British rule, brought about through greed and selfishness, and the indenturing of Indian labour to all corners of the globe. Writers and directors need to cinematise significant moments in the history of India and its diaspora: colonial attitudes, Indian massacres, partition, the 1972 Expulsion of Indians from Uganda. We need to show the world where we have come from, what values we have brought, and how much we have contributed to our new homelands. In this way, united, we can challenge attitudes and misconceptions, collectively earn respect, and find our place, with reverence, as part of British society.

The Emotional, The Rational, and The Lesson

If you feel no desire for me, then say so.

If you want to live alone, without a lover, then say so.

If your heart holds no place for me, then say so.

Say if it 's so, or say no, but just tell it to me straight.

If my heart is not on fire, then why all this smoke?

There is no incense burning, so what be this oudh I smell?

Why do I love? And why do I doubt?

Why is the moth so eager to burn in the candle's hell?

The tormented words of the 13^th Century Persian poet and Sufi mystic, Jalāl ud-Din Muhammed Rumi, seem to ring true for many a heartbroken, forlorn and confused lover. Read in the original Persian, or Braj Bhāsha and Urdu in the case of Hindustani poetry, a single word carries the weight of a myriad of painful feelings and tormented emotions; English translations appear to fall slightly short in their abilities to convey the true essence dripping heavily from each line. Though a great deal of Sufi and Islamic, and of course Hindu devotional, poetry is directed to the Almighty, that raw longing that tugs desperately at one’s heartstrings is a somewhat universal sentiment.

Just listening to a vocal piece by such classical masters as Farida Khanum or Shobha Gurtu one can imagine tears streaming down the anguished faces and into the trembling mouths belting out such couplets as, “My destroyed heart had only hope to turn to. That too you confiscated from an impoverished me”, and the double entendre behind “Heat erupts from unfulfilled desires: like an oil lamp, I too am routinely burnt come nightfall”, hinting at an unfaithful or even indifferent lover. There are those individuals, the enthusiasts, in whom this grief echoes palpably; their exclamations of adoration and sympathy would rise to the heavens back in the heyday of mahfils assembled under the moon and stars. Each lingering couplet has the effect of holding ones hand over a flame in defiance: a satisfying blistering with a profound purpose.

And then you have those individuals who remark, albeit under their breaths, “Oh lord, what is this depressing music?” willing for it to cease at once. They turn instead to something with a jovial beat and nonsensical uncomplicated lyrics, if any at all.

What is interesting to note is that the sentimental individuals and the seemingly unfeeling rational individuals tend to end up experiencing life together, each one making the other feel inadequate: the pathetic and the stable, the passionate and the bore. I had never considered myself the emotional sort; I still find it uncomfortable engaging in civil body contact with friends and family, let alone embracing strangers and acquaintances. Perhaps I have always been emotional and absurd, but it was never perceived as such because I had managed to maintain distance and express nonchalance. Why did this stance change, and when did my fortress walls begin to decay until they rotted away to ruins? The pathological process had been partly administered, but was largely self-inflicted; my defences peaked, though superficially, before a brutal viral blow by a foreign body took me down, declaring me perpetually susceptible to all forms of oppression, exploitation, and emotional plunder. I have become that figurative welcome mat who is always stepped on, though I had strived – and preached – more than anything for this very predicament to be avoided.

The past two years since my last post, which have flown by almost unnoticed, have been by and large uneventful: I travelled to India, staying with my cousin in New Delhi over the month of September 2011 before commencing an Integrated Masters degree in Ayurvedic Medicine at a London university the following month. Moved to question my ambitions, my future, and my relationship by Delhi’s spellbinding culture and history, juxtaposed with its unbefitting yet agreeably sparkling modernity, I returned somewhat enlightened to the philosophies of conjugal life, yet equally pervaded by inflicted doubts. Was I settling for what was comfortable? Were there greener pastures? What were the moral implications? I happened to chance upon someone; they were different and they were initially more interested in me than I was in them. Though there were direct physical similarities with my ex, this person carried the cool demeanour, the zeal, and the mischief my ex had lost over the years – what I believed at the time to crave for in the relationship. This, encouraged by my unfounded doubts and insatiable demands along with the ex’s utter lack of ardour, and valour in the face of possible separation, ultimately caused our relationship of five and a half years to abruptly end. My new infatuation also failed to last; it was tumultuous and demeaning, serving only to irritate a tender wound before a stinging vitriolage. My ex maintained a fully supportive stance throughout the whole ordeal, offering sound, objective advice, a shoulder to cry on, and even a body to release on; I was shown such unconditional kindness and understanding. I began to value the philosophies and knowledge I had picked up in India and through Ayurveda and the Brahma Kumaris, appreciate the beauty in this fun-size deity that had been bestowed upon my life. I had made a grave error in taking what we had for granted, and wanted everything to return to as it was. But I had gotten ahead of myself. I was blinded to the fact that my exalted deity was yet a mere mortal also experiencing epiphanies of their own, suddenly claiming to be enjoying single life with gusto – free x-rated self portraits and a cheeky kiss for every eligible applicant. I was emotionally and physically cut off in the blink of an eye. This unexplained change of tune quickly reduced me to utter devastation and uncertainty. As a result, I only just managed to scrape through my first year at university, still wounded, still ceaselessly confused, and still not in the least bit prepared or capable. It has been in this state of bewilderment – anxious, negative rumination in a limbo of hope and despair – that over a year has passed.

Whilst family and friends had expressed deep concern over my losing myself, over social withdrawal and the dangers of developing a submissive personality, my former partner appeared to take everything in their stride. Pleas to talk and proposals for improvement have been consistently rebuffed, almost as if switched on to autopilot; detachment and subsequent cold bloodedness have been taken to with ease. But only seemingly so. I may choose to voice my sentiments, relay my doubts and concerns to my closest friends, or even learn to regulate my emotions through various creative outlets or spiritual guides, but what of the rational, unsentimental lot? Should they be viewed as cruel and unfeeling by default because they choose to keep their woes contained within them, because they manage their emotions differently? Despite what the truth may be, my ex claims to want no part in any meeting, dating, or random sex for the unforeseeable future; they are content in their own company. I have been unable to focus on anything but the procurement of my lost love, or at least something to replace it: a passionate kiss, television serials in bed, enjoying one another’s company over plenty of alcohol followed by unruly sex. Every other aspect of my life has been allowed to suffer in the absence of this, so how can it be that someone would choose to reject this fundamental want? And thus negative thoughts of self doubt, lies, and betrayal abound, churning all the time and with each new, out of character incident.  

I recently found myself engaging in a rare, deep conversation with my dad on a drive back from Brent Cross. He was asking me what I was doing with my life, whether I wanted to settle down and get married. I told him that I was not ready, and most likely never see myself settling down in the conventional sense; I did not think anyone would be prepared to give me what I want.

“You know, you’re never happy with anything,” he said to me in his soft Cockney accent. “You and your sister, you’re both like your mum actually. All sensitive and irrational. Hot headed.”

I encouraged him to elaborate and he went on to relay his relationship with my mum. Before she chose her path to spirituality and embraced austerity almost fifteen years ago, she had always been a rather passionate person, full of emotions and enthusiasm, easily angered and stubborn, yet just as easily placated and yielding. Being the youngest of five children, she was accustomed to roguery and fighting for attention, and was the queen bee of her hometown, counting the granddaughters of zamindars and former maharajas among her closest friends. Playing on a beach during a visit to Bombay in the 1970s, she was spotted by the late Dev Anand, a legend of Indian Cinema, and was approached on his behalf to audition for a role in his next film. Her brother strictly forbade her and ordered her return home to immediate effect. Moving to London dampened neither her verve, nor her aggression: whilst parking on double yellows she would get into verbal fights with outraged Jamaicans proclaiming, “because you are black, you think I am a scared of you?” and once demanded my uncle come downstairs and face her so that she can slice him open and rub salt into his flesh after he had threatened my dad over a domestic financial issue.   

“It’s all too much man,” dad continued. “I’m not the kind of person who’s happy to just sit there and stare at your face all day. What do I want to do that for? That’s what your mum was like, wanted me around all the time: watch TV together, eat together, sleep together.”

So what did he want her to do? I asked him. Did he regret failing to pay her sufficient attention since she had enforced strict celibacy and detachment onto their marriage?

“Well… I suppose I could have been more attentive, but I don’t regret anything. It’s just not the kind of person I am. I believe that a marriage, or any relationship for that matter, has that honeymoon period when everything’s nice and you all love each other. But after that, you’ve got to lead your own lives.”

I did not understand.

“You know, you do your thing, she does her thing, and at certain times of the year you meet in the middle… Like on holidays, or a dinner and dance…”

I was speechless. “You know what dad, I can’t even blame mum for the decisions she’s made in her life. With opinions like that, poor mum…”

My dad continued to defend himself, reiterating that people are just different, what makes one person tick could be the biggest bore to someone else. He went on to tell me one more anecdote, of the apparent final straw for my mum. She had introduced him a while back to her new friends, a mirthful family of Mangalorean Catholics who lived a few doors down. Finding such a rapport with Mr Rodriguez, something quite rare for a man as reserved and withdrawn as my dad, he found himself spending most evenings and almost every weekend at their house. They would drink beers and rum, talk electronics as they played cards or darts, gorge themselves on deliciously spiced, coconut laced pork curries, and laugh heartily in merriment.

“I mean, you can’t live life like that day in day out, but it was fun at the time. Okay, I’m happy to have given up meat and alcohol – I never really liked pork anyway – but we had a laugh. You’re mum wasn’t happy, mind. You know what she’s like, asking me what I’d like for dinner and waiting up for me so we can go to bed together.”

I empathised with my mum completely, being reminded of the times I would stay up until the early hours of the morning in wait of the ex to return from a night out. It was out of worry; you simply want to know and acknowledge that the person you love is safely beside you, that they are not lying somewhere in an alley, drunk out of their minds and choking on their own bile. It is not something that manifests entirely from control, as is generally falsely perceived. If anything, there is a sense of loss felt in their absence. That we are missing out on precious moments that could be spent together – even if it does mean simply staring at each other all day.

“She started trying to control me. Like wanting to know when I’d be home and telling me I can’t go out. Fuck that man, I don’t answer to anyone.”

“So then?”

“One night I’d had one too many and she went mad. And that was it. She started going to those spiritual talks and just got drawn into it further from there.”

I told him it seemed as if she had given up. Her last thread of hope had been confiscated and she was left destitute, just like Farida Khanum. Only God could offer her the unreserved love she craved.

My dad was not convinced. He does not believe that you should need to rely on anyone, not for companionship, nor for support. One must keep oneself busy.

My mother and I share both our astrological sun sign in Leo, and our Vedic moon sign in Pisces. We get along famously, but we have recently discovered that we simply cannot live in close quarters. Our similarities are much too strong – not in terms of our likes and dislikes, rather our personalities: our staunch steadfastness in our personal beliefs and values, the stubbornly obsessive way in which we exert our control over our domains, and our hopeless loyalty and dedication to people. Where Western Leo traits include generosity, forgiveness, and fervour with pride and melodrama, the Vedic Pisces is a creative, idealist dreamer prone to escapism in the face of difficulty. Affection is what these sentimental romantics crave more than anything, and old age sees them tend towards a spiritual path. So is that my lot? To yearn for something so unattainable that I am forced to ultimately dedicate my remaining years to spiritual practice? I have seen my mother suffer in her denial, flushing Amaranth pink with frustration at having to suppress her natural urges. When I used to live at home, and my sisters still inform me of its intermittent continuation, every few months or so would see my mother simply erupt with irritation, like a pressure cooker, her wrath incurred individually by each sibling; abusive language spews forth, possessions eject from windows, a war cry of pots, cutlery, and kitchen unit door-slams reverberates menacingly throughout the house.  It is a release mingled with self-torture: she alienates her children, harms herself and her utensils, and creates a resentful atmosphere vibrating through the household for days. This appears to be in line with the poets: the attention turns from wine, bisexual lust, and subsequent self pity and longing in their youth to the Ocean of Love in their old age, still searching in vain for a stronger union, a closer bond with the Almighty. Perpetually searching.

But does this make the logical individual any better off? Is my dad any more at peace? Does he radiate calm and bliss? Is he free from all the dramas the universe throws at him? Where the emotional one has swallowed poison, or fallen into a drunken stupor, the rational one is imprisoned in his own self-imposed responsibilities and restrictions. He will be the unfortunate one to pass away overlooked, absorbed by his obligations and alone with his detachment.

When the ego is correctly managed, the union between an emotional person and a rational person is capable of, if not ideal for, perfect harmony. Without a need for any expectations, the emotional one has the power to lift up the rational one, inspire them, make them laugh, and sprinkle a dusting of sparkles over their otherwise rigid and enervated world. Opened up, the rational person has the ability to ground the emotional one, give them drive and a sense of direction. They can provide structure and offer a wider perspective to assist in the overcoming of obstinacy. They each give the other purpose and meaning. Each has their own role to play in the theatre of life: without the expressive, the world would lack creative artists, beauty, and pleasure; it would lose its heart. A want for the reasonable may just well cause the very fabric of society to fray, susceptible to languor and licentiousness.

When I had first drafted this piece over a month ago, I had concluded that acceptance and appreciation were of paramount importance in any relationship. One could spend an entire lifetime searching for the perfect one when in reality no such individual exists. One could also insist on living in wilful denial, determined to being satisfied in ones own company whilst undergoing a constant mental battle to maintain this stance. When stripped of pride and vanity, of false ego, when you look deep within yourself, you know exactly whose soul your own eternally connects to. You can feel the many past and future lifetimes to come of meeting this one significant person over and over again. This is the true source of fate and a possible explanation for déjà vu. Despite the storm, regardless of its extent, there will always be the promise of calm waters and ultimately land ahoy. It has all been predestined and there is hope and solace in this.

However, I have since learnt a more valuable truth. I began to consider why so many people turn to religion and austerity in the face of despair and rejection. It has been said that the love of God is immense and absolute. It does not judge, nor does it criticize. In fact, it does not scoff, argue, or speak back at all. There are a set of principles and conducts suggested to bring you closer to Him, with final results of immeasurable spiritual delight and blissful detachment from the world and its scrutiny. It is a reflective experience. One need not rely on the whims of a mortal lover to test the maintenance of their character; one has been bestowed with divine knowledge and power to maintain control over themselves.

Find the strength and determination to follow your own principles. It is not necessary to lose yourself and deny the world around you, deny what makes you happy and what makes you tick. Discover as many positive qualities as you can about yourself and delight in them. Weed out all the negative and destructive habits. Use past pain as a lesson, and most importantly accept yourself before expecting others to accept you. As long as you know deep in your heart that you are doing the right thing, causing no one hurt or harm, being truthful and respectful, fulfilling your duties towards those that depend on you, know that you are safe; allow nothing external to phase you.

It would be ideal strolling through life with warm fingers securely interlocking your own, but I would much rather walk beside someone sincere than have someone follow me obligingly through persuasion, necessity, or even from responsibility. Be they emotional, rational, or none of the above.

My mother during her honeymoon to Venice in 1982. The man smoking is not my dad, but an Italian tour guide.

The Devil Makes Work For The Complacent

The Royal Wedding weekend has come and gone proceeding the Bank Holiday weekend and my two weeks off work. And what have I to show for it? Not a lot unfortunately. I have pages of notes yet to be articulately typed up and have forsaken a university course application for a fortnight now. There is a list of half-finished home maintenance jobs I have still to go through and, to be perfectly honest, I cannot recall having shaved once throughout the entire fortnight.

Ninety-nine percent of the time I put this down to smoking skunk. In order to procrastinate, especially whilst taking a break from something needing pressing attention, I find myself lighting up a “well deserved” joint and settling down to delight in some unconstructive reading; blogs scrupulously scrutinising every conceivable incense available in the West, research on the genetics of Gujaratis residing in Texas, tracing back their ethnic makeup to Western Asia and the Caucasus and the history of Persian relations with the Punjab, for example. At times I tune in to Soma FM, for their “playful exotica and vintage music of tomorrow”, or to Music India Online, to relish in Classical North Indian raga’s heard at the correct samay for maximum atmospheric effect. And then there is always Facebook… All too soon the pre-dawn sky turns from cobalt to a clear, baby blue; my screen still blank, my ashtray runneth over…

I have always beaten myself up over this; the adolescent years spent locked away in my bedroom actually working for nights on end on some creative project or another, all with the help of nothing more than a trusty score, are long, long gone. I am no longer nearing my twenties, nor does the stuff evoke any other inspiration than a sole aspiration to relax. Yet I continue to use cannabis as an excuse for creativity, an excuse to unwind, an excuse to socialise. Or is it that these activities are used as an excuse to smoke? Year after year I have watched people jog past me on the road to success, each year sprouting younger participants, and I have remained content to stroll at my leisure, enjoying and criticising the surrounding scenery, iPod on shuffle, joint perpetually between my fingers. I have rebuffed handfuls of opportunities through laziness, lack of enthusiasm and a lack of commitment; gigs secured at prestigious venues where we failed to make an appearance, foreign language tutors abandoned, work openings from casting agents disregarded. There is no one to blame for the impending loss of my twenties but myself. But is weed the devil in this case?

I have been discovering over the past few years that many of my friends, acquaintances and even family members have fallen victim to this critical and contagious disease known as Complacence. My closest friend, an exotically beautiful chanteuse – a criminology and sociology graduate – with an infectious and electric persona, has toiled for London’s Emergency Services for the past half-decade; another rather handsome young acquaintance who has only recently moved to the capital with the dream of being discovered as a fashion model, seems to work all the hours that God sends at a well known West End department store to maintain his rent and bills, allowing him no time to pursue his ambition; my sister, a celebrated thespian back in her university days, who had attempted her first novel aged twelve, freelances as a Presentation Scheduler. Others, closer to thirty than they are to twenty, are yet to ascertain their calling and have applied for jobs in sales or within local councils in the meantime. None of these people smoke.

So what could their excuses be for their complacence? Some have family commitments and responsibilities, others choose to save as they live at home whilst simultaneously indulging in retail therapy with the surplus of their income, others still are earning only enough to manage the maintenance of a lifestyle with perhaps a chance to enjoy themselves once in a while if the budget allows it. A job may ultimately be just that, a means to an end, but for how long can it be so? Especially when so many of us in our mid to late twenties have had the education, possess the abilities and raw talent and are also fortunate enough to have the freedom and opportunities to pursue any career we choose. Especially when time is very quickly running out.

One theory is that we are a spoilt bunch! Many of my friends choose to remain at home; I know people who are earning over forty thousand and are still happy to tuck themselves in snugly under the wings of mum and dad. Though I may be supporting myself, so to speak, I do not pay any rent. Also, were anything to go awry, forcing me out of my home, I know that my parents are but a twenty-five-minute drive away in North-West London. I do not, nor would I ever, expect anything from them but I am still secure in the knowledge that my parents’ support is unconditional. I may not even be speaking for a whole generation, rather for a select minority, but never actually having been thrown in the deep end of anything, knowing that I am never alone with an obligation to fend for myself, may have made me soft. My parents were never well off; my dad was the main breadwinner with my mum helping out – either by finding work or by setting up some sort of business or another – over the numerous periods that my dad’s job was under threat. Despite both parents having to really work hard in order to sustain three children and a household, we were never left wanting for anything. It was only recently that our mum divulged to us her secrets and the struggles they had faced over the decades, or we would have been none the wiser. We had still enjoyed a very happy and truly fulfilling upbringing.

Though my mum, being the last child of five, may have been raised in modest comfort – her father worked abroad, in Karachi, and would send money over whilst her mother taught classical languages at the local primary school – my dad’s family were part of the Asians expelled from Uganda by the mentally deranged Idi Amin in 1972. They were an affluent middle-class family of bespoke tailors and musicians who were forced to abandon all their belongings, both sentimental as well as three generations worth of accumulated revenue, and flee the only life they knew to seek refuge in England. The Ugandan government permitted them to take only fifty pounds out of the country and this is all they had to their name when they first stepped into the UK. My dad’s family were first-hand witnesses to the atrocities committed against their people over the twenty-mile drive from their home in Kampala to Entebbe airport; Indians being looted of their heirlooms, the ancestral gold and jewels they had attempted to smuggle out of the country on their person and on their children, men being beaten and hanged on roadside trees, women being dragged off by the Ugandan soldiers to be made an example of before being murdered. And upon arrival at the countries of their destinations – a number of families were severed as some members were sent to the United Kingdom and others to India, Canada and the Untied States depending on their passports – the refugees landing in London were greeted with anti-immigration protest marches led by British meat porters clearly fuelled by Enoch Powell’s “rivers of blood” speech from a few years earlier, still fresh, warm and rapidly putrefying in their savage minds. My father, being the eldest of the boys, had to find work as soon as he could; he has been working for the same company since he was fifteen. My youngest aunt and two uncles went to school having fruit pelted at them and chewing gum thrown in their hair, facing chants of ‘Piss Off You Pakis’ during their journeys. One of my dad’s brothers was so badly bullied and beaten up by racists that he ultimately died in his teens of a brain haemorrhage. Even after my parents met and married ten years later and I was born on a council estate in East London’s Stepney Green in the mid-eighties, the sheer amount of racial discrimination and abuse the family would regularly have to endure forced them to move to a more racially diverse area of London. Over those past ten years, my dad had managed to save enough money to buy a spacious four-bedroom, detached house in suburban Harrow for his parents and younger siblings, and a much smaller semi-detached for his wife and kids only a mile away in hospitable Kingsbury; this is where my sisters were born and where the three of us were raised. 

So what do we know of true endurance and of having to work hard? We now complain of our interminably drawn out commutes to work, of injustices and of benefit fraudsters, the “council estate scum”. We complain that there are not enough career prospects out there yet we pull sick days when we have guzzled one too many bottles of wine the night before or when we simply cannot find the will to go into work. We complain of our working hours, of how we have such little time to ourselves to actually utilise our free time proactively in order to accomplish the goals of our dreams. Our mothers were managing employment, children and a household whilst our fathers were working unpaid overtime just for job security. It is definitely not in our genes, so why are we still so damn lazy? How is it that hard work has actually become totally anathema to us? It has to be because we honestly have no idea what it is to have to make ends meet; we have no real responsibilities or dependants. And we are complacent in this bestowal. We relish in it.

Again, it’s not all of us who suffer from this disease. Ultimately, as with anything, there is always a balance and just as we are complacent, there are the go-getters of the world, the high-flyers and the doers. They may not have the knowledge, the charm nor the looks but they have the vigour and the patience to persevere. Then you have us, the complacent layabouts, waiting for our successful futures to be handed to us on a warmed plate in one easily digestible and deceivingly delicious portion. We may have it all, the knowledge, the charisma and the strikingly good looks, but none of the drive and fortitude to work hard for an end result.

Now I am the first to advocate the easy life, a life full of enjoyment and devoid of stress, but reality constantly reminds me of the necessity to work to see any of my dreams come to fruition. Besides, remaining idle gives us more time to think wasteful thoughts than is necessary for any human being. Rather than strategise a future for ourselves, we choose to obsess over such insignificant issues as relationships, appearance and other people’s hidden agendas, for example. We seem to lose our grasp on reality through this kind of thinking and begin to take all our parents’ years of hard work, efforts and generous provides for granted; we take the good fortune of our lives for granted. All too soon, the years will have passed us before our very eyes and all we will have to show for it are a developed form of neurosis and deep regret. This wasteful thinking is the work the devil makes for us, both aiding and challenging our complacence to cause utter confusion and lead us to the dangers of self-doubt. Albert Einstein once defined the height of insanity as “continuing to do the same thing over and over, and then expecting different results”. This appears to be the precise nature of the complacent lot; we seem to come up with the loftiest justifications for our intransigence.

“It is only laziness that can make a slave of a free man”

This is a quote I once read in the Shahnameh, the Persian book of Kings, and I have it written in magnetic ‘ransom note’ letters stuck onto my fridge. It is what I strive to live by; I read it every morning to remind me to exert my efforts and to not throw my life away for the temporary pleasures of indolence. Yet, though I see this quote every single day, it seems to have failed to make much of a lasting impact on me; this universal truth is thoughtlessly dismissed as just words on a fridge, part of the furniture, and this is where the roots of our problems lie. The longer we choose to ignore the unmistakable writings on the wall, regardless of whether we smoke the highest grade, regardless of a conditioned complacency or laziness, the more we will suffer ourselves, growing bitter as we grow older, over how we have wasted our lives.

It is up to us to shape our destinies and subsequently the future and fate of our societies. Thoughts and talk are ultimately useless without being followed by immediate positive action.

News clippings of Ugandan Asian refugees landing in the UK, August 1972

My dad with his eldest sister at the flat in Stepney around the late 1970s

Is Attachment The Fountainhead Of All Sorrow?

Is attachment the fountainhead of all sorrow?

I have been reminded today that every time I experience distress, it’s root lay festering in the polluted mud of attachment; destructive spores of negative thought intermittently attack at its fragility.

Last night, in a state of acute insomnia through anxiety, I turned to Dadi Janki’s Inside Out. No, I have not misspelled the name of one strapping, Puerto Rican raggaeton artist, nor was I up all night reading his autobiography. Dadi Janki (meaning Grandmother Janki in Hindi) is one of the founding members of the Brahma Kumari’s World Spiritual University, “an international organisation working at all levels of society for positive change”. The organisation was established in the late 1930’s in Sindh, presently a province of Pakistan, as a mouthpiece for spiritual teaching. It enlightens its students with a divine understanding of the self largely through meditation and positive thinking.

Being the last day before the Easter Bank holidays, and the subsequent Bank holiday thanks to the Royal Wedding (prompting the company I work for to mercifully close for a full eleven days), last night I anticipated being in receipt of my first full month’s pay after my abrupt, unfair dismissal back in January. Naturally, this was a triumphant moment for me; I would finally be back in the position to pay off my outstanding bills, ready to pay the first instalments of my Council Tax and utility bills and would be back on the track to financial stability. I must have been overly enthusiastic. After 1am in the morning, I logged onto my Internet Banking only to discover that my Building Society had heedlessly withdrawn my overdraft facilities. I was still slightly overdrawn after my salary had been paid into the account but was now without an overdraft so, therefore, without access to a penny of my earnings. I went into a state of hysteria: How was I going to contribute towards my bills? How was I going to get through the month?? How on Earth was I going to be able to acquire more funds??? Telephone banking operated on a strict 9am-5pm schedule and there was nothing I could do for the next eight hours. Nothing whatsoever!

I grudgingly got into bed whereupon increased levels of panic set in amidst the encompassing silence and the elaborate worrying. I attempted to read Nietzsche for inspiration, I considered turning on the television to a food channel or a nature documentary for its alleviating drone to overwhelm my angst. I tried to meditate but gave up almost instantly, declaring to myself that to clear my mind was, at that point, akin to a crack at clearing away all the consequences of man-made contamination imposed upon the Earth.

By my bedside, I caught a glimpse of a vivid, pink lotus flower set against a deep jade background; Inside Out. I opened it at a random page near the beginning and began to read, “Free yourself from the crisis that you create through your own negativity. There are so many external crises you can’t even count them. There is nothing you can do about that. But the crisis you create in your own mind, according to the quality of your thoughts – at least put a stop to that.” I read another quote, “To experience sorrow is an act of senselessness. Remember this very well. When you feel sorrow about something, understand that you are lacking some understanding. For whom should I feel sorrow? Does it help either me or others?”

My thinking quickly began to cease. There really was nothing I could do about my situation – not at that moment anyway. It was useless for me to agonize over my options and lose sleep over it; I had to get up for work in almost four hours. Ultimately, all I would suffer would be the irksome bother of inconvenience, the delay; there were always, always other options available. Reading these quotes over and over again, I managed to clear my head. Of course, flashes of fret did indeed strike momentarily through my mind but I was now in firm control of my thoughts and able to put a stop to them.

“…to become upset… about something, even to have an off-mood, is like putting a drop of poison into a pot of nectar. It spoils everything. It doesn’t just take away peace, it brings unhappiness.”

This was the last quote I repeated to myself before drifting off and this very concept is what set my day the following morning. I was full of positive energy and rearing to go, encouraged further by the fact that it was my last day at work before my extended Easter break. The sun was beaming, the air was heavily scented with the aroma of spring blossom and the weather had chosen to remain as delightfully warm as it had been all week, quite atypical for April. At work, I happened to find myself being connected with the most kindest and genuinely obliging advisor when I called the Building Society first thing at 9am. She immediately reinstated my overdraft limit with no qualms and I was back in working order; the three hours I had spent driving myself crazy the night before were, after all, an utter waste of time and, above all, a complete depletion of energy.

All was calm.

A couple of hours later, I received a text. G, my other half, was already set to celebration mode and was informing me of probable plans to go out late that night with a regular group of close friends. Dark clouds began to form.

G undergoes a monthly depilatory process preceding a haircut. Over the past year or so I have made a mental note of this practice, even sat there watching the process (having always been left titillated by the delectable full view of the outcome), which is generally followed by a meticulous beauty regime, observing that G has almost always left for a night out once impeccably groomed. Even the construction of the perfect outfit for the night seems to take an age to achieve if it has not already been conscientiously contrived well in advance.

What I have always failed to come to grips with is why someone in a five-year relationship would feel a need to tend to their body hair in preparation of a night that should comprise exclusively of no more than alcohol, bitching and dancing. Why get a haircut and make such an effort to look your best for a night out? Why not exert yourself for me once in a while? Over the years, simple uncertainties have deteriorated to form deep suspicions. Alone in my flat with nothing but idle time I create clear images of my better half bending over, Dutty Wine-ing in the middle of the dance floor; a long queue of men stand in line to cop a feel, to pinch the alluring tight backside or to manage an underhanded caress of that impeccably maintained crotch through the provocative, silky underwear of my companion, my confidant, my soul mate, MY CROTCH!

And that is where the trouble begins, with this damned insistence of ‘my’ and ‘mine’; attachment through possession. This particular form of attachment seems to engulf you silently overnight. It judiciously selects individuals you have chosen to keep close to your heart with the intention to drive them further away. As it does this, attachment itself, after conquering your heart, moves on to occupy and secure your mind; it rules your thoughts, dictates your actions and mars intelligence and good sense.

What is worse is that, in the present age of social networking, we have the means and opportunities to indulge negative forms of attachment; mobile phones, smartphones, computers and laptops. Through these mediums, we feed the insanity of our attachments to the point where we no longer have control of our bodies. Against our better judgement, we find ourselves reading through text messages, signing in to our partner’s email accounts and logging on to personal websites, all the while allowing ourselves to get pulled down further into a dangerous abyss of jealousy, anger, hatred and irrationality. We delude ourselves into believing that our partners should pledge sole allegiance to us; they should keep no secrets from us; they should love us and pleasure us unconditionally and they should relish in this. After all we do for them!

I responded to G’s text, making clear my sentiments. Anger, fuelled by indignation, had seized my entire being. How many meet-ups and nights out had I unobtrusively cancelled because G did not approve of the company? Or because I knew G had had a strenuous working day and because I wanted to make sure a hearty, healthy, favourite dinner was prepared and ready in time? How many friends and acquaintances have I had to cut myself off from just because they indulged in social drug-use or had expressed a physical interest in me? How much have I had to alter my entire life and personality in order to keep G happy and feeling secure?

“Internally, people do create many difficult situations for themselves. Arrogance, for, example, makes you feel disrespect and causes you sorrow. Arrogance brings a desire for regard and respect and when you don’t receive these you feel it to be an insult. ‘Look, I do so much for them, but this is how they repay me.’ If I give from the heart and don’t have arrogance, I wont have such feelings.”

Despite G’s hopeless frustration and subsequent insistence on staying home for a night in together, despite my prior, divine knowledge and my better judgement, in spite of myself, I remained vexed. At the same time, the sun remained warm and intensely radiant. No dark clouds accumulated themselves over its splendour, it did not rain, nor did the cool, gentle breeze attempt to pick up its pace with a biting malice. In observation of all this, over a stroll during my lunch break, I began to think clearly again, to see the bigger picture. Young children on their end of term holidays were laughing with their parents, trying to balance on their bicycles with one hand holding a generously served, rapidly melting ice cream cone. Teenage girls and unemployed youths walked to the park next door to my block of flats gossiping and giggling in groups and donning mini skirts, bare chests and suggestive smiles. Even the lonely spinsters and idle housewives were out jovially walking their dogs or jogging with determination and a smile.

Why was I causing myself so much grief when there was so much to be grateful for? What was I achieving by holding a grudge so unnecessarily and for nothing?

“People feel sorrow when they are holding on to situations. They forget that these situations are external to them. All it takes is to let go. Once they achieve this, they become happy and peaceful again and can begin to smile. How often have we looked back on some previous trouble and wondered what all the fuss was about?”

After all, G and I have built a strong relationship over five years and we are still together. If anything were to have gone awry, surely it would have been communicated by now. I must admit, G has put up with a lot from me; even last year, when I had suddenly become conscious of a love from my past, began discussing marriage, G remained by my side full of support, content with whatever guaranteed my own happiness so long as we remained in each other’s lives. Would this not have been the perfect opportunity for G to break free, or to go forth and indulge in sexual discovery through experiences with many other men? Why do logical arguments like this not arise in the mind when we are self harming with needless insecurities and jealousy? Why do we constantly choose to immerse ourselves in our negative emotions when it is much easier, and would actually relieve us, to simply let go?

We are so full of ego that to even consider this alternative of letting go is to compromise our strength; we would appear submissive, ineffectual and ultimately weak. We fail to realise our potential to become greater, happier and ultimately in control. To let go does not necessarily mean to give in. Still we wallow in doubts and suspicion, draining our energy and mental powers.

Suspicion is, after all, an exhausting obsession. This senseless, fabricated need to own someone is what drives our desire to control them, to coerce them to submit. And we want to own them because we are attached to them; we want them to be compliantly ours for as long as we need them.

So is attachment truly the fountainhead of all sorrow? I personally believe so. For those whose egos cause them sorrow, they are still attached to their own self image, are they not? For those who have experienced intense anger towards their loved ones, it stems from some form of frustration through attachment. We become frustrated and agitated when something is not done right, or executed in a particular way, or if we are not being listened to, for example. If we had not been overly attached to our loved ones, if we were not so reliant, we could happily manage by ourselves. We could act with our loved ones without any expectations. It is expectation, after all, that leads to disappointment.

It is attachment that makes us want to shake our siblings when they repeatedly disregard your good advice. Can we not allow people to learn from their own mistakes? It is attachment that makes us feel let down by our closest friends. Can we not learn to be self sufficient, without the assistance or approval of those we have chosen to revere? It is attachment that instils us with fear through jealousy and distrust. Who are we to take control of anyone’s life when we have yet to learn how to successfully manage our own?

I am not sure if it is possible to defeat attachment. We are human after all; since birth we have only been rewarded when expressing attachment, from that first bawl for our mothers. We are attached to our bedrooms, our possessions, even to futile talismans; it is almost like a second nature!

“You need to attend to the quality of the thoughts that you allow to come to your mind. This is only sensible. It is, after all, your mind. Thoughts should be pure, elevated and determined. Then just see the results. Without rituals, postures, chanting, etc, you will experience peace of mind.”

A negative emotion is amongst the most difficult to counter. You can try your best to think positive until the cows come home, but that is only possible once you have cleared the negative from your mind. It is pointless to be determined about a situation yet to still harbour doubts – even the smallest, most insignificant of misgivings will swamp your efforts and take you back to square one.

So train yourself to haul your mind out from the depths of this most repugnantly malodorous pool of negative effluence. Whether your demise be attachment, ego, greed or lust, change your thought process in order for you to avoid the fatuous fallout of sorrow and negativity. What we fail to realise is that thoughts and emotions are contagious; they can be picked up subtly by those who we hold dearest to us, those who know us. These people suffer equally when we do, though they may not explicate it. If we cannot change ourselves for our own benefit, let us at least strive for a positive change to help keep our loved ones, those who will always, unconditionally hold our best interests as their reason for being.

Why choose the difficult task of willing to see rain clouds when your sky is indefinitely forecast to be clear with warm sun?