The author is famous and did a celebrity dance show, but I didn’t know that because I’m not in the UK. I wanted to know more about the music that lit her up at those Asian day raves, and how she navigated a career in TV. She is chatty, charming, brave, funny, and sometimes cliche. I’m glad I read this. I could relate to her loving new wave singers whose work in the clear light of adulthood and in the politics of the 2020s, are xenophobic and small, but who were for the moment creators of a culture that expressed MY teen angst too. But then, for her and others in the know in the UK, something better came along.
She writes, “There was an Asian Underground music scene, unashamedly confident and uncompromising, not pandering to what anyone expected from brown musicians, a uniquely British sound. Producers were putting the music
I had grown up listening to, classical Indian music, the tabla and the sitar, maybe some Indian vocals, and mixing it with electronic dance music. Also in 1996, the BBC had commissioned a brand new comedy series, Goodness Gracious Me, which started life as a radio series before transferring to TV. It became an instant cult classic. Yes, an actual Asian comedy on mainstream TV, showing the world how brown can be funny, clever and relatable. We could not believe it…. For the first time in my life, I had a sound that was all for me, that I understood fully. I had producers and musical heroes who looked like me. This music wasn't just being listened to in Asian pockets around the country. Major labels began signing British Asian artists, Asian Dub Foundation and Cornershop, Nitin Sawhney, Talvin Singh, rebellious and political and raw and cool. They were doing things on their own terms. This had nothing to do with pleasing the white music industry or our parents, this was a sub-culture, a coming of age for second generation British Asians. Had we finally arrived? Were we at last putting our cultural mark on Britain? Were we carving out a space?”
How much better we are now for more and different and varieties of cultural creators, including the author. I think that the intent of her writing — to represent, to heal, to unify, to empower girls like her — is what animates the author, and her words. Parts felt trite or clunky, but it was always real and always authentic. She is also sometimes devastating.
— BELOW IS AN EXCERPT ABOUT PARTITION THAT ILLUSTRATES WHAT I MEAN —
Something else I discovered while making not only my Who Do You Think You Are? episode, but later during the filming of my programme, My Family, Partition and Me, was how women were also abducted by all sides. Forcibly taken from their families, sometimes given away as a bargaining chip, to ensure the rest of the family was kept safe. If this had happened in the UK, there would be so many programmes and books and documentaries to discover all these stories, these hidden family secrets.
What is the meaning of a woman's life? The girl is a burden. Infanticide is criminalised in India but that doesn't stop it from happening. Once, when backpacking across India, I met a pregnant woman on a bus, travelling with her little daughter. We got chatting while I played with her little girl and she told me she was going to see a doctor in her hometown, who would tell her the sex of the child. If it was another girl, she would have it aborted. Not because any part of her wanted to do it, but because of the pressure being put on her by her in-laws to produce a son. My God, it's so exhausting and draining writing this, but write it I must.
After Partition, in 1949 the Indian government passed a law called the Abducted Persons (Recovery and Restoration) Bill, which gave the government the power to remove abducted women in India from their new homes and transport them to Pakistan. The government could use force against abducting families and it could also hold abducted women in camps, if needed. The official estimate of the number of abducted women was placed at 50,000 Muslim women in India and 33,000 Hindu and Sikh women in Pakistan. Until December 1949, the number of recoveries in both countries was 12,552 for India and 6,272 for Pakistan. The maximum number of recoveries were made from Punjab.
These women often did not want to go home as their families would not accept a "fallen woman.” There were those who didn't want to return to the families who had traded their daughter's life for their own safety. There are thousands of women of my grandmother's generation who would have converted to Islam and remained in Pakistan, or converted to Hinduism or Sikhism and stayed in India. These stories are hidden deep within families. Maybe some know the truth, but so many will have kept their secret to themselves. If you know your granny converted, you also know your family abducted her and were complicit in the chaos and brutality. History is complex, history is devastating, history is vital to understand.
Exploring my own family history, I never was able to learn categorically what happened to my Nanaji's first wife. Was she murdered? Did she jump in a well? Was she abducted? Is she still alive somewhere in Pakistan, with a family, her family?
My grandparents and others in their generation, who first came to the UK, brought with them the trauma of Partition etched into their souls. They never spoke of it. How do you? Where do you begin? There is no commemoration for the dead in India or Pakistan either.
When Who Do You Think You Are? came knocking, I was thrilled, but I really didn't know what light it could shed on my life and experiences. I believed that I was a product of my parents. That they were the only ones responsible for how I turned out. What a naïve fool I was! As a woman with ancestry in India, I feel inextricably connected to the place and to the women who came before me. I am them. They are me. The women India has lost fuel me and I owe it to the memory of all those forgotten and discarded, tossed into the dark well of history, whose names have never been spoken, whose memories are kept embedded in the hearts of the ones who knew them, but never mentioned - I won't let them be forgotten. My family, who I love dearly, never spoke of Nanaji's first wife. I never knew her name until
2015, when I discovered it was Pritam Kaur.