Why focus only on India, UK hates its immigrants too
It was the best of months, it was the worst of months. May was full of high highs and low lows (or Hai-hais) for the Blighty-based. England is often at its best at the onset of summer (and sometimes onset is all you get). Sherwood Forest, Nottingham, where I live, is now a panoply of golden-green leaves with vivid bursts of red and purple flowers.
The fauna is out in force too. From squirrels bouncing from tree to tree, to birds singing their hearts out, to the peskier elements of the neighbourhood children building a tree house in a wooded copse not far from us. We are keeping an eye on it because a telescope has been spotted in their stronghold. But till such reports are confirmed they are merely sweetly sun-hatted, knobbly-kneed kids engaged in something constructive. Though we never built a tree house (coconut trees are hard to build on!), their activity reminds me of my own slow childhood summers in Kolkata, when we played on the streets in blistering heat, with short breaks in the shade to catch up on Tintin and the Hojmi melting in our pockets.
Immigration
Unlike Sherwood's kids, Britain's politicians are neither sweet nor constructive. In fact, I can't think of a single sweet or constructive politician anywhere. They don't have to be the former but do need to be the latter, surely? Apparently not. The shock Tory win and all that it portends, including the demise of the big-hearted, much-needed National Health Service, marks the beginning of a cruel summer for Britain's dispossessed. We also saw the back of the most fractious and uninspiring elections in British history, with relief. Turgid television debates featuring David Cameron aka Hamface, Labour's goofy Ed Milliband, Walter Mitty-esque Liberal Democrat Nick Clegg, Scottish National Party's allegedly ball-breaking (because what else can a strong woman be) Nicola Sturgeon, and poisonous Toad of Toad Hall, the UKIP's Nigel Farage, are thankfully over. But the real debate has just begun.
Immigration was the issue every politician harped on this election. It was the only thing on the UKIP's agenda. And even Labour turned to anti-immigration rhetoric to boost its chances. What horrified me most was not the politicians baying for my blood but school kids (no less sweetly sun-hatted and knobbly-kneed than my neighbours) on TV spewing hate against "foreigners". But who are these blood-and-benefit sucking immigrants seen as such a blight on England's green and pleasant landscape? Is it little Chibueze, Aseem or Pratibha sitting with their paler counterparts in school, unaware of the threat they present? Or might it be the latter, parroting what their parents say, without a clue about their own antecedents? What a shock it would be to them to discover they are of migrant stock too. Anti-immigrant UKIP's Nigel Farage himself is a descendant of the Huguenots, refugees who fled religious persecution in 18th century France. The truth, though unpalatable for some, is that Britain is a mongrel nation. India is too. Wave upon wave of migrants from around the world over centuries have built our countries. And every other nation besides. Yet we hate immigrants. We pin our every problem on them, these hateful "others" who pay into our exchequers and do our dirty work. And the more obvious their "otherness", the easier it is to hate them. Muslims may be denied housing or jobs in India, and Northeasterners, treated with derision, while in England resentment against the dark-skinned, the "funnily" dressed and those who can't "speak English" (shouldn't that include Liverpudlians or London Cockneys?) is never far from the surface.
Experiment
It is a palpable presence in certain places. My English is pretty damn good, as well as unaccented. Yet on our otherwise enjoyable holiday in gorgeous Norfolk this month, we encountered people who seemed to struggle to understand me, turning to my white husband for explanations in his accented Yorkshire, before they acceded to our requests. Something similar happened in Cornwall five years ago. I waited half an hour to be served at an ice cream shop before I realised I wouldn't be served at all. As an experiment my husband went in next, emerging triumphant minutes later with ice cream.
Bigotry
I didn't feel triumphant though, just sad. Britain is a beautiful country with many fine people. I am now a proud Nottinghamian, revelling in the connections I've made with its broad-minded creative community, the likes of whom aren't limited to Nottingham. And in the 15 years I have lived here, I've seen numerous changes for the better. This last year, however, bigotry appears to have become acceptable again. Hatred of the "other" can quickly turn to violence, as news from America of the endless slaying of unarmed black men remind us. The very thought of a future like that for my children fills me with dread. At such times, I feel the tug of my old home - India.
But even as I miss the amazing food, and time spent with my family and friends, I remember the things that hadn't felt as good. I remember the lack of freedom for women and the dark-skin discrimination I had refused to put up with. There, as much as here. There's no perfect place. Even in magical Sherwood Forest, there is a telescope trained on me. I see it gleam. I hear giggling. I could get upset. Or I could use the British weakness for a certain "other"against them. So, I head for the tree house with my secret weapon. Keema samosas with lip-smacking mango chutney.