I’m too restless.
Too angry.
Too impatient.
Too full of rage.
Too ready to
REBEL.
DISSATISFACTION
Dissatisfaction spreads.
Frustration burrows
into the hearts and minds
of yet-to-be-born leaders.
A new movement begins.
Mum is home at
6.45 p.m. on the dot.
Meditation turned to sleep,
the slam of the door
jars me awake.
I make my way downstairs
from the bedroom
I’ve been hiding in
since Dad’s threats.
Bags of shopping
by the front door.
The smell of sweat
wafts past me as
she places her tiffin box
and empty flask
by the sink.
Mum’s face
drenched with
exhaustion.
Her body bent
by the weight
of being overworked
and underpaid.
Mum doesn’t always
know what she’s buying.
She can memorize packaging
but packaging can change.
So I translate the receipt,
read it out loud.
It’s a ritual of sorts.
Two lots of four-pint milk,
two pounds and ten pence.
One bag of sugar, seventy-five pence.
Two Colgate, three pounds …
it wasn’t buy one get one free,
it was buy two for three pounds.
They’re normally one ninety-nine each …
you got a pound off,
it’s still good.
Ribena, eighty-nine pence,
twelve-pack of crisps, one pound twenty,
yep, half price …
PG Tips, ninety-nine pence.
Cornflakes, forty-nine pence,
(urgh, Tesco Value) … nothing …
yes, they are a good brand,
it’s fine, cheaper is better.
Twelve eggs, seventy-nine pence,
two loaves of bread reduced, thirty pence each …
So that came to ten pounds and eighty-one pence.
You gave eleven pounds and
you got nineteen pence change.
And now
she can
relax.
Mum and Dad
can’t read or write
in English or Punjabi.
They can say the odd
word in English,
but that’s about it.
They could.
There are classes.
He is too proud and
he won’t allow her to learn.
This way
she can’t read the posters
telling her she
doesn’t have to put up
with the abuse.
This way
she can’t read
the leaflets
telling her
where’s safe.
A cup for each person.
Me, Mum, Dad.
Three cups of water
into a saucepan.
Waiting … patiently
for the spices to mingle
and provide a provocation
of smells.
A pinch of cinnamon
to stoke the tension,
a teaspoon of fennel seeds
to raise a voice,
a teaspoon of carom seeds
to break a dish,
three green cardamom
to upturn a chair,
one large black cardamom
to stand your ground,
a pinch of arrowroot
to throw a punch,
three slices of fresh ginger
to heal a wound.
Dad: Not too much arrowroot – it was bitter last time.
I obey.
Make sure I put in
half the amount.
How much did you make today?
The spiced water starts to simmer.
Add three teabags.
Mum: I’m not sure. Amber will work it out.
Well, was it a busy day?
It’s always busy.
The tea begins to boil.
I think I made the same as yesterday.
Turn the heat down.
Leave to simmer.
Add milk,
as much as you desire.
Leave to boil.
Dad tells Mum about
my after-school ‘escapade’.
Mum listens.
Gives me a sideways glance.
The milky tea starts to boil.
She’s saying something about it being OK.
Something about me not doing it again.
My frustration grows.
I forget to watch the tea.
It boils over.
Sizzling on the flames,
a light brown froth covers the hotplate.
The tea!
Stupid girl!
It’s OK.
Stupid girl. You were standing right next to it.
Don’t worry.
Then simmer.
After thirty minutes,
you have chai.
The house is soaked
with the scent of spices.
There’s a comfort in the smell.
Pour into mugs
through a sieve
to collect the spices.
Wait for Dad to take
the first sip …
It’ll do.
Discard the spice
and breathe.
This hour is usually quiet.
Out of me and Ruby,
Mum says
I’m the one
she worries about
the most.
You know what he’s like. Just be good.
Be good.
BE. GOOD.
The nature of my tiny disobedience
compared to the scale of the consequences
makes my blood boil.
Do as you’re told. I have my own mind and will use it.
Keep your head down. I will be loud and proud.
Cover up. Scream and strip naked!
Don’t talk too loudly. I have a voice, it will be heard.
Be small. I will not apologize for my existence.
Don’t answer back. I am not a robot.
Don’t question. I will not be silenced.
What you say and do
reflects on our position
in the community. I will not let your fear
dictate my future
It’s not your life, I have one life,
it’s your parents’ life. I intend to live it.
In reality
Mum’s mantra
is also my mantra.
Write my work in my book, Mum says.
I take her tatty workbook out
from the kitchen drawer.
Her eyes closed,
her body swaying into sleep.
Twelve hours, no, eleven, they don’t count lunch,
three pounds twenty an hour.
After a quick
tap tap tap
on the calculator,
Thirty-five pounds and twenty pence.
It will pay for the week’s shopping. She yawns.
Didn’t you get paid today?
Tomorrow. Some problem at the bank.
What kind of problem?
I don’t know.
Like they tell us anything.
The manager said tomorrow.
Dad looks irritated.
Mum’s eyes start to close
as she drifts into sleep.
I watch Mum sleep on the settee in the kitchen.
Eyes always closing before she has a chance to finish her tea.
Everything always hurts, she says. Her hips, legs, arms, back.
Everything always hurts so I try and make it better.
I rub her feet and massage her legs. It’s fine, she’ll say.
Physical pain always heals, it’s the emotional pain that stays.
These factories
are secret.
True colours
hidden
in toxic dye
used to colour
expensive garments.
Zero-hour,
underpaid,
no contracts,
no rights.
Fear and
intimidation
keeping workers
in check.
They prey
on desperate
people. Unaware,
unknowing that
even in their ignorance
more is possible.
An underworld
of fast fashion
filling up shopping centres
and high streets.
Hard work.
Illegal work.
Dangerous work.
Dad at the kitchen table,
controlling the space,
sitting on his throne.
Me and Mum on the settee,
springs digging into
bum cheeks.
We sit,
not talking,
just the sound
of slurping tea
from mugs
echoing over the tense
atmosphere.
Mum’s feet in my lap,
the skin on her heels
hard and yellow.
Deep cracks around the outside,
like her feet want to split,
break into little pieces
and escape
any which way they can.
Mum’s so small.
So thin.
Lately I think she looks thinner.
Ruby definitely takes after Mum.
Relatives would say she’s the
spitting image.
Delicate features
with Mum’s quiet soul.
I’m a mix of Mum and Dad.
Aunties would take it in turns
to say which bit
I get from each parent.
I have Mum’s almond eyes,
Dad’s straight nose,
her thin lips,
his dimpled chin
and I’m not there yet
but
I’m going to have Dad’s height.
It makes sense.
I’ve always felt
like there were
two people fighting
to get out of me.
X marks the spot
where Mum and Dad
should sign their names,
if they knew how,
on the letter
giving consent
for the school geography trip.
There’s a school trip next term.
I just need one of you to sign this.
Dad is immediately suspicious.
Where, what, who with?
Peak District.
To look at rocks.
School.
Dad thinks about it
and puts an ‘X’ by the X
telling you where to sign.
I will sign it on their behalf later,
this is just a formality.
I should teach you to write your name.
Dad scoffs.
I don’t need you to teach me anything.
Am I the adult or are you?
Well, what about Mum?
Her eyes light up.
She doesn’t need to learn anything either.
Mum is silent.
Looks down at her now-cold tea.
He picks up his coat and
leaves for the pub.
She waits a minute or two.
Is he down the road?
I look out of the kitchen window.
Yep, nearly at the bottom of the street.
Good.
She takes a little brown envelope
out of her bag.
She opens it
and begins to count the money inside.
She takes
forty pounds out of the bundle,
Can’t have him drink it all away,
and stuffs it into her bra.
Boosted by her rebellion,
she says,
Write my name in English.
I just want to see what it looks like.
I take a piece of paper
and write her name
in large capitals in thick black pen.
What are the letters?
I read them out.
SURINDER RAI
She stares at the piece of paper.
He’s right. It’s too late for me to learn new things now.
No it’s not.
I get another piece of paper.
Watch, I say,
and start copying out the letters.
Mum watches.
I give her a pen and paper.
Your turn.
She places the tip of the pen on the paper.
She hesitates.
An unease creeps across her face.
I’m tired.
Just try.
Some other time.
Try.
Leave it, I said!
Fear turns to anger
and that’s the end of that.
A substitute emotion.
As in,
people make themselves
angry
so they don’t
feel
pain.
I think about
asking her for
new trainers.
I know what
the answer will be.
The money she
has is to
pay the bills
and buy food.
If she left it
to Dad,
we’d be eating
tins of baked beans
in candlelight
and having
cold baths.
So I search
the drawers for
superglue.
I watch the sun setting,
a moment
that brings beauty
to the concrete jungle outside.
Grey walls
craving to be coloured
soak up red and pink hues.
Tonight it’s particularly beautiful.
A deep ruby red.
Lifeless structures haloed
in a crimson light.
A reminder that beauty
can be found in the
starkest of places.
Red sky at night,
Ruby’s delight, we’d say.
Ruby would say it was a sign
my wishes would
come true in the morning.
Training with the athletics team.
It might not be a problem,
I think.
I allow myself to dream.
I see Ruby’s car pull up outside.
If it wasn’t for baby Tiya,
I’d HATE her visits.
Yes, hate is a strong word
but it applies to Ruby these days.
Bad moods
follow Ruby around
like a bad smell.
Her husband, Jas, is a quiet man.
She gives me Tiya before
she’s through the door.
Like Tiya’s a dirty dishcloth
she can’t wait to get rid of.
Jas gives me a sympathetic smile.
Tiya puts her chunky arms
round my neck.
Bamber, she says
and snuggles into my shoulder.
Mum quickly sits up.
Starts tidying her hair,
apologizes for sleepi
ng.
I am ordered to
make tea and serve snacks.
I empty a packet of biscuits on to a plate.
I pour Bombay mix into bowls.
Jas insists I don’t have to
run around after him.
It’s fine,
I say, putting down the plate of biscuits
a little louder than I should.
How is school? Jas asks.
All right. My teacher wants me on the athletics team.
She says I’m the fastest in the year.
That’s brilliant! he says.
Ruby’s face hardens.
Like running’s going to get you anywhere,
she spits.
I didn’t say it was!
I’m just repeating what my teacher said! I snap.
We stare.
Fired up
for a fight.
Jas tries his best
to extinguish
the flames
by blowing raspberries
on Tiya’s stomach.
My heart
used to ache.
I tried to help.
But she became hard.
Stopped talking,
so I stopped trying.
Now I’ve become
as hard as her.
It wasn’t her choice.
She said I was too
young to understand,
but I did.
It wasn’t her choice.
She talked of honour
and respecting our parents.
I screamed in her face.
Told her that it’s her life
and she should marry
who she wants
when she wants.
I begged her to fight.
She didn’t.
That was her choice.
I feel as though I’ve always known
from the moment I was born
that this life without choice,
this life of duty,
was not for me.
The day she said yes
to the wedding
a split occurred,
so violent
that nothing I said
or did offered any
comfort.
I wanted to drop down into
the crevasse that
had been created
and disappear forever.
Overnight we became
strangers.
We are broken
in ruins,
a once unbreakable bond
in disrepair,
unable to find the pieces
to put ourselves back together
again.
He is proof
that not all men
are the same.
Jas is in awe of Ruby.
He says she’s the brains.
Says she deserves more
than the shoe shop.
She rolls her eyes,