It’s Christmas for the Muslims! Brits put two fingers up to division
My dad, who lives in Glasgow, has been ill recently so I found myself on a train heading up to the motherland on Sunday. He had a heart attack shortly after the election. I know. We were all pretty shocked by the exit poll, but he definitely wins.
I would have gone up earlier but I’ve been touring my stand-up show around the country. I felt terribly guilty and told him I could cancel but in typical Indian dad mode, he declared that would be mad as I now don’t have a “proper job, a pension, or a husband”. Thanks.
I owe my father a lot. He came to this country from India with the clichéd three pounds in his pocket in the 1960s and worked hard to give me and my brother a decent education, better life and second generation identity crisis.
He was always conscious about his lovely Indian accent and worried about his written English skills and didn’t want his children to have the same problems. So, every school holiday he made us sit down at the kitchen table with some paper, a pencil and some random object and we had to write something about it. This stood me in good stead for becoming a columnist. Next week you can look forward to musings on my dehumidifier.
Going home is always a weird and wonderful experience. While I’m surprised my mother hasn’t been fined by Ofcom for nuisance calls to me, when I arrive home, I’m always a massive inconvenience and get in the way of my parents’ social arrangements. And despite all the claims about how much everyone misses me, there is little actual evidence of this.
I go to visit my niece and nephew expecting squeals of joy, mass hysteria and cuddles galore. Instead I barely get eye contact and they don’t seem remotely bothered that I’m there. I feel like Theresa May on a visit. My five-year-old niece seems to soften (after a heavy sugar-based inducement – she’s basically the DUP) and gives me a lovely hug.
“It’s so nice to see you Aunty Jenny,” she coos. I awkwardly explain who I am and then she starts crying because I am a) not Aunty Jenny (who isn’t even an actual blood relative) and b) don’t have a dog called Rodney. I can’t win.
The good news is that my father has channelled his inner Prince Philip and was discharged from hospital. He was at the Queen Elizabeth University and then the Golden Jubilee National Hospital in Glasgow and the staff could not have been more brilliant and kind, so a heartfelt ‘thank you’.
We decide to treat him to a special family meal to celebrate the Muslim holy festival of Eid and of course we have to go for a curry. He’s very touched, although he says it won’t be the same without Aunty Jenny. My niece starts crying again.
Apart from lots of lovely messages asking how my dad is, I also notice that my Facebook and social media feeds are lit with lots of Happy Eid messages from people of all faiths and none.
It’s such a simple but genuinely nice gesture. I recall how when I was growing up, I would feel a bit awkward about telling people of my cultural quirks and felt it was almost embarrassing to be different. Today, it is notable and positive how British society has embraced and celebrates many different festivals and religious and cultural events like Eid with natural warmth and wit. And it makes such a difference.
A comedian friend, Susan Murray, messages me to say a cab company in Manchester told her “we’re short of cab drivers today ‘cos it’s the Muslims’ Christmas” which is so brilliant I tell my dad and it makes him burst out laughing. Stories like this show how inclusive, funny and kind British society is, our desire for unity and generally how nice most people are. And maybe it’s a defiant two fingers up to the recent terrorist attack which attempted to cause resentment and division in society.
Non-muslims making the effort to say Happy Eid meant a lot this year and it makes me think about how such a small gesture can go such a long way, apart from the anonymous racist troll on Twitter who responded to my ‘Eid Mubarak’ tweet with ‘Happy bombing evening to you too’.
I responded with a word that couldn’t be printed. Besides, we would all be way too full. We’re less about the religious fast and more about the feast to be honest.
We went to a nice local Indian restaurant and I could tell my parents really enjoyed themselves as they criticised the food non-stop and grumbled about “such small portions” in classic Woody Allen style. It was a lovely evening. Talk turned to my “fancy pants” life in London. These chats can get tense as my brother and sister-in-law always quite rightly rip it out of me for being a bit pretentious and ludicrous. It then turns out they couldn’t pick me up from the station as they were attending an organic rhubarb festival in Glasgow. You people….
Next week it will be a kale seminar. I just can’t win. But it’s always good to be home. Ayesha’s show State of the Nation will be at the Gilded Balloon, 14-20 August.