I love visiting Indian grocery shops here. The semblance to the markets back home which I innately long for, the crowd, the chaos and the hustle and bustle, gives me a rush. The familiar greens, not to be found in giant supermarkets, the wee bit unorganised stacks of vegetables and fruits, the casual conversation with the fellow shopper as I pick my choice of veggies, the smells and sights reminds me of a part of a world far away, where I grew up. I always overspent when I visit Indian shops, my shopping cart overladen so much so that I have to lug in the second one as one is not enough. Today as I skimp through the array of vegetables, my eyes fell on the plump pointy gourds glinting in the morning sunshine. Now pointy gourds are one of my favourite vegetables, a rare sight even in the Indian shops where I live. So I greedily fill up a bag of them, though they were overly priced.

At home as I scrape the rough skin of pointy gourds, a childhood memory completely takes over. I started cooking from a very young age, not because I was passionate about the culinary process but because of necessity and also as my parents were non fussy eaters and gave me complete control over the kitchen, cringing less that I made the kitchen messy or if my preparation was beyond edible. They never peeked into the kitchen to see what was going or never tried to kill the fun of cooking by a litany of advice, their only word of caution-stay safe. My mother often had this bout of gastric pain, she convulsed in agony, her face contorted as she rolled in the bed waiting for relief. In those days, I would venture into the kitchen whip up some dinner, if my father would be late from work.

On one such evenings I decided to make potol ( pointy gourd) and Alu ( potato) jhol (light curry with minimum spices). Those were days when I was still learning the basics of cooking, the right balance of spice,the importance of simmering the gravy until it reached your desired consistency. At dinner time, I served my father first as he was ravenous after long day at work, and he polished it off in minutes, his plate shining like a freshly minted coin. Then we both sisters sat together to eat our dinner. My sister pushed one morsel of rice in her mouth and in an instant threw it up, her face all puckered up. What was that? It is awful. It is like having half cooked vegetables in hot water, yuck. I was yet to eat so I skeptically tried it out, yes, it was disgusting, never tasted something so unpalatable. My ears burned in shame of cooking a tasteless meal, and serving it to my father. I couldn’t understand how my father ate it without a furrow in his brow.. Did he have enduring tastebuds or was it just that he didn’t want to see a mass of dark clouds on my face when he told me that my food was not up to the mark. When I asked him, my father who masked his emotions very well, brushed it off and said, it was not that bad. This memory hung onto my mind like coat in a peg, even now my sister teases me saying, remember that potol alu you cooked when we were children!

Now, I cook a decent simple soulful meal. But still once in a while I have my cooking disasters, the curry is too runny, the combination of spices gone wrong , those days I remember my father…he would have eaten with a world of complain..

When I came to this country a decade back, one grey morning I decided to take my son to the park. Fat swollen clouds swirled in the sky, hanging so low that I felt if I reached out I could touch those fluffy balls. The park was a swathe of green with lots of leafy walks, a pond where ducks swam in gay abandon and a play area for the children. There were hardly any people in the park, one little boy was in the swing, rest everything was empty. The clang of the metal swing pierced the air, the sound sharper because of the all encompassing silence. My boy pointed out with his plump fingers that he wanted to go on the swing too. I followed him to the swing, waited uneasily, stiff as a wood. Then another little girl strutted in, her rapunzel like hair tied into a braid swaying behind her. The father who was pushing the boy lifted him from the swing and said, “let these children have a go. You have been on the swing for a long time”. As soon as the boy was off the swing, the little girl dashed to taker turn, but was stopped by her mother. “Emily, I think this little boy was here before us. First let him have a go,” she tells her, the corners of her mouth curved into a full smile as she looked at me. I wanted to hug her, at a time when you miss your family terribly, feel a sting of loneliness, a kind word from a total stranger felt like an enveloping quilt in a cold night. But other than that, I realised taking turn is ,an etiquette, Britishers held aloft and is commonplace in all social situations. Coming from a chaotic country, where you always have to make your way through or you will never get a turn, it was kind of eye opening to me. As I started exploring I saw that even if there was no queue, like in a sandwich shop, where four five were standing haphazardly thinking which sandwich to choose, people asked “are you in the queue?”

The belief of orderly queue is a part of the national character, and it symbolises decency, fairness, democracy. Jumping queue is socially unacceptable and frowned upon by most people. Some days before we were about to walk out of a ferry, and of course there was line, but not an orderly one, and one man was too much in rush to wait, muscled his way through to the front. A child, I am guessing she will be hardly 6 year old, shouted, “hey, that man is breaking the queue.

That is not done.” Yes, if you jump queue you might be told off even by pint-sized children. The notion of queuing is embedded in a child, like a chip in a computer, as she or he grows up. Undermining the British queuing system is undermining the British way of life.

I watched and learnt. Sometimes, of course, queueing can be frustrating and irritating, if you have children with you, but it works, it helps maintain orderliness. In my case, if an elderly woman with crutches stood behind me, I would always give my place to her as I know she deserved it more than me.

The British people claim that they are known all over the world for being civilised queuers. When it comes to self organisation, they are unequivocally the best. Queueing is such an integral part of British system that social historians have written books about it. Dr Joe Moran, the author of Queuing for Beginners: The Story of Daily Life from Breakfast to Bedtime, has touched on this topic among other minutiae of British every day life.

The Wimbledon is probably a fine example of British queueing system at its best. Every summer thousands of people gather to watch this star studded event, and yet there is hardly any chaos. Wimbledon has a strict code of conduct on queuing, all written down, and anyone who doesn’t follow the rules are refused entry.

Last month, London hosted the world athletics championships, an overwhelming number of people turned up to watch Usian Bolt run his last race. I was there at the Olympic park and happened to visit the park cafe. It was teeming with people, there was a queue to buy food but there were also people milling around the queue so it was difficult to find the tip of it. But after living in this in this country for long, I have become conditioned to queueing, come what may, I didn’t rest till I found my rightful place.

I read in an article that if you accept someone’s offer to go ahead of them in queue, you may be considered as impolite. In my case, I will always offer a place to someone who is more in need, if I see a woman struggling to cope with her wailing baby standing behind me, I will not think twice but give my place to her. She deserves to be ahead of me, no matter what. The first come, first served may be the civilised way to do things, but if someone is more in need, queue skipping should definitely be acceptable.

At the time of Durga Puja, each and every Bengali living away from home find themselves in the solid arms of nostalgia, which holds them so tight that it is difficult to wriggle out of that loop. Yearning to be home and soak in the puja festivities.Last year, one of my friend , who is a journalist in India, asked me what did I miss most about Durga Puja, and I replied of course, the electric atmosphere. Yes, most cities in the U.K. here celebrate Durga puja. A hall is booked, Bengalis congregate from all over the place, they dress up in festive gear, yes, the six yard of luxurious silks and dakhai jamdani come of hibernation, the old idol is cleaned and brought out of the covers. For three days gossip flows, food is cooked and served, cultural programmes are organised, yet there is something missing.

At home, it is all about the enveloping atmosphere suffused with sparkling energy. You just feel it in the air. The anticipation of homecoming of Goddess Durga is equally exciting as the event itself. Planning starts months before..what to wear, what to eat. Most visits the pandals, which is an elaborate piece of art, and where Durga is housed for four days, not once but twice in the day, once in the morning and again in the afternoon. And mind you, they have separate outfits for both morning and afternoon. The city never sleeps for four days, with Puja revellers spilling out of the pandal in the wee hours of the morning, looking fresh as a daisy, and not the least laden with sleep. As the sky fills with wild peach, they go back to their homes for some rest and then start all over again.

I am surprised how vividly Puja memories comes to me even though it has been years I haven’t been home during the festivities. I remember when I was a child on the first day of the puja I would sprint to the pandal straight out of the bed, doesn’t matter that my dress looked like a crumpled newspaper, my hair resembled a bird’s nest…. The sweet chill in the atmosphere, the heady fragnance of sweli flowers, carpeting my garden..all sending frissions of excitement through my body. I just wanted to have a first glimpse of the idol.

As the neighbourhood reverberated with the rhythmic beard of dhak, I couldn’t help but get swayed by the spirit of festivity. With parents mellowed out, those three days we would be fancy free and foot loose. Idling our time in the pandals, without a care in the world, enjoying the endless chatter around us, gorging on junk food , sold in the food stalls , and eyeing boys.

Alas! For my son and my daughter it is just one of the many festivals we celebrate. They don’t show any enthusiasm when we discuss Durga puja though they happily go with the flow here; they take part in celebrations here but there is no sense of belonging. But come Christmas and they are all pumped up because of the palpable Christmassy atmosphere. Unlike Durga puja, it spills onto every nook and corner of the city. It is tangible. But for us Durga a Puja, was one of the most awaited event of the year.

It is said when a Bengali ventures into the kitchen to prepare the ubiquitous South Indian dish, dosa, you can hear lot of pots and pans banging. For them it is like going on a intrepid exotic culinary adventure. I still remember when we first asked Ma if she could make dosa for us, she raised her disbelieving eyebrows. Those were times when the hoi polloi was not very much exposed to other regional cuisines of India. But she had no choice. Ever since her daughters tasted the South Indian staple in some swanky restaurant they couldn’t stop salivating over those golden crispy dosa, the tangy spice sambhar dal, and the buttery smooth coconut chutney. They would badger her again and again, Ma, can we go to Woodlands again, please? “No, you cannot. How rich do you think we are! At last she decided to try making it at home. However, she made it very clear that she would make dosa only for breakfast, a typical Bengali, she couldn’t envision anything else but rice for lunch and dinner. I remember my mother’s jittery excitement as she forayed into this unknown world, something impossible belonging to another place. My mother was never an experimental cook nor did she enjoy cooking but it was her duty to feed her family and hence depended on the tried and tasted recipes passed down to her by her in-laws. She never used a recipe book, she has been cooking for so long that she could make most Bengali dishes even if she was blindfolded. But this seemed a difficult equation. As she went through the recipe step by step, she wrung her hands, wrinkled her eye brows, expressing her annoyance. A hurdle, big enough, was zeroing in on curry leaves, the queen herb in South Indian cuisine. In Bengali food, curry leaves were never used so we had no idea how it looked like. In those days curry leaves were not available easily in our part of the country. The family came together, even the caretaker. He assured us that he could arrange for some curry leaves, there was a curry leaf tree where he worked. The sprigs of curry leaves looked like tej patta( bay leaves) and it’s strong aroma lingered in the air for long. The sweat by the brow preparation started one day before as the trick to get the dosa right was fermentation. Rice and urad dal was soaked in water and kept in a warm place. Then we debated whether to grind the mixture on the stone or in the grinder. But at last we decided to go easy on ourselves use the grinder. With deftness and precision, Ma then took a ladle of batter and spread it out on pan, then she spiralled the ladle until the batter reached the edges. Her lips pursed and face flushed red with heat and concentration as she tried to flip the dosa. Beads of sweat run down her face, but she was too focussed on the task at hand . But the stubborn dosa would not come off the pan, I could see ma’s face, furrows in her brow, jaws clenched, her muscles taut. We realised there was something wrong with the batter, may be it was too thick, may be it was too thin, may be it was not fermented well, who knows? As she forcibly try to take it off the pan, it broke into fragments, dashing all our hopes. Ma stormed out of the kitchen bristling with anger. I am never making dosa again, she said. That day we were served scraps of dosa. It tasted fine. We ate our breakfast without a word, only the the sound of cutlery clinking against the dishes. A pinch of amnesia, and after some days we were trying to flip dosas again. Yes, we could never craft the perfect dosa, but this did not deter us from making dosas. Once in a month, on a weekend, we would again join hands to make dosa.

Now, we get ready made dosa batter, and my dosas come out near perfect. Yet, I would think twice before treating my South Indian friends to my dosas. They might have a seizure. So my dosas are only for my family and my non South Indian friends. I think I can get away with them.

Sommnath Roy sprawled his enormous bulk on the chair and propped his feet on a wicker stool. There was nothing like taking a lazy nap on the balcony after a salubrious meal of rice and fish in tongue-scalding sauce made of garlic, chili and onion paste. He could still feel the fiery taste on his tongue. He looked at the mound of his belly undulating like a swelling wave as he took steady breath. His wife often badgered him to reduce his intake of rice as the starch was ballooning up his belly, but he didn’t bother to listen to her. What the heck, he enjoyed his rice and fish. The phone rang. Slicing the air its shrill sound reached straight to his ears. He heaved his body from the chair, cursing the person who rang at this hour. 

“Helllo,” he said, trying hard not to sound irritated. 

“Baba, it’s me, Shona.” Of course, he knew who she was; she need not introduce herself. He knew it just the moment when the voice mouthed the first syllable. He knew it was none other than his only daughter calling from England. Gone was the sleep in his eyes, all traces of irritation disappeared, the voice radiated so much warmth that he felt sluggishness melting away from his body. His heart was pulsating with love, he wanted to reach out to her and smother her with wet kisses and watch her puckering her lips in disgust, the way she used to when she was baby, but he knew she was a woman now and he had to keep his distance and his emotions lidded.

“How is my darling daughter? You must be on your way to office now. Are you wearing your scarf? You always get a sore throat in cold.”

“Yes, Baba, I am properly clothed. And what fish did you have for lunch today?”

“Oh, I angled a prize catch today.  As I walked into the fish market, my eyes fell on this big carp fish, the length of my hand. Its scales looked like polished silver and its eyes were glassy as marbles. I wanted to get my hands on it at once but I didn’t want to look desperate. I haggled for five minutes, and as usual the fish monger gave in. When he was cutting it into pieces, I could see its pink and soft flesh. Your Ma made a curry with onion paste which tasted sublime.”

His rambling was cut short by his daughter. “Baba, I want to tell you something.”

“Sorry, Sorry. Yes, what is it?”

“I met someone here. And I really like him a lot.”

The hairs on his hands stood stiff like needles and for some moments he thought his heart was not in his chest anymore but plummeted to the ground like roller coaster.

“Baba, you there?” 

“Is he English?”

“No, Baba. He is an Indian and a Bengali. They are from Kolkatta, but he has been living in England for many years. I wanted to come home next month and I was thinking of bringing him along.”

“Did you say he is a Bengali? No worries bring him home. I will ask your Ma to make an elaborate meal for him. Oh, we will have so much to talk about; literature, music and food.”

“But Baba…

“Don’t worry, no matter where a Bengali lives his interests are always the same. Now you dash off to work. I need to share this piece of good news with your mother,” he said.

He was aghast when his daughter decided to go to England to work there as an IT consultant for a few years. And since the day she left a fear had been always lurking inside him like a spider on a wall. What if one day she walked in with a light-skinned, blue-eyed, long-limbed English guy tucked into her arm. A guy whose upbringing, food habits, way of life, everything was different from his. What would he say to him? How many times would he have to say sorry to comprehend a single sentence? Of course he would welcome him, he would respect his daughter’s choice, but at heart he would always wish if only he had been an Indian. And now his daughter had allayed all his fears, she was coming home with a Bengali boy. The news was sweeter than birdsong to his ears. He would have a long talk with him over a meal of rice and fish. 

Somnath Roy’s love for fish could be chronicled. Fish was not just a type of food to fill stomach, for him it was gastronomy right from zeroing on the best fish, cooking it with the correct blending of spices and then eating it with relish—dexterously removing the soft flesh from the bones and then at the end chewing and sucking the last bit of juice out of the bones until nothing was left of it. Every morning right after breakfast he would be on his way to the fish market with a gunny bag dangling from his stocky hand. He would walk down the slushy aisle of the fish market in his weather beaten slippers, worn specially for this purpose, oblivious to the muck and dirt underfoot. The atmosphere boomed with the clamorous din of the fish mongers and the thwacking of sharp blades that fell on the slivery creatures, but nothing could distract him, like a shooter his eyes were set on the target. He would eye up the best ones, whether it was the always astronomically priced and bonier Illish, juicy pink prawns or the fleshy Rui crammed with eggs. At the end he would always walk out triumphantly with the prize catch nestled in the bag. He never had to tell his wife how he wanted his fish to be prepared. His wife knew it when she unloaded the vegetables and fish from the shopping bag. She knew whether he wanted his prawns in thick coconut gravy or with fresh and fleshy bottle gourd, and if it was carp fish she knew whether he wanted it cooked in yoghurt sauce or a simple wholesome curry with an assortment of vegetables like cauliflower, potato and aubergine.. Nothing was wasted; even the head of fish was cooked with aromatic rice, potato and spices and turned into a delicacy.   

A day before his daughter’s visit, the whole house was being readied for her welcome. The servants were asked to clean the windows inside out and polish the glass panes with crumpled newspaper so that it looked sparkly and shiny as new. Washed and sun fresh curtains graced the doors and windows, floors were scrubbed with sweet smelling disinfectant, cobwebs that had gathered in high corners were cleaned and bed covers embroidered by his late mother were taken out of the closet and spread out. While the servants were cleaning and tidying up the house, Somnath Roy and his wife discussed the menu.

“I will go to the fish market early morning tomorrow so that I can get the freshest of fish. I think we should have three types of fish on the table–a dry spicy curry with small fish, a simple jhol with carp fish and steamed Illish. I think that should be sufficient.”

Mrinal knew how much he loved to treat his guests to good home made food and every time they invited someone to their house he would always go overboard and plan a menu which was more elaborate than a marriage feast and she had a hard time reining his child-like enthusiasm.

 

“Don’t you think it is a bit too much? I have no problems cooking all that stuff but you must realize that today’s generation can’t eat like you used to when you were young. They are small eaters and they are very conscious about what they eat,” she said.

“Nonsense, he will devour home made food, after all he has been out of the country for so long. And this is the first time Shona’s friend is coming to our place, we need to make an impression on him. We will go ahead with this menu.”

His daughter was to arrive any moment. He stood near the gate in a white crisp kurta pyjama, his hair oiled and smoothed back and his hands folded on his chest. As he saw the car approaching, his face lit up as if a thousand stars had shone on him and he called out to the servants to inform his wife that their daughter had arrived. 

“Kemon acho, Baba. I missed you so much,” she said.

As he felt his daughter’s touch after such a long time, every sinew, every muscle, every nerve, every vein in his body came alive. He tried to find the baby smell in her body, the odor that made him go numb, but now it was replaced by a fashionable artificial fragrance. 

“Look how thin you have become. Are you on some diet?” he said, scrutinizing her from up close. She was about to reply when a swarthy, robust-looking man with broad shoulders and strong legs  stood in front of them, luggage hanging from his shoulders and hands. The man was gleaming with health and energy, and there was something about the way he smiled, it connected instantly. 

“Sorry, Ashim for not helping you with the luggage. It is just that…,” she said, trying to take some load off him.

“Hey, not to worry. I can understand. I would have done the same if I were in your place.”

“Baba, this Ashim.”

“I have heard so much about you. I was desperate to meet you. Shona says we two will have a great time as we both are talkers,” Ashim said, dropping the luggage to the ground and touching Somnath Roy’s feet to take his blessing.

He let out a booming laugh which shook his Budha belly vigorously. “Did she say that? Then I am sure we will. Come on let’s go inside,” he said.

While his daughter hovered in the kitchen chatting with her mother as she stirred one dish after another, the men took steps to know each other. They clicked instantly. Conversation flowed easily and there was never an awkward moment. Ashim was a great talker, not that type who rattled off nonsense, but an intelligent conversationalist who talked of fascinating things and drew others into it. He was a good listener too, his attention was unwavering, his gaze fixated on Roy’s face as he spoke as if he was listening to a revered guru. He also observed that he chose his topics carefully; he never spoke of things which were foreign to his generation, making him feel that he was talking to a friend. It was too early to say whether he was putting up an act to impress his girl friend’s father, but he had the feeling that he was a genuine man who had a good upbringing. 

“Uncle, do you listen to Rabindra Sangeet?” Ashim asked.

“Of course, I do. There are very few people of our generation who don’t listen to this musical genre. There was a time when I used to listen to Hemanta Mukhopadhay’s renditions obsessively, I love his deep resonating voice,” he said.

“I am a big fan too. But more than the melody, I am a great admirer of the RS lyrics. Tagore gave a microcosm of Bengali society and its culture in his poems. He is one of the few poets who wrote both about the elite as well as the impoverished.”

“What do you think of the new interpretations and variations by the new singers?”

“I am a traditionalist RS. I don’t have anything against the new singers, but I just don’t feel that languid romanticism in their renditions. Some things are better untouched,” he said.

He had been half sick with fear thinking that one day his daughter would bring home someone whom he wouldn’t like, with whom his wavelength would never match, but now he was proud of his daughter’s choice. 

The grand feast finally began. Food was served in decorative polished brass plates and bowls that bounced off light when sun rays fell on them. A small mound of rice in the shape of a cake was placed at the center of a plate, the size of a lotus leaf. A small heap of salt, green chilli, a wedge of sweet smelling lemon and pieces of deep fried golden brown aubergine coated in rice flour lay in one side. Small bowls of curries and lentils of different textures — rich, mild, fiery hot, as well as varied colour palette—red, brown, yellow— circled the plate as satellites around the sun. There were fishes of different shapes, sizes and species—striped small tangra lathered in a dry, spicy sauce, palm-sized pieces of carp fish bobbing in a dark red sauce and baked hilsa wrapped in tender plantain leaves. As Ashim walked to the dining table, the contours of his face changed— he looked in awe at the king’s spread laid out on the table.

“My God, Aunty, why did you take so much pain? I feel bad, I caused you so much trouble,” he said.

“Please, it was a pleasure. It’s a way of saying how happy we are to have you with us. Now enjoy your food,” she said with a warm motherly smile.

As Ashim and his wife talked, Roy’s eyes fell on his daughter. She looked a bit blanched and was unusually quiet.  Something in her silence told him that some thing was bothering her. It was hard for him to tell what was going on in her mind. What’s the matter with her? She should look jubilant, now that we have approved her choice, he thought. He decided to find it out after lunch.

He was so busy romancing his food–mixing rice with curry, putting it in his mouth and then letting his tongue enjoy all the flavours before swallowing it—that he didn’t notice that Ashim had finished only a small portion of rice with lentils and vegetables, and the fish curries lay untouched.

“What’s the matter? Aren’t you enjoying the food?” he asked.

“Oh, no, Uncle, it is very good. It is just I am not used to such an elaborate meal.”

“Come on, at this age you should have an appetite of a monster. You should have no problem finishing this off,” he said.

Ashim looked like a child lost in the woods. Roy saw he was highly unskilled when it came to separating bones from the flesh. He picked a few tangra fish from the curry, haphazardly mixed it with rice and forced it down his throat with water as if he was taking some bitter dose of medicine. At one time he started using both his hands, his plate looked like garbage bin with food thrown all over the place. For a connoisseur of fish like him it was a repulsive sight. He lost his appetite; he pushed the plate away from him, got up and walked out of the room without speaking a word. His daughter had kept him in dark; she didn’t disclose to him that Ashim was a non-fish eater. Why did she do that? Did she think he won’t be able to see through the lie? He really wanted to pass on his love of fish to his son-in-law. He had great plans in mind–one day he wanted to take him to the fish market and teach him how to differentiate between a fresh and a stale fish. He wanted to share with him some interesting fish trivia—how the salt content in the water determined the taste of Ilish mach, and many more. 

He was sitting on the bed and looking out of the window when his daughter came in and sat beside him. He became stiff as a stick. 

“Baba, listen to me. Give me a chance to explain, please,” she said.

He turned around to face his daughter; trying hard to cloak the anguish and hurt he felt profoundly, but it was stamped all over his face. 

“Baba, I always wanted to tell you that Ashim is non fish eater. But he told me that if it meant so much to you, he would go ahead and try to eat fish. I knew he would make a mess of it and you would find it out eventually, but he was so keen on pleasing you that I let him have his way,” she said.

“Did you realize how much pain your mother took in preparing all these? Of course, I would have been hurt if you told me about this fact earlier, but I would be prepared. But now I feel insulted; I feel like a fool.”

“We are sorry. I really like this man. And he is a very good human being. I can never be at peace, knowing the fact that I have caused you pain. Give us another chance, please.”

Her complete candour assuaged his anguish somewhat. He knew he had to shed his prejudices and petty thinking as it would be extremely puerile of him if he judged Ashim based on the fact that he was a non fish eater. There was no denying the fact that he was a likeable character, and more importantly his daughter liked him.

“Come Baba, finish your lunch. They are waiting for you.”

“You go and join them. I will be there in a minute.”

As he watched her walk out of the room, he was suddenly transported to the time when she was a baby. She had just learnt to walk; she surveyed the house on her stubby legs, the bells she wore on her ankles, pealing softly. Roy loved to blow raspberries on her butter-soft stomach and watch her wiggle and let out gurgles of laughter. The good old memories brought a smile to his lips. She was still his baby, and he would do nothing to spoil her happiness.

Roy stood up and walked out of the room to join others. He was hungry now, and wanted to tuck into some rice and fish curry.

The UK is teeming with first generation migrants, and each migrant has a story as precious as mine. Being a migrant myself, I always love to hear their tales, however different it may be, the rigours they faced settling in, their tentative first steps into the unknown, what made them drift away from their cocooned existence. On my way to Heathrow last Friday, my Pakistani driver and I swap stories about our migration. He drives me in a Mercedes, his suit grey like the sky above, and when he speaks it as if English doesn’t roll from his tongue easily. So we switch to Hindi. In 12 years he had moved not one but two countries. We lived in Italy for almost ten years, a village near Milan. I am flabbergasted why would anyone move from Milan to England, no offence England is a lovely country, but the weather takes a severe wallop, I imagine the warm weather in Italy, the food, the blue beaches, the scenic beauty and I think it took a forceful drive to take the decision. My wife left Italy with swollen and blood red eyes, she didn’t want to leave Italy. We loved it there, I used to work in a construction company, the cost of living was low, and the weather was an added bonus. I can’t hold myself back, I need to know the impetus which forced him leave Italy. It is only because they were not learning any English, there was only two hr class of English spread out over a week, and that was not enough. I wanted them to have their education in English, I am not very educated myself but I want the best education for my children. And I want their options open, if they are educated in English, they can find work anywhere in the world. I wanted to say, many migrants from other countries come to England and find work even though English is not there first language but I hesitate, he is their father and he would definitely do what is best for them. He lived with his brother for a few days before getting his own house and started delivering pizza for dominos. Cost of living here is so high, I hardly save any money. But then my children have settled well and their teachers say they are doing well. I say, you have an European passport, do you get anxious thinking what will happen when Brexit is fully executed, do you fear that you will not be allowed to work here anymore? Beaming with positivity which is hard to miss

, he says, no, I don’t think so. Those who are already working will not have a problem. Migrating in future will be difficult, but for the existing ones like us I am pretty sure everything will be fine.

As I reach my destination, I feel so many people embrace risks and dive headlong into the unknown, only for a better life. It is not easy, these making foray into unknown territories and then digging their roots, yet migration will never cease as man’s quest for the better will never die.