I was born in London, England, in 1980, to an extremely gentle Hindu-Brahmin mother and a non-religious Jain father who had a business-focused mind, and, at times, a questionable work ethic. The generations before me had crossed continents to find a better quality of life and gift their progeny a brighter future.
Somewhere along this generational journey from India to Kenya to England, the ancient wisdom and stories, usually handed down by grandmothers in candlelight (as I love to imagine it), were deposited in the ground and covered by the dust of material life, societal duty, and the chasing of worldly dreams.
My parents had met and fallen in love in their hometown of Mombasa, Kenya. My mother’s family opposed the union because of the caste system, so the pair eloped, marrying in the small town of Kisumu, wearing a t-shirt and jeans (my father), and a t-shirt and dungarees (my mother), with the registry office janitor as their witness.
Just over a year later, in 1979, my mother was nineteen years old and carrying my brother in her swollen belly across the skies to their new home and new life. Almost every shilling they had was used for plane fare, leaving the couple to start again from scratch upon their arrival. My brother, Mishal, was born in England soon after they arrived, and my parents received a state allowance and government housing while my father looked for work.
To this day, my mother winces when she describes the living conditions of their first home as a new family. The three of them shared a tiny, two-room flat in West Hendon, London, with another couple who had a toddler and a Great Dane. If you don’t know what that is, think of a horse with a dog’s face on it – there you go. The bathroom and kitchen were shared with the giant dog and the other family, whose personal hygiene left much to be desired. The toddler toddled around diaper-less, my mother recalls, and the smell of urine, and the other family in general, filled the hallway.
The floorboards were in such a state of disrepair that if you stepped on one end of the wrong board, the other end shot up, forcing you to walk as if in a mine field. And if you dared to walk barefoot, the floor left a greasy, sticky residue on your feet. The filth, dirt and dust attacked little baby Mishal’s immune system, and at just a few weeks old, his face and body were covered in a rash with red, swollen welts all over. My teenage mother, in a new country without her mother, sisters or friends around, cried while collecting her baby’s medicine at the pharmacy and tried to conceal his face with a shawl.
They worked hard to clean up their flat, which happened to be above a fish ‘n’ chip shop. A portion of chips cost just fifteen pence, so they were unsurprisingly a recurring meal. For leisure and to stretch their legs, they’d take a walk with baby Mishal in a pram, donated to them by a caring neighbour up the road, to Brent Cross Shopping Centre – an upscale shopping mall full of famous brands – but they never went inside.
My father had not yet found a job, and neither he nor my mother had any plans to bring another child into their lives. But you can’t stop me from anything once I’ve made up my mind – this was the family I’d chosen – this was the home I was headed to. And so, when my brother was barely three months old, my mother felt all the signs that another child was on the way.
I heard this story many times growing up, that they’d had no plan to have another child. The term they used was ‘mistake baby’. I used to tell them that they could have used phrases like ‘accidental’ or ‘unplanned’ pregnancy, or how about ‘lovely little surprise’. But no, I was the mistake baby from the moment they realised I was on the way. I know they didn’t mean it like that. English is actually their third language after Gujarati and Swahili, so I let them off, eventually 😄
They were also convinced they were having another boy. My mother said I was so active that I’d be moving around and kicking her constantly like a footballer. I don’t know how they deduced ‘boy baby’ from that. Even the doctor guessed I was a boy, without a scan. But I managed to surprise everybody and came out in this world, in this lifetime, as a girl. I guess they thought I was alright, as they named me Hiral, meaning the lustre of a diamond.
Once my mother confirmed the pregnancy, the local council moved them to an estate across the road into a brand new home all to themselves: a flat with two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, a bathroom and a balcony overlooking the Welsh Harp – a beautiful reservoir lake with sailing boats and ducks, and plenty of open land, including a park with an activity area and jungle gym for children. The clean space and air completely cleared up my brother’s rash, and my father landed a good office job within walking distance of the flat.
I spent the first four years of my life in greenery, by that lake and playing in the park. I needed Mother Nature, right from the get-go, and She’d graciously made it happen.
Oh, and my parents finally went inside Brent Cross Shopping Centre 😊
(Originally published on os.me on January 22, 2021)