Easy like Sunday morning

It was Sunday, and like every other week we had finished our Sunday morning prayers upstairs, and now eating breakfast whilst watching Nai Zindagi Naya Jeevan. We waited in anticipation for this week’s song - would it be a video clip from a famous film, or a live performance? The presenter announced that this today’s special guest was the one and only, Lata Mangeshkar. Ma hurriedly went to make more tea and toast to be ready in time for the song, and I helped with the butter and jam. Baba popped out to knock on his neighbour’s door and told him to put his television on and choose BBC1. You could hear how excited his friend was and appreciated being told. Although, I was slightly puzzled - didn’t every single British Asian person watch this programme? We never missed a single week. And suddenly there she was, Lata ji, singing Lag Jaa Gale from the film, Woh Kaun Thi?

Aged 7 and 9 years old, me and my brother had no idea what she was singing, and all the musicians remained seated and calm. This was in stark contrast to Top of the Pops, where western bands danced and jumped around everywhere. Baba would ask why did they insist on doing that? We didn’t know, but we liked to copy their moves. Looking back, I realise we were lucky to enjoy music from two different cultures and enjoyed Indian cinema too. These films connected us to a land we were not familiar with and enabled my parents to reminisce of a time they’d left behind. The last film they watched before leaving Bangladesh was Neel Akasher Neeche, directed by the wonderful Mrinal Sen.

Afterwards, Ma gathered the breakfast things and went to wash up. Nobody changed the channel in case Baba realised that Weekend World was on soon, and he’d make us watch it. He wanted us to learn stuff, but it was so boring. The presenter would talk to us like a stern schoolteacher. Even the guests on the show seemed to drift off with their own answers, as they talked and talked and talked. But this was Britain in 1979 – we only had three channels, and it was accepted that any television was better than no television at all. We heard the front door close. Baba had gone to the shops to buy some green chillies and a pack of his Senior Service. We breathed easy for a few minutes. A woman with a sari appeared behind a desk with numerous saucepans and spices. A bit like our kitchen but much bigger and less chaotic.

‘Maaaaaaaaa!’ we both shouted.

She hurriedly opened the kitchen door, ‘Why are you screaming like that? Has someone died?!’

‘Look. She’s wearing a sari, just like you!’

‘I see that.’

She humoured us. We would call her every time, as it was so rare to see a person wearing a sari on the television. Sometimes white people would stare at her in the town centre and I felt embarrassed that she dressed differently and stood out, but she didn’t care and eventually neither did I. Ma’s saris were one of the few colourful things to brighten up the high street in a dreary northern town. However, when we travelled to Bradford, Leeds or Preston for Durga Puja, suddenly we were surrounded by women wearing beautiful, brocaded saris always accompanied by a thick woolly cardigan from Marks and Spencer, to keep out the cold.

‘What’s she making?’

‘Aloo… Gobi. What is that?’

‘You know aloo is potato, but we say phul-cobi. It’s cauliflower, but the actual words are a flower and a cabbage, a flower cabbage. I don’t need to be shown how to cook that. Call me when she makes something else.’

Ma went back to the kitchen, and we continued watching the flower cabbage and potatoes. We didn’t know her name, my brother called her the Cayenne Woman, as everything she cooked would always, without fail, include cayenne pepper and we’d always cheer when it was added. I had cooked in the kitchen with Ma lots of times and recognised most spices, haldi, jeera, moris, garam masala, gul moris, fass phoron, darsini, long elasi, but I had never heard of cayenne. We watched mesmerised as she held up a plate with varying amounts of spices, and gently flicked each one into the pan with her little finger as she named them.

‘After softening the onions, garlic and ginger, in goes the turmeric, ground cumin, ground coriander and salt.’

She put the empty plate down. We were a little deflated.

‘Then give it a good stir and add the rest of the spices. You also need five to six cloves and cardamom pods, some cinnamon sticks, and some cayenne pepper.’

‘Yaaaayyyyy!’ We both jumped up and down, cheering as loudly as we could,

Just in that moment, Baba walked in, back from the shops.

‘What’s all that noise. Settle down! If you’re shouting and not listening, turn off the tv. Don’t waste all this electricity by having it on. What time is it? Weekend World is on now? Change the channel to ITV. Channel bodla! I’ll take these vegetables to your mother.’

‘You change it.’

‘No, you change it. It’s your turn.’

My brother jumped up from the carpet onto the settee.

‘You have to change it now. You’re nearer!’

I grudgingly walked the four steps from the rug over to the television and pressed the third metal cylinder hard to hear a satisfying clunk. Gone was the Cayenne Woman and replaced with the man in a suit, talking to some more men in suits. Me and brother made faces at each other, for one of us to say something. He went first.

‘Baba, this doesn’t sound interesting.’

‘You need to learn about what happens in Britain and around the world too and how other people are living.’

‘But Baba, I wanted to see what food was coming next.’

‘Always thinking about food! Wars, famines, revolutions. Think about these things and why they happen. Later, we’ll watch World About Us.’

Ma popped her head in from the kitchen.

‘Don’t forget, you two need to go the laundrette today. All the clothes need washing.’

‘Yaaaayyyyy!’ Again, we both jumped up and down cheering loudly as we could.

We would miss the politics programme and by the time we got back it would be over. Ma would’ve made lunch and we could watch our choice of programmes again. Ma gave us the bag and correct change and we set off. However, a black bin bag full of clothes is not light. My brother carried it over his shoulder like a young, brown Father Christmas and I tried to support it at the back to help reduce some of the weight. To pass the time I began half singing half humming Lag Jaa Gale.

‘Stop it! You can’t sing for toffee! And are you helping or what?’

‘I am helping! And I can sing! What about this one? Bright eyes, burning like fire. Bright eyes, how can they close and fade? La la la la, burns so brightly suddenly burn so pale? Bright eyes… I’d like to see that cartoon. Those rabbits look so cute…’