Hi, all. Farzana, your host, is here to introduce a celebratory special edition. Our Thursday Connectors are all about South Asian Heritage this time, to coincide with one of my favourite and busiest months of the year.

For the past few years, I’ve been working tirelessly to bring stories from my South Asian Heritage from across east London to you. This year is no different! I’m currently working as a Heritage Consultant for Rendezvous Projects, where we are on a mission to highlight and celebrate the culture of music in Newham. My role in the project is to connect with people from a South Asian background and encourage them to tell us their stories about how music and entertainment from their culture has impacted their lives and their communities. Exciting!

Music, particularly music from Bollywood, has played a huge role in my life as I was growing up, and still does.  Enjoying the songs and dances from Bollywood movies was a daily occurrence in my family home. I think I may have even learnt much of my mother tongue from the songs that we played constantly. It’s therefore a privilege to be working on this project as a tribute to how this entertainment from my culture shaped my personality and much of my upbringing.

The project is called Soundwaves and we’re particularly interested in connections in Newham. However, it’s not only restricted to South Asian music; we’re open to contributions from all communities and all forms of music. Do try to get involved in some way. We’d be so happy to hear your stories and have you as part of it all!

Do you have memories of music in Newham? 

Sound Waves: Music In Newham is an exciting new arts and heritage project celebrating 60 years of music in the Borough. Collected stories and experiences of enjoying music from the South Asian community here in Newham, will go into the Newham Archives for preservation for generations to come and also form part of a series of exhibitions, walks and talks in the Borough next year.

We’re also looking for volunteers to bring this project to life. You will learn new skills, such as recording audio interviews made with local people, or doing extensive research online, in the community and in local archives, or helping with the marketing and running of the final project exhibitions and events.

Full information on the project and the different volunteer roles can be found here:

www.rendezvousprojects.org.uk/portfolio/sound-waves/

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And now for our Connectors. I’ve got a fantastic line-up of writing from people from the South Asian diaspora. And I’m using these because really, it could have been me writing some of this stuff myself. It’s so relatable.

First up is poetry from Dr Afsana and honestly, when I read this, it felt as though she was talking about my Amma, my late grandma and also my Ammi, my mother, both brave women. What Dr Afsana shares is them all over.

Hi, Dr Afsana. Let’s connect:

Amma (Mum) And I

Amma said when we look at the stars, it’s like looking at our past,
Never forget your roots, as that is how we got here,
A patriot for family, traditions or our caste,
Never knew which one, but her words were dear.
She said when we sleep it is as if we are dead,
In the morning when we awake, we are reborn,
At night we make beautiful memories tie together with a thread,
So, when we look back at life we do not mourn.

Amma was hardworking and never rested,
A fabulous, fluttering, beautiful butterfly making everything perfect,
Her stories and analogies were endless, Words of wisdom wisely whispered.
Limited ingredients available from shops for Asian dishes,
Became a green-fingered gardener growing exotic vegetables,
Mouth-watering ravishing recipes ladened the table,
Herb scented dishes, rainbows of colour to tickle our tastebuds and entice our eyes.

Amma taught me speaking two languages was the norm, Mother tongue spoken at home and English at school.
Became a translator as far back as I can remember,
Never applied for the job, but given it as soon as a few words spoken.
Amma didn’t speak English thus part of survival one would say,
Either way I felt I was helping and that was important.
Shopping trips included lots of fresh fruits and vegetables,
Out of necessity as we couldn’t read the ingredients.

Amma guided my growing up experiences by telling stories,
Showing me what she thought a young lady should be,
Intertwined by the culture we were surrounded by,
She was always keen to learn about new customs and ways.
She loved sharing her customs with the neighbours too,
They loved tasting her food and were intrigued by her ways,
The home became a hub for sharing experiences,
The garden fences became planning posts, Sign language and showing of items became visual communication methods,
Some of the ladies even helped with deciphering the English letters received,
Some were kind enough to respond to them too.

Amma did not always get an easy ride,
There were those that pulled faces at her or even crossed the street as she approached,
They called her names and pulled at her clothes,
Sometimes she dropped her shopping and they laughed at her,
She didn’t know what she had done wrong and was confused

When she saw the fear and tears in my eyes,
She had an inner strength to comfort me,
Amma told me people are scared of what they don’t understand,
People make fun of others to make themselves feel important,
It doesn’t hurt if we don’t make it matter,
She said forgiveness was what God would want us to do,
I asked why doesn’t God just make them stop,
Amma said it was because God wanted us to be better humans and this was a test,
I never understood all she did, but somehow it made me survive.

Amma was a survivor, she had left one country and come to another,
She was a strong lady that would not give up easily,
Her strength was gentle, kind and nurturing,
She bought sweets and cakes for the children that pulled at her clothes,
One day she told them NO and then shared her goodies with them,
They felt ashamed and thanked her and called Mrs,
The next time they helped carry her shopping home.
That was life, some battles won, some battles lost,
But her steadfast nature of believing the best never shattered,
She taught me to love without prejudice, To love without question.

Amma wore traditional Asian clothes,
She had gorgeous outfits for every occasion,
I loved the hand embroidered ones the best,
They sparkled and glittered in the dull winter light.
Festivals were the best, when new outfits were worn,
They were made to measure from material,
No shops selling Asian fashion those days.
The food was endless,
Amma and Aunts had cooked,
So many dishes and so many flavours,
Seeing everyone happy was intoxicating,
The atmosphere created by families meeting up,
Stories shared, bygone times reminisced,
Memories made and culture shared with the next generation.
The next day Amma would share the food with the neighbours,
That’s how communities were created in new countries.

Amma was just being herself,
Amma guided and I followed,
Amma created a new world for us to live in,
To all the Amma’s out there thank you for looking after us,
As children we are grateful to you,
even though we may not say it,
Thank you Amma.

© Dr Afsana Elanko, 2024

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Our second Connector, from Sandeep Kumar Mishra, is also a poem and perhaps many will be able to recognise the sentiments.

Hi, Sandeep. Let’s connect:

Birth

The tabooed essence of primordial birth
unfolds in the labyrinth of the unknown,
as if a symphony of blood cells dancing
in the sacred space of human fabrication.
Where time bends and breathes only
in the rhythm of divine existence,
a fragile vessel of flesh and bone moves
the soul bound by the thin thread of mortality
On the sharp axis of the four walls,
the earth rotates in the waves of pain,
the alternating current of moisture and drought,
causing the bud to blossom and eventually drop.
With listening the calm symphony of agony,
she seeks solace in the strength of his presence,
because the gestation of time’s elusive grasp,
conceals the enigma of life’s first cry.
Her bony spiral patterns now facing
the vast expanse of the universe,
now she will take rest alongside all
the mushrooms that have gathered at her door.
Each heartbeat a cadence of grace,
a sonnet whispered by the universe’s mouth,
but when I look at your open palms
I don’t find a single line like her hands have.

© Sandeep Kumar Mishra, 2024

Connect with Sandeep on Facebook: @sandeep551974 on X: @sandeep551974 and on Instagram: @sandeepmishra551974

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Finally, here’s an extract from Hema Macherla’s novel, Letters In The Sand, which is set in 1970’s India. It is about Kiri, and her rebellion against her traditional, dysfunctional family.

Hi, Hema. Let’s connect:

Letters In The Sand

Chapter 1

1970

The first bell rang, and I ran to the window.

I watched the children walking to school. In their crisp green and white uniforms, their books in their grey shoulder bags, boys, and girls, alone, in pairs, or in groups, they hurried towards the white building that was just across the road, behind our house. As if an invisible me joined them, I followed. I heard the second bell and ran faster with the others towards the school gates. By the third bell, all the children were inside and gradually the noise and chatter died down. I watched as the gates were pulled shut on their rusty hinges and I was once more alone, outside and then back at my window. The dream faded and reality hit me, as it always did. I would never be allowed inside those gates. I felt the familiar ache in my chest. I stood staring at the empty street while the National Anthem, Jana Gana Mana, and then the national song, Vande Mataram, reached me, a faint chorus from behind closed gates. I stood at the window until a gentle voice called me.

‘Kiri…’

I turned around to see my mother smiling at me.

‘Amma, I was just…’  But she knew I didn’t have to tell her.

*

Skipping with excitement, I followed her to a stretch of the river that was rounded a bend, out of sight and empty, and there we sat down. Amma took my hand in hers and stretched my index finger straight and gently pressed it into the sand. She made a shape like s with a tick on top. క ‘see Kiri, this is Ka, క. She pointed to the squiggle in the sand, ‘And when you add this symbol called a gudi, like this 9 on top instead of the tick, it will become Ki కి.

‘But what is it?’ I asked.

‘The first letter of your name, Kiri. Watch,’ She drew a circle with a tick on top, ర ‘This is Ra and what do you add on top?’ She looked at me.

‘A gudi,’ I said, trying to write the symbol 9 on top of Ra ర. ‘And it becomes ri రి. Now it spells Kiri

కిరి.’

*

‘I wish I could go to school like my brother.’ The words rolled out of my mouth before I had time to catch them. But I regretted having spoken.

The joy in her face faded. She was quiet, then pulled me into her arms and kissed me on my forehead. ‘Oh, my baby….I know that. What can I say? The reason is simple. You were born a girl and in our family, the tradition is that girls don’t study. You know your father and his mother make the rules in our house. I am sorry. It’s out of my hands, Kiri.’

© Hema Macherla, 2024

Here’s the link to Hema’s book. Do check it out: www.linen-press.com/shop/letters-in-the-sand/

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Fantastic stuff! Thank you to all my Connectors this month. I look forward to seeing you all again real soon.

Have a great summer!

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Issue 21 of Write On! is out now and you can read it online here. Find it in libraries and other outlets. You can find previous editions of our magazines here.

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