The Food of the Gods: Yoghurt & Shrikhand

Cardamom and saffron-laced Shrikhand

Yoghurt: A Brief Overview

Yoghurt is one of the oldest foods in human history. Supposedly originating in Central Asia, it has been mentioned in ancient Ayurvedic and Persian texts, and written about by Roman philosopher Pliny the Elder and medieval Turkish intellectuals. Cultures from Greece and Central Asia through to the Indian Subcontinent incorporate yoghurt into their cuisines, be it cooked into dishes, prepared as a soup, or served alongside meals; many cultures still enjoy yoghurt-based drinks for their refreshing taste and digestive properties.

Back when we were children, I remember my mother making fresh yoghurt almost every night; she would place a stainless steel bowl of cultured milk to set in the boiler cupboard each night before bed. As the years went by she grew lazy, and fresh yoghurt was replaced with shop-bought fat-free natural yoghurt. This never bothered me because I cannot say that I was the biggest fan of yoghurt as a child, always preferring milk or ice cream. Yoghurt was too sour, regardless of what preparation it was being used for. My sister on the other hand loved yoghurt, and I would watch with distaste as she took second helpings of the warm yoghurt soup kadhi, and dropped large dollops of thick yoghurt onto her rice.

It was on my extended trip to India last year that I began to appreciate yoghurt. Having spent four months there in order to complete a clinical placement for my Ayurvedic studies, I was fortunate enough to travel up and down the country sampling the different gastronomic delights. Starting in the South, at a dusty town between Bangalore and Mangalore, I savoured the cool yet spicy tang of curd rice, and found surprising comfort in freshly prepared yoghurt that was rich and unctuous with a thick layer of cream on top. In Gujarat I discovered shrikhand, a dense strained yoghurt sweetened with rock candy and flavoured with saffron, cardamom, and pistachio. It was intensely addictive stuff, a kind that I had never tasted before, almost a cross between Italian gelato and mousse. Of the few that I had tried back home, all had this terribly sharp tang to them that did not agree with my palette. And then there was Delhi, my beloved Delhi… I could not get enough of the sweet lassi from Kamla Nagar. It was thick and creamy, but still thirst quenching and light, with electric crimson rose syrup at the bottom of the gigantic plastic cup and a generous layer of crunchy clotted cream on top. I always rewarded myself after channa masala and kulcha with two helpings.

I managed to spend a little time with relatives in Jamnagar and Mumbai before my departure, and observed an almost obsessive fastidiousness around the preparation of yoghurt and mealtime lassis. Each culture, indeed each individual, has their own taste preferences: Iranians prefer sour yoghurt, allowing it to set for at least 24 hours to achieve the desired level of sharpness. In contrast, most Indians prefer a milder, creamier yoghurt and allow between 4 to 12 hours for it to set, depending on the season. I remember my cousin in Mumbai shouting at her maid around lunchtime to enquire if the morning’s preparation of yoghurt had been placed in the refrigerator. I had not understood why at the time. My aunt, incidentally my cousin’s mother, in Jamnagar had been obsessive about hygiene surrounding her own yoghurt, and lassi had to be prepared in a very particular, rather rigorous way for the lunchtime meal.

In India, the Ayurvedic view of yoghurt has only somewhat prevailed amongst its people. Contrary to popular opinion, yoghurt is viewed as a heating food due to its sour taste and fermentation process of production. It is often considered heavy to digest, and should only be consumed in the colder months when digestion power is strong, never to be eaten at night or on a daily basis by way of its heavy qualities. It increases fat, and strengthens both the sperm and the body in general. Therapeutically, yoghurt has been prescribed for anorexia, irritable bowel syndrome, and urinary tract infections, whilst its improper consumption can lead to fever, skin diseases, and anaemia.  However, certain foods possess qualities that balance those of yoghurt, making it more agreeable to the body and the digestive system. These include mung bean soup, ghee, honey, unrefined sugar, and amla (Indian gooseberries).

Rediscovering Shrikhand

Shrikhand is mainly eaten as a dessert around the winter months in the Indian states of Gujarat and Maharashtra. At celebratory gatherings and social dinners it is served garnished with bright green ground pistachio, rose petals, and silver leaf. Unrefined sugar is used to lightly sweeten the yoghurt, and cooling, blood-purifying saffron is added alongside mucous-mitigating cardamom for an overall balanced sweet. The yoghurt is strained to remove all the liquid whey and to produce that luxurious texture. The name itself poses some interesting questions. Initially, because I was studying Farsi, I thought that the dish had its origins in Persia: shir is the Farsi word for milk, and qand is sugar. However, upon commencing my Ayurvedic studies, we had to take one module in Sanskrit, and there I learnt that kshīr was also the Sanskrit word for milk, with khānd meaning unrefined sugar. The prevalence of shrikhand centres on Gujarat, a northwestern state close to Rajasthan and Sindh, and where the Zoroastrians first settled centuries ago. Although strained yoghurt recipes abound throughout western, central, and southern Asia, it has been difficult locating any recipes similar to shrikhand outside of India.

I had forgotten about shrikhand upon my return to London, and satisfied my sweet tooth by frequenting the Turkish bakeries on Green Lanes, or making less complicated desserts like firni, shahi tukrey, and a cardamom and saffron-laced panna cotta. Then, a month or so back, a good friend that I had not seen for a while came round one Saturday evening for dinner and drinks. I served up a chicken and rosewater pulao, complete with a perfect Iranian tah dig crust and perfumed tea, and she rewarded my efforts with a delicious bottle of sauvignon blanc and a tub of home made shrikhand.

Having delighted in the tah dig crust with a little too much gusto, my friend declined dessert, and I only tried the shrikhand the next morning. Memories came flooding back. Delights to the senses in Gujarat: the biting chill of the morning shade, cows cleaning each other in the sun, the scents of freshly fried jalebis and gaathiya coming from the bottom of the street, and strong masala chai wafting from the kitchen. It was delicate, silky, and delicious! This one had been made with the addition of fresh mango pieces, adding bursts of tangy sweetness to each mouthful. Despite my attempts to savour the glory for as long as possible with only two spoonfulls a day, by the third day I caved in and polished off the whole lot in one sitting.

Cows in love in Jamnagar, Gujarat

Naturally, I set off to make my own. Strained yoghurt could not possibly be that difficult. So I purchased a tub of natural yoghurt from the local Turkish shop, poured it into a muslin-lined colander, tied it up into a bundle, and set it over a bowl for the liquid to drip away. A few hours later, I added some sugar, the required spices, and mixed well. Whilst the texture was acceptable, the taste was completely off. Just like the ones I had tasted in my youth, this shrikhand had that terrible sharpness that resulted in a mild smarting sensation on my tongue. Highly dissatisfied, I relayed the story to my friend and asked her advice. She informed me that her mother only used home made yoghurt to make shrikhand, and I was instructed to allow it to strain in the fridge overnight. I had kept mine on the kitchen table as I cooked dinner, so the surrounding heat must have contributed to the yoghurt becoming increasingly sour.

Although I had put it off for a couple of weeks, I was determined to make the perfect shrikhand. I sent my cousin in Mumbai a message to enquire over her secrets for the best yoghurt. As standard, I was to boil the milk, allow it to cool, and then mix in a little amount of starter culture before placing it in a warm place to set. But here was the trick. For the mildest, creamiest yoghurt, it had to be carefully observed. As soon as the mixture came away from the sides of the bowl, and a thin liquid had developed over the top, your yoghurt had set, and it had to be put straight into the fridge to stop it from souring any further. So here is what I did:

Homemade Yoghurt 

Ingredients:

1½  pints full fat organic, unhomogenised milk

1 Tbl Yoghurt

·        Preheat the oven to about 50°C.

·        Pour the milk into a large saucepan and bring to a rolling boil over a medium-low heat. Make sure to stir the bottom regularly to prevent any milk solids from sticking to the bottom of the pan. This process should take about 15 – 20 minutes.

·        Once boiled, take off the stove and allow to cool. At this point, the milk can be transferred to a container of your choice. When a finger can be immersed in the milk comfortably for 20 seconds, the milk has been sufficiently cooled. A thick layer of cream will have developed over the milk.

·        Add the yoghurt and whisk well to make sure it has been evenly dispersed.

·        Place the container in the oven and immediately turn it off. In about 3 – 5 hours, the set yoghurt will be coming away from the sides of its container, and a thin film of liquid will be visible over the top. Transfer the container to the fridge right away.

This method produces the most creamiest, sweetest yoghurt I have ever tasted outside of India, with the cream on top adding a layer of luxury. It is actually impossible to find anything even remotely similar in the shops, be it organic, fresh from the cow's udders, or made by devoted, golden hued farmers in Crete. Using this batch of yoghurt to produce your next will only enhance the quality of the yoghurt, so I am always careful to keep a couple of tablespoons back to use as starter culture.

My home made yoghurt, complete with the layer of cream on top, courtesy of unhomogenised milk 

With the yoghurt perfected, it was round two with the shrikhand. This time I made sure to allow the yoghurt to strain in the fridge overnight, keeping a heavy weight over it. Sure enough, by the morning I was left with strained yoghurt that had an almost solid consistency. To this I added saffron rock candy that I had found at an Iranian shop nearby (nabat), and cardamom. I mixed it well, trying to whip some air into it, and finally sprinkled ground almonds and pistachios on top. And then to taste…

Yes! I found myself back in Gujarat. 

Shrikhand

(serves 2)

Ingredients:

250g homemade yoghurt

2 – 4 Tbls icing sugar, or ground rock candy

3 – 5 cardamom pods, seeds removed and ground to a powder

Pinch of saffron

2 Tbls pistachios, ground to a powder

2 Tbls almonds, ground to a powder

·        Pour the yoghurt into a colander lined with muslin and pull up the sides of the cloth to tie into a tight bundle. Place the colander over a bowl. A plate can be placed on top with a weight, such as a pestle and mortar or a can of chopped tomatoes. Alternatively, the bundle can be hung and suspended over a bowl, as is the traditional method.

·        Allow the yoghurt to strain for a good few hours in the fridge, or overnight, until all the liquid has been drained. Squeeze tightly before use.

·        Put the strained yoghurt into a bowl and add the powdered sugar and spices. Mix well, whipping gently for a few minutes.

·        Taste and adjust the sugar if required.

·        Before serving, sprinkle with ground nuts and dried rose petals. Dried and fresh fruits can also be stirred into the shrikhand for flavour and texture.

NB: The drained liquid whey does not need to be thrown away, and can be used in soups, cooking, and especially in baking and bread making.

My own perfected Shrikhand

Cup of Chai?

If I had been asked a couple of years back to rate tea amongst my list of preferred beverages, it would not have ranked so highly. A tea bag dunked in boiling water with some sugar and milk was considered an okay pick me up, adequate with cake or biscuits in the afternoon, better with fresh, butter-drenched cumin parathas and stir-fried shredded cabbage for breakfast. I used to enjoy a freshly brewed cup of coffee in the mornings, with plenty of hot frothy milk and cinnamon, and a cigarette. This was before I discovered the intensely disagreeable effects coffee had on both my digestive and nervous systems, after which I have abstained from even a drop. Since my stay in Delhi however, I must admit that I now cannot get enough of tea. If I cannot find the time to make a proper cup of masala chai in the morning my day does not seem to pass smoothly; I start to feel deficient in some way, strangely hollow.

I was flicking through the television channels during one of my usual bouts of insomnia, checking the On Demand section for programmes I may have missed over the past week, when I chanced upon Victoria Wood’s Nice Cup of Tea on the BBC. The information button described the comedienne travelling through China and India, meeting “chai wallahs, opium smokers, Assam tea pickers and grumpy elephants” along the way. I was more than intrigued and settled down nicely to a thoroughly enjoyable and informative, humour-riddled documentary on the history and industrialisation of the tea trade. I applaud Victoria Wood for writing such an entertaining yet honest account of history. Even dark and uncomfortable truths of the depraved intentions and practices behind the British Empire were revealed, though the weight of these details were detracted through the use of her amiable, satirical wit.

Tea: Some Uncomfortable Home Truths

After the programme, I thought deeply of the consequences of the tea trade. The Chinese were, and continue to remain, admirably wise. When direct trade between Europe and China first began in the 16^th Century, entry into China was forbidden to all outsiders; certain ports were specified solely for trade in order to keep invaders and foreign rulers out. The Chinese kept the production of their most lucrative and sought after exports a closely guarded secret, tea being one of them. By the 18^th Century, British demand for tea – along with such coveted Chinese goods as silk and porcelain – grew rapidly. In contrast, Chinese demand for British goods was low and silver, the only commodity the Chinese would accept, and which the British were subjected to purchasing from other European nations, was only incurring the Empire further losses. This distressing degradation caused Britain to turn to India, by then under British rule, to exploit its opium poppy harvests in order to restore the balance of trade with China. The British introduced opium to China, where its fatally addictive nature quickly allured the masses, securing an instant consumer market. Despite strong protest from the Qing Dynasty government, British traders began the import of opium from India until its sale and consumption was finally prohibited in 1729. It was only a century later, in 1838, when China’s own silver had been exhausted from the sheer number of its people hooked on the destructive narcotic that the Daoguang Emperor demanded the arrest of Chinese opium dealers, along with the confiscation and destruction of all foreign stock. In retaliation, the British devastated the Chinese coast in the First Opium War. This resulted in China being forced to pay the British for security, to open its ports to Britain, France and the United States, and to relinquish Hong Kong to Queen Victoria whilst recognising Britain and China as equals. Though the House of Commons had wondered if there had ever been "a war more unjust in its origin, a war more calculated to cover this country with permanent disgrace”, the Second Opium War was proclaimed a triumph in the British press. This subsequent victory ensured new Chinese ports to be opened for foreign trade, permission granted for all foreigners (including Christian missionaries) to travel throughout the country, and indemnities of five-million ounces of silver to be paid to Britain and France. This period in Chinese history is referred to as the Century of Humiliation. The lasting effects of these mercenary disputes, all stemming from a guzzling appetite for the cured leaves of some aromatic plant, are still evident today.

As the British poisoned the Chinese, laws enforcing the prohibited sale and personal use of opium in India were so rigid, so effectively enforced, that the Indian opium den was eliminated, and continues to remain relatively so. The British had encouraged agricultural productivity, even providing economic incentives for workers to bear more children in order to assist in the fields. Furthermore, Indian landlords were given a share from cash crop systems, driving them to mount unrestrained pressure onto their workers. The cultivation of such vast amounts of opium, with an enforced scarcity of its demand on Indian soil, allowed the British to control both its production and its distribution, monopolising the entire trade. Then, intense Indian droughts started to result in the failure of grain crops, and population numbers were beginning to exceed the amount of available food and land. This led to the Great Famine of 1876-78. During this period, not only did the British government continue to oversee the export of a record 2.9 million tonnes of Indian wheat to England, but it also refused to export grain to India from its colonies in an attempt to reduce expenses on welfare. It has been estimated that between 12 million and 29 million Indians died for the British appetite and as a consequence of Britain’s financial greed. It was after this period that many Indians, mostly agricultural and skilled labourers, began to migrate to such British colonies as those in East Africa and the West Indies to take up work as indentured labourers. The ultimate inception behind my existence.

Personal Preferences

Aside from the poignant realities behind the tea trade, I also began to think of the peculiarities of tea loving nations in great anticipation of the morning, when I would finally be able to relish my next cup. I found Wood’s reactions to the various tea preparations she was savouring quite amusing. Whilst the Chinese infusions were appreciated for their delicacy and floral fragrance, the traditionally brewed tea offered by the Singpho people of Arunachal Pradesh (and enjoyed with a hit of opium by the men folk) was considered too strong and bitter. A cup of Indian tea in Assam was likened to cocoa: treacly, and thick with sugar and condensed milk; it was “not quite doing it”. And finally, a special masala chai in Kolkata, prepared with spices, mint, and rosewater by a chai-wallah called Sadhu, was dubiously described as tasting like sweet, hot milk; it appeared difficult to detect any tea flavour at all. It was “really lovely”, she opines, but “he might need to think about doing a skinny version”. The very thought of a masala chai made with rosewater and mint makes my mouth start to water. That exotic, perfumed, intense sweetness is something Victoria described as a world away from a British cuppa. And quite rightly so.

The tea I grew up with was boiled in milk and water, in a saucepan over the stove. It was sweet, rich, and subtly spiced, always with a commercial chai masala powder that contained far too much dried ginger for my taste. It was strained, always with a brightly coloured plastic tea strainer; my mother would fly into a rage over tea leaves littering the kitchen sink. And there was always that fine layer of cream floating persistently at the top of your cup, savoured by some, despised by others. For years I thought tea – and the word chai – to be purely of Indian origin, as I did saffron and chillies. The brightly dressed Indian woman picking tea on the boxes of PG Tips confirmed this to me, as did the love of tea displayed by not only every member of my family, but also every Indian person I encountered. Everything seemed to be governed by chai, from my parents’ will to go on in the mornings, to my dad’s functioning by the late afternoon, and finally to the drawn out seeing off of dinner guests well past midnight. This tea was the only tea I had known.

Drinking English tea, at cafes, canteens, and restaurants, I had always felt that there was something missing; that the tea had not been allowed to brew for long enough, that the establishment was being forced to act frugally with their milk supply, or that the entire method of preparation may have been desperately rushed. Back when I used to frequent the farmer’s market each Saturday for dairy produce, a couple of friends and I decided to spend one morning in languor at a charming little café along Stoke Newington Church Street. Seated in the rear outdoor area of the café, on distressed filigreed garden furniture under a forest green parasol, we were surrounded by pots of evergreen shrubs, grasses, and herbs placed along the walls. There was a shed or greenhouse taking up most of the limited space, which resulted in a warm and intimate atmosphere amongst the friends and couples discussing artwork, theatre plays and modelling. We ordered a pot of tea and it arrived in an Alice in Wonderland style clear glass teapot with some sort of high tech filter within containing the tea. What a spectacle! We poured ourselves a cup and tucked into our pastries. But what a disappointment the tea turned out to be. It was still bland and watery; poorly flavoured hot water. I allowed the tea to stew for the duration of our morning, added more milk to my cup, more sugar. It was just not doing it.

And I can never forget the first time I tried green tea. When I used to work at the pharmacy, a work colleague would wax lyrical about Jacksons of Piccadilly, insisting I try their sencha green tea with lemon. I was stubborn in those days and had remained quite resolute in my refusal to chance a gustatory experience so unusual; I had been the same with sushi. My colleague kindly offered me a couple of teabags to take home and try. That weekend, I must have indulged in one too many gin and tonics, and woke up on Sunday morning feeling worse for wear. Remembering the green tea, I thought I might as well make myself a cup; I could do with the detox. I found the taste revolting! It was unpleasantly bitter with a grassy mustiness, the lemon flavour reminiscent of Dioralyte. I forced myself to down it regardless. Within a minute or two I had my head in the toilet, projectile vomiting every last drop back out. I have since found white tea more agreeable to my palate.

Tea on the Indian Subcontinent

China is the world’s largest producer and consumer of green tea, whilst India is the world’s largest producer and consumer of black tea, which explains the tea drinking habits of these great nations. The Chinese, along with the people of the Himalayan regions, historically drank tea as a medicinal decoction before its popularity increased as an invigorating, bitter stimulant. So why and when did the people of India decide to add copious amounts of milk, sugar, and spices to this traditionally pure and uplifting brew? The British found that they could grow tea in Assam and, in order to compete with China’s monopoly on the product, resolved to use Chinese techniques to cultivate it on an industrial scale. Thus, the British fondness for the leaf, followed by a drop in its consumption during the Great Depression of the 1930s generating a production surplus, was passed on to Indian society, giving rise to the integral part it plays in Indian culture and identity today. Before the advent of tea, Indians would drink coffee in the South, and milk and yoghurt based drinks in the North, along with herbal preparations and broths of medicinal value to supplement their diets. Fresh rasas, the juices of seasonal fruits and sugarcane, along with coconut water, were widely consumed throughout India, as were fragrant herbal infusions and sharbats enhanced with balancing spices and floral essences. Hospitality and social ceremonies revolved around the offering of paan, the stimulating betel leaf and areca nut preparation, then devoid of the cancerous effects of tobacco. The hookah, originating in the North Western provinces of India and initially used to smoke herbs and spices to relieve disorders of the respiratory system, was popularised as a social pastime activity by the Mughals via Iran. Freshly prepared snack foods, and board and card games also played integral roles in Indian hospitality and home entertainment.

As the popularity of tea began to grow amongst Indians, the majority of Indian tea was still being exported to Britain. This usually left the Indians with low grade tea dust, which chai wallahs began to boil with milk, sugar, and spices for longer periods to draw out as much as they could from their tea. This could explain the birth of masala chai as we know it today, but what else is behind its distinct recipe?

India remains the largest producer and consumer of milk in the world, neither exporting nor importing the stuff. Milk has always been highly prized, both for nourishment and for cultural and religious practices. The Vedic scriptures revere cows milk as nectar, nourishing and balancing; there are passages dedicated to its proper collection and preparation, and to its many therapeutic actions and properties, in the Ayurvedic classics. A golden rule with milk is that it requires sufficient boiling in order to render it digestible for humans. The cream that settles on the top, known in Northern India as malaai, is considered heavy and difficult to digest, and is almost always skimmed off and churned to make butter, or used to enhance desserts and festive foods. Milk was traditionally taken at the beginning of each day for strength and vigour, and at bedtime as a restorative and nervine tonic. Spices such as ginger and black pepper were added as digestive stimulants and to counter the cooling, unctuous nature of milk, whilst the pungency of cardamom served as an expectorant, neutralising the mucous forming properties of milk. Cardamom also detoxifies caffeine, which explains its liberal use in the time honoured Turkish and Middle Eastern methods of preparing coffee, again, via Iran. It can be safe to generalise Indians as a nation of sweet lovers, and pots of boiling milk are sweetened with cane sugar not only for the taste, but because energy-rich unrefined sugar works to carry nutrients faster and more effectively to all the bodily tissues. The sugar modulating effect of cinnamon was well known to the vaidyas through its bitter and pungent taste and its digestion stimulating properties, explaining its essential use in the more saccharine masala chai recipes.  

The ritualistic process of pouring the tea back and forth from a height also finds its origins in health and well being. Apart from its obvious function of cooling down the hot tea before serving, it is believed in Ayurveda that the air bubbles produced by pouring a drinking liquid from a height increase the prana in a person, the life force. Working as a supplementary immunomodulator in modern terms, such practices continue to be carried out in India with drinking water and lassis, for example, though their original significance has been long lost. Even the order in which the ingredients enter the pot is owed to medicinal practices: the herbs and spices are added to the water first in order to draw out their essential oils. Then the fatty milk is added to mingle with these oils as it heats up. The elongated boiling process allows all the concentrated ingredients to disperse through the liquor, before tea and sugar is finally added and brewed to taste.

The ancient Eastern civilisations were at one with nature; anything that entered or was applied to the body had medicinal value, balancing the body and mind and promoting physiological homeostasis. Though these beneficial traditions are in rapid decline, the literature is still available to be understood and observed. Even something that Gandhi regarded as foreign, an exploitation of Indian labour, has been wholeheartedly embraced and Indian-ised, the Vedic principles of antiquity somehow finding their way again into the daily lives of Indians.

Though some argue that tea was never introduced by the British, that it is indigenous to India and that the British only played a part in its commercialisation and popularisation, it is something I cannot deny being grateful for. Once I sign off, I will probably continue to mull over the lasting effects of the tea trade. What if the British Empire had not been so ruthless? What if my great grandfather had never set sail for Uganda? Would my father still have met my mother in London? Would I have ever come across the people I hold dearest to me? Friends from Trinidad and Kashmir, friends whose parents emigrated here from places like Guyana and Nepal? 

In the meantime, I shall just go ahead and boil myself that nice cup of chai.

My Masala Chai

(makes 1 cup)

1 cup water

¾ cup full fat milk (organic, unhomogenised)

1 inch piece of fresh ginger, grated
1 bag Organic India tulsi tea

8 - 10 green cardamom pods, crushed well
1 black cardamom pod, crushed well

½ cinnamon stick, pounded to a coarse powder

Pinch of cumin or fennel seeds (I prefer the strong, savoury note of cumin)

6 - 8 black peppercorns, crushed (optional, for colder days)

6 - 8 cloves, crushed

Fresh mint leaves and stalks (optional, for hot days)
Dash of rose water

1 rounded tsp loose Assam tea leaves

2-4 tsps sugar (raw, unrefined)

·  Boil the ginger, tulsi, spices, and mint (if using) in the water for around 7 – 10 minutes.

·  Add the milk and bring to the boil.

·  Finally add the sugar and tea leaves, and allow to simmer until the required strength and colour is achieved (about 2 – 4 minutes).

·  Before serving, add the rose water. Strain into a cup, and pour back and forth from one cup to another from a height, if desired, until slightly cooled and energised with prana.

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