A Letter Back Home by Kashmira Shirwadkar

One of a series of blog posts written by Brunel’s creative writing students, inspired by the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiographies.

Dear Ma,

I am extremely sorry for runnin away like that. I hope you forgive me. I wasn’t happy working in that shoe shop. The only option for me was to leave home. I am very happy now here in London, England. I must tell you that it was a very very long, scary and tedious journey. I learnd a lot of new things on my way and made many new friends too. After leavin home, I first went to Delhi with all the extra money I had saved from the shop. It wasn’t a lot but enough for me to leave the town. You know ma, I even shared a roof and a few meals with a Brahmin priest in Delhi. He was a very kind man and I felt terrible for lying to him. But I had no money and desperetly needed food and shelter.

Two days leter, I sumehow managed to reach Bombay with only 30 rupees in my pocket. I saw a huge red and black ship with the words S. S Rawalpindi docked in the harbour. I didn’t even know where it was going. I only knew that it was leaving soon and so I got on without a ticket. Once the ship left, I met a madam on the deck, whose name I now forget. She told me that she was workin as a maid for a rich sahib and that this was her seventh or something time goin to England. ‘It will all be ok’ she sayd. I no longer felt alone. I stood on the deck looking at the deep ocean when I realized that I was leaving the Indian soil. I was headin out for a journey into the outside world.

For the next few days, I slept outside on the cold, freezing deck with the other servants. I even ate with them in the kitchen where they served hot rice with curry. Thank god I didn’t suffer from seasickness, one less problem to worry about. However, I soon found out from Rahul, my friend, another servant that I also needed a passport. It was a small, rectangular blue coloured book which has your name and photo. He then helped me with the problem and warnd me not to get off the ship on any of the other ports. So, I listened to him and stayed on the ship. Once, the ship docked into the Thames Estuary, in London he managed to get me off the ship by saying I too was a servant of his master. He also wrote down his address on a piece of paper before we parted.

The air in London is so fresh and sweet like that purple flower what’s it called… Aah! Yes, lavender. The roads here are so clean, if it wasn’t for the cold, I would have even walked barefoot. Also, Ma, the people here don’t directly walk on the road like us, they walk on a small platform it’s called a pavement. It’s so strange, I can see the sun high up in the sky, yet it doesn’t burn on my skin as it does back in Bengal. Right now, I am workin in a cafe – a small coffee shop. It is in Woking. I am learnin somethin new in English every day. I dream to one day open a cafe of my own. I miss you Ma. I love you all very much.

Your loving son,

Faizur Rasul

© Kashmira Shirwadkar, 2020. All rights reserved.

‘A letter back home’ was inspired by Faizur Rasul, Bengal to Birmingham (2:619) in the Burnett Archive of Working-Class Autobiography, special collections, Brunel Library, Brunel University London. It was also partially inspired by my own experiences, as I too once was an immigrant from India.

Author’s Note:

I was specifically searching the Burnett Archive for a piece that I could personally relate to, and that’s when I found Faizur Rasul’s memoir Bengal to Birmingham. I chose to write in the form of a letter by imagining myself in the shoes of the writer. If he ever thought of writing a letter home what would it be like? Having known that he was an Indian immigrant who was still improving his English, I looked for words in Rasul’s autobiography that were presented in broken English or non-standard English. This autobiography also reminded me of a short play called Sammy! the word that broke an empire by Pratap Sharma that I had studied as an undergraduate. Both works are from a similar period, India during British rule, and tell of the tedious journey of a middle-class Indian immigrant to a foreign country. That is what piqued my interest and urged me to write this piece.

Kashmira Sameer Shirwadkar was born in Mumbai in 1997. She is an avid reader and keen writer who has completed her undergraduate degree in English Literature and History from the University of Mumbai. Kashmira’s article ‘Mumbai, a melting pot of cultures’ was published on EvoNews on 28th July 2017. She has completed a short course in creative writing for adults from the city academy, and is currently studying for a master’s degree in creative writing at Brunel University London. You can find her stories @Kash2509, #untold fiction stories or by simply following her page K_ashmira_shirwadkar on Facebook and Instagram.

That tone by Kathryn Gynn

One of a series of blog posts written by Brunel’s creative writing students, inspired by the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiographies.

Some individuals may find the topic covered in this blog post distressing. Should you require support please contact:

Brunel Students: Student support and welfare team

Non-Emergency NHS Helpline: 111

Samaritans: 116 123 (open 24 hours)

He often found it unbearable, the tone of voice she used when she was talking to her sister. Not that it was his place to say anything; it wasn’t his sister, and she never used that particular tone when she spoke to him. But he would sit and listen to her talk on the phone, and he would hate it. She seemed to only talk to her sister when he was around, and always in that same tone. It was insincere, that’s what it was. She wasn’t an insincere person. It was one of the things he loved most about her. She was kind and gentle, and oh so genuine. She would never lie to him. But when she spoke to her sister, she would change. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like the smile that crept across her face, a cruel smile, he had decided. He didn’t like her laugh. Too sharp, too loud. He didn’t like that they talked about everything. Private things. And most of all he hated her tone. She was so sarcastic (1). When she spoke to him there was no sarcasm. Her voice matched her. She was the sort of girl who wore sundresses and cute ballet pumps. He made sure of it, throwing away anything that didn’t fit, and buying her dresses for her birthday. She didn’t know, just assumed she’d lost things.

‘Yes, I’m sure you took that red scarf to work, but you didn’t have it when you came home,’ he would say.

She’d smile, and roll her eyes at herself, asking him to remind her to buy a replacement. He never did. Her voice belonged to someone who baked cakes, which she often did, or wanted to have children, which she had agreed with him would be lovely.

‘One day,’ she had said, and he knew that day would be soon.

Yes.

Her voice matched her. But when she spoke to her sister in that tone, that sarcastic tone, she didn’t sound like his girl. She sounded like someone who wore leather jackets and high heel boots, who had piercings and tattoos, and ate takeaways, and wanted to travel the world. He hated that woman, and he hated that tone of voice. That sarcastic, horrible tone of voice. Like she was having a joke. A joke he wasn’t privy to. He didn’t like those moments, his girl talking to her sister, and not including him. He had a right to be included, but whenever she asked, she just brushed him off.

‘It’s not actually funny,’ she would say. ‘Oh, you know we don’t really talk about anything.’

If they didn’t talk about anything, there was no reason they had to talk at all. It wasn’t necessary, and it made him feel uncomfortable. That tone. That sarcastic, cruel voice. Not like his lovely, sweet, kind girl. He’d tried suggesting that she didn’t talk to her sister on the phone, but she lived on the other side of the country and his girl insisted they needed to talk, to keep in touch. He’d deleted her sister’s number one day, when she was having a shower, but it turned out that she had learnt the number by heart. He blamed that on a phone glitch. He’d stopped talking about her sister, in an attempt to not remind her of her sister’s existence. None of it had worked. She still spoke to her sister. She still used that tone.

(1) ‘Autobiographical Letter’ by May Owen (2:576), p.8, in the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiography, Special Collections, Brunel Library, Brunel University London.

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© Kathryn Gynn, 2019. All rights reserved.

‘That Tone’ was inspired by ‘Autobiographical Letter’ by May Owen (2:576), in the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiography, Special Collections, Brunel Library, Brunel University London.

Kathryn Gynn is an aspiring writer, born and raised in East London, where she still lives. She has studied English Literature with Creative Writing (BA) at Swansea University, Children’s Literature and Writing (MA) at Birkbeck University, and is currently studying Creative Writing (MA) at Brunel University, London. She also used to be a Secondary school English Teacher, but left when they started mock-GCSE exams for 11-year olds. Kathryn enjoys learning about new things, and about new ways to experiment with words, and likes writing on things that aren’t paper. She recently embroidered a short story onto a t-shirt.

First Day by Katie Higgins

One of a series of blog posts written by Brunel’s creative writing students, inspired by the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiographies.

Harper couldn’t deny the feeling of betrayal as she looked through the car window at the group of girls gathering for field hockey practice. Alyssa had said she didn’t want to play field hockey anymore, that she wanted to do a summer softball league. She hadn’t said that Harper couldn’t make the switch too, but it was clear to her twin that Alyssa wanted some independence. ‘We are fourteen now, after all,’ Alyssa had said with a complicated smile that was more mean than understanding, a facial expression Harper could never quite get to appear on her face. Her face that looked a lot like Alyssa’s.

‘Go on, sweetie,’ her mother Paula said. Her mother smiled encouragingly at the group of girls beyond the car window. ‘Daddy will pick you up in a few hours, okay? Have fun and make sure to drink water. It’s another scorcher today!’

Harper repressed the need to roll her eyes and tried to control her expression like Alyssa.

‘I’ll be fine, mom. I’ll see you later.’

She hopped out of the car, her field hockey stick banging against the doorframe a little, and jogged over.

She felt lopsided without Alyssa, like she could fall over any second. Or that the Earth was tipping drunkenly beneath her and she wouldn’t have anyone to hold onto.

A few girls in Harper’s grade looked over, but none of them made any sign of recognition and Harper was fairly sure they knew her name. Twins stood out like that. They were probably unsure of which twin she was.

‘Hey! It’s Harper, right?’ A tall, supermodel of a high schooler noticed her first.    

‘Yeah,’ Harper said, trying not to sound too relieved.

‘I’m Stacy, I’m the captain this year.’ Stacy gestured to the clipboard in her hands.

‘That’s great,’ Harper said a bit breathlessly. There was no way Stacy was only eighteen, with her long limbs and stylish bob haircut. She looked like someone from the cover of the Cosmo magazines she and Alyssa stole from their mom, before their little sister Delia ratted on them.

‘Okay, girls, gather round!’ Stacy called, turning to the group at large. Harper took a half-step away, not wanting to look like the teacher’s pet. Or captain’s.

Stacy went over the plan for the day, all of it sounding incredibly difficult and though Harper would never admit it out loud, she was thankful that her mom had made her bring three bottles of water.

Her eyes slid over the group of girls. There were about fifty in total. They all had similar willowy builds to Stacy, all lean muscle and tanned skin from tropical vacations no doubt. How were some of these girls only a few years older? Her own age? They all looked like superheroes. On closer inspection, she also noticed that most of them were wearing similar shorts and fitted tank tops. Each one had a shimmery logo, something designer. Harped tugged at the hem of her Backstreet Boys t-shirt and tried not to give in to the sudden itchy-feeling she associated with bad omens. Her body instinctively leaned to the left, but Alyssa’s familiar form wasn’t there to catch her.

They were told to warm up with a jog through the neighborhood that ran along the school grounds. The group stretched and fragmented, not every girl able to go in a uniform pace. Harper, to her surprise, found she could keep up with Stacy and the other seniors. She and Alyssa had taken up going for jogs in the spring to get out of the house and avoid homework. Harper hadn’t realized the runs had actually done anything besides make her brain blank and fuzzy for a little while. A small smile crept around the corners of her mouth and she breathed hard.

They looped back to the starting point, each older girl complaining of being rusty, or having drank too many Mike’s at the party last night. Stacy barely looked like she’d moved at all. She grinned at Harper around her water bottle.

‘First freshman to complete the Fun Run!’ She said to the other seniors. A few of the other girls took notice of Harper for the first time. Not all of their stares were friendly, but in the giddy fog of adrenaline, Harper didn’t find herself cowed. Stacy’s praise washed over her, protecting her.

‘The Fun Run is roughly 5K and we do that for every warm-up,’ Stacy said to Harper. ‘Most girls don’t keep form off-season. They’ll all trickle in over the next twenty minutes or so. The good thing about finishing early is a longer break.’ She winked.

When the last girls showed up, mostly shell-shocked freshman, Stacy grouped everyone to start running drills. Harper found she had more energy than before she’d started running and hadn’t thought of Alyssa once.

A large group of boys coalesced on the other side of the field, kicking soccer balls and each other. Linnea, a tall, sharp-eyed girl in Harper’s grade, straightened up. She looked like a hawk that had just caught a scent. Harper was infinitely grateful the gaze wasn’t trained on her. It looked positively vitriolic.

‘Oh, shit,’ a mousy-looking girl next to Linnea whispered. ‘Gavin will be over there, won’t he?’

‘No fucking shit, Jill,’ Linnea snapped, not taking her gaze off the group of boys. ‘He’s the captain of the varsity team, isn’t he?’

‘Youngest one in years,’ Jill said, almost in reverence.

‘Don’t praise him, you zealot.’

‘Come on girls, let’s get back to our drills!’ Stacy called, noticing their group standing, facing the boys. ‘There will be time to ogle boys later!’

A few other girls around them laughed. Harper blushed furiously but Linnea looked meaner than ever. Disregarding the drill to dribble through stout orange cones, she whacked the neon green ball with righteous force, sending it zooming away from the field of play. Jill ran to retrieve it.

‘You live near Gavin, don’t you Harper?’ Linnea said, as if noticing her for the first time.

It was true, Gavin Hawkins’ family lived in the same neighborhood as Harper’s. Her mom was good friends with Mrs. Hawkins. Her dad wasn’t a fan but he certainly was good at faking it at barbecues and birthday parties. Alyssa must’ve gotten that skill from him.

Harper shrugged. ‘Our moms are friends but I don’t really know him.’

Linnea nodded, as if Harper had something that could be agreed or contended with. Harper didn’t know how to answer and bent to receive a pass from Jill on her return.

Harper needed an excuse to break eye contact with Linnea. She knew Linnea was Gavin’s recent ex-girlfriend. She hadn’t been entirely truthful though. Just because she said she didn’t know Gavin now didn’t mean she hadn’t ever. She swore Linnea was still watching her as she ran the drill.

Fortunately, Stacy was too. ‘Nice handling, Harper! Linnea, you try.’ She had jogged over to watch Linnea, teeth bared, receive the ball.

Stacy leaned in conspiratorially. ‘It’s always dangerous practicing on the same field as the boys’ soccer team.’

Harper laughed as if she too thought boys were nonsense.

‘My boyfriend is heading off to NYU in a couple months,’ Stacy said, watching Linnea maneuver another cone. Harper didn’t know whether or not to answer, as it didn’t sound like Stacy was talking to her anymore.

Stacy blinked and her glamorous smile was back. ‘Nice job, Lin!’ she called, before jogging away to watch another group.

Stacy seemed so lovely that Harper almost felt a pang of annoyance towards this mystery boy for making her face crease like that, if for a moment. Harper glanced at Linnea, who kept sneaking glances over at the soccer team, who admittedly hadn’t looked over at the field hockey team once. She thought of Alyssa, striking out on her own and forcing Harper to do the same. Harper found that she was still standing.

---

© Katie Higgins, 2019. All rights reserved.

‘First Day’ was inspired by Alice Pidgeon, Looking Over My Shoulder to Childhood Days and After, (2:619), in the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiography, Special Collections, Brunel Library, Brunel University London.

Author’s note:

I was really stuck on the line Alice Pidgeon wrote about waking up to find out a dolly her father had ordered for her had arrived. I started thinking about how ideas of status and class permeate to children and how those ideas create their own sort of social structure amongst young people, teenagers in particular. ‘First Day’ came from wanting to frame that idea in a contemporary (suburban American) context.

Katie Higgins is from Chelmsford, Massachusetts. She earned her BA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst in 2017. During her time at UMass, she worked as a writing tutor, helping students and faculty alike on a myriad of writing projects. In 2015 she studied at Trinity College, Oxford, where she won the award for the best essay in English literature. She is currently pursuing a masters degree in creative writing at Brunel University London. In her free time she can be found window shopping for funky hats, knitting scarves she’ll never wear or breaking a sweat at the gym. She writes primarily for young adults, firmly believing that teenagers are both the most compelling characters and engaging readers. She and her funky hats can be found on Instagram at @katmarhii.

Three worlds one house by Josa Keyes

One of a series of blog posts written by Brunel’s creative writing students, inspired by the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiographies.

Above and behind the front door

Lies grown-up world

Master and Mistress reign unquestioned

Among the inherited furniture.

Upstairs at the back is the liminal milky bubble

Nursery world crammed with babies

And their nurses and nursery maids.

Beyond the baize door, the back door

Twisty passages and tiny rooms

Separate world of service

Coalhouse

Woodshed

Greenhouse cobwebs

Cold frame

Rotten wood and peeling paint

Scullery

Pantry

Storeroom

Kitchen

Stone flags seep and freeze

No worlds warm in winter

Flurrying, hurrying, maids with buckets

Ethel, Ruby, Mabel, Alice

Brooms and sweepers, blacking, beeswax

Family poised helpless on a heap of helpers

Like a hut on a hill.

In the back-passage bells jangle

Pulled by impatient hands remote in bedroom

Drawing room, parlour, salon

More hot water, pressed clothes, coals

Breakfast, lunch and dinner served

Prepared by Cook’s red raw hands

Complete with ceremonial fat gold wedding ring

On hand never held by husband

She’s Mrs in name only

For respect you see

Nursery world floats between

Where dwell the infants and their nurse

Miss Mary, Master Michael, Nanny Smith

Meals on trays brought up by grumbling maids.

Sit on a tuffet near the fireguard

Supping bread and milk in your bib

Nappies and baby clothes gently steam

On wooden racks

None of the worlds are immune from winter

Warm breath freezes to icy mist

Water solid in bedroom jugs

Frost, fog, yellow and choking

Bitter wind and snow

Step outside and chill bites

Raising chilblains no remedy can soothe

Fires rustle as coals settle and cinders fall

Gas fires bubble violet flames

Bring blood back to blue hands.

Even indoors beyond the glow

A wall of cold

Spring will come

Life stirs inside and out

Snowdrops, snowy blossom replace snow

Warmth summons forth

Boot boys and maids transformed to

Brilliantined lads and giggling girls

Promenade in groups

Rich with sex and stirring senses

Eyes slide by hoping to meet,

As elemental as animals in the ark

Master obeys the sap’s rising

Justified by psalm’s dictates,

Begets upon the Mistress a full

Quiverful within their lawful bed

To populate the nursery world

Popped out like puppies

Viewed daily for a precious hour

Otherwise left to other’s hands

As that’s the way it was back then

Woe betide the maid

Who falls to a young man’s fancy

Her increase a disgrace

Out of the house she goes

To an unforgiving world

Where babies are a regulated commodity

Reserved for the safely wed.

---

© Josa Keyes, 2019. All rights reserved.

‘Three Worlds One House’ was inspired by Church Bells and Tram Cars, a Vicarage Childhood, by Mary Denison, in the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiography, Special Collections, Brunel Library, Brunel University London.

Author’s note:

I read three memoirs from the Burnett Archive altogether, and wanted to make poems from themes in two of them, both about vanished worlds just a couple of generations behind us.  ‘Three Worlds One House’ describes one home as a paradigm of rigid social silos in wider society. In some middle – and all upper – class homes, the head of the household and his wife lived entirely separately, not only from their own children, tucked away in a nursery, but also from the support system of servants looking after them. I also wanted to highlight the plight of girls who fell pregnant outside marriage, and how society mistreated the single mum – and still does.

Josa Keyes was born in Kent. She read English Literature at Newnham College, Cambridge, and is currently studying towards a Masters at Brunel University London. She started her career at Vogue, as a finalist in the Vogue Talent Contest, and has held positions as a commissioning editor for Country Living, Elle Decoration and the Times. An early adopter, she embraced digital professionally from 1995, and has swapped between magazines and digital content design as a contractor ever since. A parallel career writing fiction and poetry resulted in her first completed novel, One Apple Tasted, published by Elliott & Thompson in 2009. She indie published her second novel Sail Upon the Land in 2014, and it was long-listed for a Historical Novel Society Award in 2016. Her chapbook, My Love Life and Other Disasters, will be published in September 2019. Josa Keyes lives in West London, has two grown-up children and a teenager, and tweets @JosaKeyes.

IN NOMINE PATRI, ET FILII by Iris Mauricio

One of a series of blog posts written by Brunel’s creative writing students, inspired by the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiographies.

i

was terribly

off   for three days.

i would   hope and pray that

god   would

eventually

end.

i was frightened

for years.

i got

ill.

i could not

go home.

i said to mary “i don’t

know why he can’t let me stay.”

she

said

“you are   coming back.”

he   asked,

i followed.

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© Iris Mauricio, 2019. All rights reserved.

IN NOMINE PATRI, ET FILII was inspired by Alice Pidgeon (2:612), in the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiography, Special Collections, Brunel Library, Brunel University London.

Author’s note:

For this particular piece, I was inspired by the watercolour erasure poetry in Tom Philips’ A Humument, upon the recommendation of our lecturer Tony White. As for the subject, I didn’t approach the piece with a particular theme in mind, and just went choosing words as I went along. From this, the narrative began to unravel on its own, which was that of Jesus Christ, before what would be the beginning of the events that lead up to his crucifixion. I thought this suited me, as I often write poetry and prose with much religious imagery and symbolism.

Iris Mauricio moved to London from the Philippines for university, graduating from Brunel University’s BA Creative Writing in 2017. She is currently pursuing an MA in the same course. Iris writes poetry, short stories, and screenplays, with her works often inspired by her Roman Catholic upbringing, mythology, water, and films. Iris has been published in No Parking Comics, Stache Magazine Online, and the Queen Mary Review. Her works have been shortlisted in three consecutive Hillingdon Literary Festival anthologies, and featured in two Third Year Brunel Creative Writing anthologies. Iris was also selected to be one of three UK Student Ambassadors for the British Council Philippines in 2017, and was a part of the Liberated Library: Diversifying the Ivory Tower Part 2 panel. Iris Mauricio writes film poetry and reviews on Instagram @_twoirises, and has a WordPress blog, iristypes.

Seize a survival by Caren Duhig

One of a series of blog posts written by Brunel’s creative writing students, inspired by the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiographies.

Some individuals may find the topic covered in this blog post distressing. Should you require support please contact:

Brunel Students: Student support and welfare team

Non-Emergency NHS Helpline: 111

Samaritans: 116 123 (open 24 hours)

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If I could give my younger self one bit of advice, it would be to run away, as far and as fast as I could the minute my partner started to show an inkling of abusive behaviour towards me. I wonder how different my life would have been if I had made that decision back then.

You see, it was February the 27^th 2004. I was 20 years old. Studying my degree at Brunel University and enjoying being young. But I was dating a guy who had seen a bit more life than I had. Twelve years older, he took advantage of the fact I was young and naïve. Used me as his sexual plaything whenever he felt like it. Slapped me whenever I disagreed or questioned him.

I’d had enough and wanted to be young and enjoy my partying years. Having only started Uni a few months earlier, I saw that there was a lot more to life and I wanted to live it. Sitting with him in a bar in the City that night, sipping my vodka and orange, I saw him for who he was in his drunken state. He’d already had several drinks at an Old Bailey event where he worked as a Head Chef and was full of himself, righteous and arrogant. I remember engaging in an activity which I didn’t want in the pub toilets. I don’t remember much more of that night after that. Only what I was told.

He told the police we were arguing. I tried to run away. I had bruises on my shoulders where he must have grabbed me. We were on a dark, disused road. He said he put his foot out and I tripped. Landed on the side of my head. He said that, from my fall, I gave myself a blood clot in between my brain and my skull. An extradural haematoma. I would have lost consciousness temporarily. He would have had to wait for me to come back round. Regained consciousness. He was walking me to St. Paul’s Station, on the Central Line, so that I could get back home to my mums in Stratford. A 20-minute journey. If I had got on a train by myself as he’d intended, I wouldn’t be writing this now. Somehow, a random police car must have driven by and saw me behaving erratically. I would have had a lump on my head where the blood clot was developing. I was told that the police took me to Snow Hill Police Station in St. Pauls. I don’t understand why they let him go if they could see that I was upset and hurt, possibly by him. The police told me that I started to make a statement but then I passed out. Unconscious. They must have realised that something was very wrong because I was taken to the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel immediately. I was dying.

When I woke up from the chemical-induced coma 4 weeks later, I didn’t have a clue who I was or where I was. All I could remember was flashbacks of the dreams I had while I was sleeping. That thing they say about the tunnel is true. Wearing my white gown, I was alone on a train, cascading at high speed through the Channel Tunnel to France. The train must have crashed and suddenly my mum was there, and we were washed up on a beach. I can still vividly remember that dream now.

I must have looked horrific. Half of my permed hair was missing on the left side of my head where the surgeons had shaved my head to perform the craniotomy. I had a huge scar from the front of my ear, which circled round to the top of my temple. I had staples in my head where my skull had been put back together. I’ve learnt that surgeons use a bit of titanium to replace the bone flap, which was why my head set off metal detectors in the courts and at airports years later. My skull has a deep indent in it which I can still feel to this day. I’ve suffered with epilepsy for the past 15 years as a result of the head trauma

The case went to Southwark Crown Court on the 4^th of December 2004. The charge was dropped from attempted murder to GBH. He did a plea bargain of guilty to ABH. He was sentenced to 200 hours community service. For the injury to have been that severe, I either must have hit a very blunt object when I fell, which he didn’t mention to the police or, while I was on the ground, he must have inflicted an injury upon me. That’s even if I fell. There was only me and him there that night, the 27^th of February 2004 and I’ve heard through social media that he took his life 3 years ago. I’ll never actually know what happened.

So, if I could give my younger self, or anyone who is in an abusive relationship one bit of advice, it would be to get out as soon as you can. Seek advice. Seek support. Confide in someone. You don’t deserve to be hurt. You don’t deserve to be hit. You don’t deserve to be bullied. Abused. Made to think you’re nothing. It’s not your fault. There’s something wrong with the person who’s abusing you.

I was lucky to survive something so traumatic. I want to use my experience, my scars, and my unanswered questions, to help anyone who has been in, or is in a relationship that involves domestic violence. My message to you is please don’t let them try to destroy you.

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© Caren Duhig, 2019. All rights reserved.

‘Seize a Survival’ was first published in the Brunel anthology series Letters To My Younger Self, and was inspired by Wally Ward, Fit for Anything (2:798), in the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiographies, Special Collections, Brunel University London.

Author’s note:

Reading Fit for Anything by Wally Ward in the Burnett Archive felt close to home for me because, like the narrator, I also suffer from epilepsy. Wally Ward inherited the condition from his parent, whereas I developed the disorder from an assault I suffered fifteen years ago when I was involved in an abusive relationship. Fit for Anything inspired me to not only write about my medical condition and the improvements in neurological treatments since the early 20th Century, but also to raise awareness of domestic violence. Through ‘Seize a Survival’ I wanted to use my scars to empower other sufferers or survivors of domestic abuse, and to educate my readership on what defines an unhealthy relationship. Writing the piece helped me confront the memories that have haunted me for many years, and I hope it will encourage others to do the same.

Caren Duhig was born in Forest Gate, London, in December 1983. Caren graduated  in English and Film and TV Studies at Brunel University London in 2010 and is currently studying a master’s degree in Creative Writing. In 2016 Caren created the Fixit Harrow Network, a social media organisation with over 3.4k members, to raise awareness of, and seek improvements towards the environmental, economic, and social issues in the London Borough of Harrow, in order to make it a happier, cleaner, and safer place for her community. Caren Duhig was nominated for a Harrow Heroes Award in 2017 and 2018, and Fixit Harrow has had a featured exhibition at Headstone Manor and Museum in 2018.

Down the beck by Anna Tan

One of a series of blog posts written by Brunel’s creative writing students, inspired by the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiographies.

There are strange things down the beck. Things that sparkle and glimmer, things that flit and flutter, but also things that nip and nibble, that sneak and quibble. Caelie knows it’s the reason she’s not allowed there alone.

It’s the place where bad things happen, like the way her older brother Cieran had walked past the trees and never come back. They’d looked for him, taking sticks to the tall, biting grass, the thwack-thwack-thwack still echoing in her mind as she looks longingly down the purling brook. Mother doesn’t speak of Cieran anymore, pretending he didn’t exist to keep the grief at bay.

It’s also the place where good things are found, like the magic pot her eldest sister Camlyn picked up that never ran out of gold. She’d wanted to keep it, but the strange small man with fiery hair and a sharp chin had convinced her otherwise, exchanging it with her for a lucky rabbit’s foot. Camlyn is now at some fancy university on an all-expenses paid full scholarship, studying to be a doctor like she’d said she would be since she was nine.

Caelie cannot help but wonder what she will find when it is her turn to wander down the beck, when the fae and spirits start calling for her. For now, she sits on the back porch, staring at the grasses that rustle with the soothing wind, listening to the merry babbling of the water as it trips over stones, basking in the warmth of the sun and the scent of green life sprouting beneath the brown earth.

#

It’s not the fae that call Caelie when she is twelve but her brother Cieran, who stands on the other side of the brook, not having aged a day since he’d disappeared.

‘I miss you,’ he says, ‘come visit me.’

Caelie gives him a long, ponderous look before she answers, ‘Mother says I’m not to go yet. Another year, she says.’

‘The fae await you.’

‘Will they take me like they took you?’

‘I had to stay.’

There is a sorrowful look in his eyes that Caelie cannot understand so she asks, ‘Why?’

‘It was time.’

‘Time for what?’

‘My time.’

Caelie looks him over, thinks that although he hasn’t changed over five years, he looks healthier, his cheeks rosy and his skin glowing. His hair doesn’t hang limp and oily any longer, bright curls that bounce as he moves. His pallor has lifted and it has nothing to do with the sun but everything to do with life.

‘Will they take me?’ Caelie asks again because Mother will not survive another heartache, another child taken by fae or fate.

Cieran shrugs. ‘I don’t know. They didn’t say.’

‘Wait another year,’ Caelie replies, although she longs to go, to see what they have in store for her.

#

When Caelie is thirteen, nothing comes for her. She waits as she always has on the back porch, looking out across the field, to where the beck disappears in the grass that grows tall, no matter how often Father mows them.

The wind blows both hot and cold, the sun hides his face behind the dark clouds, and Caelie thinks today must be the day she goes down the beck. Caelie knows she may not return and her parents may be alone forever. Cieran is with the fae and Camlyn is too busy with her new life to come home except for Christmas and Easter.

Mother will not speak to her, not since she let it slip that Cieran had spoken to her. Father looks at her with resignation on his face.

‘Fate,’ he starts, but he doesn’t finish, turning away from Caelie. Not saying goodbye may be the only thing that keeps Father from breaking.

Mother is already broken.

Still, Caelie walks out towards the beck that has defined her life, that has destroyed her family, the beck that beckons with sweet threats and dark promises. It is quiet, the wind in a lull, the water sluggish. It smells of dead things and decay. Her breath mists, frozen like the lump in her chest that is barely beating. 

‘I’m ready,’ she says as she stands by the brook, looking for the shimmer and shine, for the twinkle and gleam. Nothing moves, and all she sees is winter death, dark and grim. She pushes her way through the browning grass, past the trees that once swallowed Cieran. He’s not there.

No one is there.

‘Take me!’ she yells to the empty fields and the heavy skies, and she feels the earth shudder around her.

Camlyn stands before her instead, a shimmery mirage. ‘Go home,’ she says, barring Caelie’s way.

‘What are you doing here?’ Camlyn is supposed to be far away from here in the real world, not in this in-between of life and death, reality and imaginary.

‘I’m not here,’ not-Camlyn answers, ‘neither should you.’

‘The fae call me.’ But Caelie is not sure because she hasn’t felt the call, not since last summer when Cieran had let her go.

‘Our debt is fulfilled. Go home.’

Camlyn disappears into the mist. Caelie goes home and shuts the back porch door.

There are strange things down the beck. Things that sparkle and glimmer, things that flit and flutter, but also things that nip and nibble, that sneak and quibble. They do not call to Caelie anymore. She never returns to the beck.

© Ann Tan, 2019. All rights reserved.

‘Down the Beck’ was inspired by Ups & Downs: A Lifetime Spent in the Yorkshire Dales by C.V. Horner (2-422), in the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiography, Special Collections, Brunel Library, Brunel University London.

Author’s note:

I’d picked CV Horner’s Ups & Downs: A Lifetime Spent in the Yorkshire Dales to look at because the description mentioned ‘rural customs, songs and ballads’, which I’m generally interested in. Horner uses some fine (and fun) turns of phrase in his depiction of Yorkshire life, like ‘foxes from her crags’, ‘down the beck’, ‘dead man’s view’, ‘a pig to kill’, ‘a wild showery day’, and ‘have you no b– ink?’ I played around with them until something clicked and went with it.

Anna Tan grew up in Malaysia, the country that is not Singapore. She is the author of two fantasy books, Coexist and Dongeng, and has short stories included in anthologies by Fixi Novo, BWWP Publishing, Bausse Books and Wordworks. She is also the editor of NutMag, an annual zine published for and by MYWriters Penang. Anna was once a certified and chartered accountant with a big 4 firm and is the current treasurer of the Malaysian Writers Society (MYWriters) and oversees the group in her hometown of Penang. As a recipient of the Chevening Scholarship 2018/2019, Anna is currently studying an MA in Creative Writing: The Novel at Brunel University London. Anna is interested in Malay/Nusantara and Chinese legends and folklore in exploring the intersection of language, culture, and faith. Her new short story ‘Operation: Rescue Pris’ will be published in The Principal Girl: Feminist Tales from Asia forthcoming from Gerakbudaya Enterprise in 2019. She can be found tweeting as @natzers and forgetting to update annatsp.com.

Bei Route by Marie-Teresa Hanna

One of a series of blog posts written by Brunel’s creative writing students, inspired by the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiographies.

Light, a light or alight,
In Arabic
My mother named me after fire,
So she could see in the dark

(Noor)

Noor and I are sitting at the kitchen table, shelling peas. I’ve only been in England a few months and when I first arrived, she met me with open arms. Now, I feel like an intruder and more so since she met Mr Johnson. Noor pinches open the pod between her fingers and swipes the peas into the white Falcon bowl with the blue rim that Mama gave her as a leaving present. I mimic her technique and we work in silence, knowing there are several unanswered questions between us, but not knowing where to begin. Noor looks up and breaks the silence first, singing the lullaby Mama used to sing when we were children, ‘buy me a diamond or buy me some gold─’

‘Can you stop?’

‘The only wealth a person needs… is a place to call home.’

‘Stop!’

‘God, you’re so sensitive!’

Noor is quiet, reflective, ‘She used to love doing this.’

I try to push all thoughts of Mama down to a place where they can’t hurt me, but I fail, ‘Why didn’t you visit?’

Noor bites the inside of her cheek before answering, ‘Mama wouldn’t have wanted me there.’

She takes the Falcon bowl to the sink, fills a pan with water and places it on the hob. The water splashes, hissing in the heat. Noor leans against the sink, grabs a knife and begins peeling a carrot. I know I’ve hit a nerve. She’s only a few years older than me but plays the role of older sister well: judgemental, hypocritical and bossy. Since Mama’s first diagnosis, we exchanged a few letters and often she gloated about her new life in England while I reported back about Mama’s health from Beirut. Yet, never once did she think about me.

I take the contents of my bowl and empty it into hers, grateful to hear Alice’s soft footsteps coming down the stairs. She enters the kitchen complaining about how long it’s taken her to put the children to sleep and pulls out a chair, collapsing into it. She rests her head on the table and when she lifts it, her blonde curls take a while to settle into place and she has a red mark on her face.

‘Why are you two so quiet?’

When I don’t answer, she slaps me across the arm, ‘Edna!’

Alice never fails to distract or make me laugh, and if we weren’t from two different countries and backgrounds, I would think we were related. I take the photo out of my apron and slide it across the table. It takes Alice a moment to recognise Noor and I with Mama holding our hands, outside our house in Beirut. Although the photo is black and white and was taken years ago, it feels like a lifetime, and the two young girls in the picture are unrecognisable to me. Every time I look at that photo, all I see is coldness and death lurking in the grey space between who we used to be and who we are now.

Alice is fussing over the photo, and I can’t handle it anymore. I take out the letter that came with the photo and pass it to her. As she reads it, I catch her facial features changing into confusion, hesitation and then shock.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispers.

I nod and take them back, putting them in my pocket. They remind me of my failure to take Noor back home on Mama’s request, and my own missed chance to say a final goodbye. 

Ever since I arrived, we followed the same routine. Alice wakes up, dresses and entertains the three children, Noor cooks and prepares the table and I complete the housework by plumping pillows, putting away toys and making the beds. Often, at the end of a long day we gather in the kitchen. Alice tries to teach us Scottish using words like ‘small’ ─ wee ─ and in return, we try to teach her Arabic, but she has never mastered the accent. Once, she asked how to woo a gentleman and I offered her the word Garad. Noor and I knew it meant ‘monkey’ in the general sense, but in Syrian Arabic it also means, ‘cheeky’, ‘unattractive’ or ‘undesirable’. It was all in good humour until Alice said it to a gentleman and was offended when he walked away from her mid-conversation.

Tonight, however, the mood is sombre and quiet. Noor lights the stove and places the vegetables in the boiling water before joining us. Alice takes our hands and as we utter a prayer, my mind wanders to the funeral arrangements and how to get back to Beirut. Within a few hours, I packed my clothes and prepared for departure. As I sat on the train, and watched the scenery and greenery unfold in front of me, I couldn’t help but wonder if I would return to London or see Alice and Noor again.

Dates and times merged together in travel and once I arrived back home, it became a flurry of funeral arrangements, wakes and guests, and clearing out our family home. I packed Mama’s clothes and gave them to charity. They weren’t the right fit for me, but I kept the summer dress she always wore on special occasions, the one with the yellow daisies.

I couldn’t sleep, eat or get dressed and I existed in the space between being alive and wanting to join her. Life was unimaginable without her, and our house now felt like an empty space, a hollow shell reminding me of where her life should be. I became an intruder, a guest who had overstayed her welcome and no longer belonged here. The family photos on the walls served as memories stuck in time, compared to the rolling film that continuously played in my mind. I craved being around Alice and Noor and having company instead of being alone. I missed the cobbled streets of London and green pastures, unlike the unbearable heat and sandy roads, but even then England never felt like home.

As weeks turned to months, I begged Noor to help me return to London and find a position, but all hopes were dashed when I received a letter telling me of her marriage. There was no invite attached, only news that Alice had moved on into a new residency as a nanny. Noor spoke of securing her future, of lace and silk, and church venues and her beloved Mr Johnson from the parish, without even one question asking about my own happiness or health. If only she knew that as I lay in bed that night, I thought of my darkness compared to her light, singing the words of Mama’s lullaby:

Buy me a diamond or buy me some gold, the only wealth a person needs is a place to call home.

© Marie-Teresa Hanna, 2019. All rights reserved.

---

‘Bei Route’ was inspired by ‘Looking Over My Shoulder to Childhood Days and Later’ by Alice Pidgeon (Volume No: 2- 619), in the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiography, Special Collections, Brunel Library, Brunel University London.

Author’s note:

The Burnett Archive was captivating, providing several voices, narrative stories and diary entries which revealed unique personalities of the individuals who had written them. My piece was inspired by Alice Pidgeon, who explored the relationship between two sisters and their home countries, in comparison to England, via the workplace. It is through the alternative spelling of Beirut that this piece took shape, exploring family dynamics, definitions of home and identity.

Marie-Teresa Hanna is a British Egyptian-Sudanese writer, interested in BAME, Middle Eastern and North African women’s fiction. She is currently doing an MA in Creative Writing: The Novel at Brunel University London, after interning at literary agencies and publishing houses over the last two years. Marie is in the process of finding her voice and has previously performed at The Poetry Café, and been published on the British Council website in collaboration with #BritLitBerlin. In recent months, she has given readings at a mindfulness event and as part of the Brunel Writers Series, as well as hosting a book club for St John’s Hospice. In March 2019, Marie-Teresa Hanna ran a writing workshop at the Dardishi Festival, CCA Glasgow. If you would like to follow her and ramblings, find her on Twitter @MarieTeresaHan3

Troubled waters by Ella Jukwey

One of a series of blog posts written by Brunel’s creative writing students, inspired by the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiographies.

Louise believed Wilfred was sent to her from heaven. But he did not look like the angels with blonde hair and halos above their heads, she had been taught about. Wilfred was an angel who had dreadlocks that reached his shoulder, he smoked, he drank, and he fornicated. 

He was Louise’s personal angel because he had been there to save her when she nearly gave up hope.

It was terrible finding somewhere to live back in those days. A house will say ‘Room for Let’ and as soon as they see my black face they think of some excuse. I remember knocking on a door in East Ham, and the lady tell me there are no rooms left. I know it was just her and her dog, but she’d be damned if she let a black person sleep under her roof. I then went to Camden, and a fat man saw me and slammed the door in my face.

I’d been in London for six months now, and I was starting to wonder what was the point? I left my son Errol for this. I left my twin brother Louis for this.  I would look at the building signs that said, ‘No Blacks No Dogs No Irish’ and it made sense to me why the sun never shone here. 

After months of looking for a place to stay, finally someone had space for me; it was a one-bedroom house in Tottenham, and I knocked on the door. The first thing he did when he see me was smile.

‘My name is Wilfred,’ he said.

‘I’m looking for a room? My name is Louise, I’ve got a good job and I can pay the bills.’

‘Even if you couldn’t pay, I would let you stay,’ he said to me.

He was tall, his head brushed past the door. I didn’t reply when he spoke to me, I just looked into his eyes for a few minutes. I hadn’t felt like this since I met Benjamin – Errol’s papi. He reached out his hand and I clasped onto it tight. I followed him into the house.

‘You drink Louise?’ he asked me.

‘I don’t drink, but I cook. I can make English food, I can make yard food.’

‘I don’t need a maid,’ he chuckled and passed me a glass.

I took a sip of the drink, and it was rum. We went to sit on the sofa in the living room. It felt like we talked about everything in a few minutes. He came to England as a child, and he didn’t remember Dominica where his parents were from. He wanted to go back, he was sick of being treated like an animal here. Wilfred had a job as a bus driver and told me I could stay with him here forever. I told him I was tired and had work early in the morning and asked him to show me where I would be sleeping. He took me to the bedroom and there was a bed which was the only thing in the room.

‘Where you going to sleep?’ I asked him.

‘That’s the only bed here. I won’t do anything you don’t want,’ he said to me.

I went into the bathroom and changed into some looser clothes. When I came back, Wilfred was on the bed but firmly facing the wall. I went to lie down on the bed and looked the other way. Our backs were touching and after five minutes I tapped his back.

‘Can you hold me please?’ I asked him. ‘Can you keep me warm in this cold country?’ He then faced me and held me tight.

---

‘You’ve got a letter,’ Wilfred told me, and he passed me a brown envelope. I had just gotten home from a ten-hour shift. I was working a different job every day. On Mondays and Wednesdays I was a waitress. On Thursdays and Tuesdays I was a cleaner, and on Fridays I worked in a factory. The waitress job was the worst but it paid the best.  The customers were so rude to me: I had been threatened, people asking for someone else to serve them and been called a monkey. Today had been a particularly horrible day, when a customer spat in my face. When I opened the envelope addressed to me, it reminded me why I did not break that skinny woman in two and why I still do the job.

It was a picture of Errol, my baby boy. He was smiling, and I could see his milk teeth were coming out. My pickney looked so handsome in his school uniform. He was now attending Kingston School for Boys, one of the best schools in Jamaica. My three jobs were paying for his education and seeing a picture of his face made it all worth it. I will take all the rubbish they throw at me in order to give my baby boy the best future in the world.

‘That Errol?’ Wilfred asked me.

I nodded in reply.

‘He got your eyes, look just like you.’

‘I don’t know if he should come here or stay there. The people in this country so rude and the weather is so cold. But Errol could go to university here, he could become a doctor or a lawyer,’ I said to Wilfred.

‘I thought you hated it here. Surprised you wanna bring your son to a country you hate’ Wilfred said.

‘I don’t hate it here completely. Errol being taken care of makes being here worth it – and you,’ I said to him and looked into his eyes.

He kissed me, and we went to the bedroom. We did this a lot. I knew I shouldn’t be doing it, as he never called me his woman but it felt good. He felt good. Wilfred worked nights as a bus driver, so after he held me he then went on to work. I hated when he left me, I just wanted to sleep in his arms and wake up to his face.

The next day was Tuesday when I did the cleaning. I did not mind the cleaning job because I did not have to talk to people. I just cleaned an office in East London, and the people did not bother me. I think they liked that I was cleaning and they could ignore me. I liked being invisible, it made the day go faster.

When I came back to the house, I see a suitcase in front of the door. I knock on the door cause I am confused. As I wait for Wilfred to open the door, I open the suitcase and I see it’s my stuff that been packed away. He finally opens the door, before he can speak a woman runs toward with me.

‘Yolanda, stop it,’ Wilfred said and he pulls the woman away from me as she lunges towards me with a rolling pin. Her skin is a golden colour, and her face is dotted with freckles.

‘You the woman that been sleeping with my husband!’ she yells at me.

‘I never touch her,’ Wilfred tells Yolanda. He looks at me to say something.

‘He never touch me,’ I say.

‘I don’t believe you, but I don’t want you here. It not right, you sleeping in the same bed as a married man,’ Yolanda says to me.

‘Where have you been?’ I ask her.

‘Wilfred never mention me? I went to Birmingham, my mother here too and she sick.’

‘He mention you, I must’ve forgotten the reason you left,’ I said to her.

Yolanda gives one more look to me and then to Wilfred. She believed our lie and went back into the house.

‘I’m sorry Louise,’ Wilfred said to me.

He was just like Errol’s papi. I thought Wilfred was different. I was silly to think that.      

I turned back and never saw him again. I went back to looking for a room to stay in, but this time it wasn’t just for me it was for my baby girl.

© Ella Jukwey, 2019. All rights reserved.

‘Troubled Waters’ is inspired by Pure Running – a Life Story by Louise Shore, in the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiography, Special Collections, Brunel Library, Brunel University London.

Author’s note:

I found Louise Shore’s biography Pure Running inspiring because of the current political climate and the human story at the heart of it. With the outrage surrounding the treatment of Windrush generation, I thought my own interpretation of Louise’s story would be poignant. In my short story, the racism Louise faces is addressed but I also wanted to show a deeply personal side to her. What inspired my depiction of her relationship with Wilfred, is the fifth chapter entitled ‘Trouble’. I gave my short story the title ‘Troubled Waters’ due to the title of this chapter and Louise’s surname being Shore.

Ella Jukwey was born in Fulham, London, to Nigerian parents. She attended London College of Communication, where she graduated in BA Journalism. Ella is currently studying for an MA in Creative Writing at Brunel University London. Ella has worked as a music journalist since September 2011. She has written album and event reviews for the Independent and the MOBO Awards editorial website. Ella has interviewed British rapper and writer Akala for American publication Revolt TV. Ella is also a member of the MOBO Awards voting academy.
Ella began her creative writing career in 2012, with short stories that she published on document sharing website Scribd. She released her first novel Crossroads in 2013. Her second novel Dirty Diamonds (2015) follows the scandalous life of journalist Harley-Jade Diamond. Ella released her third novel Mimi Memoirs in December 2015. Ella has been nominated for a BEFFTA award for Best Author three times. In November 2015, Ella was one of the nominees in the Female Writer category for the Amor Lifestyle Awards.

1920 by Alisha Mor

One of a series of blog posts written by Brunel’s creative writing students, inspired by the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiographies.

Being a Muslim and walking in a Hindu area was never a problem. But, being a Muslim and walking in a Hindu Temple was a sin. And Karim knew that. But he hadn’t had anything to eat for the past five days and he was on the verge of giving up. That’s when he saw that there’s Prasad bhojan (1) in the temple of Shri Krishna on the account of Janmashtami(2). He saw this as an opportunity but being a conservative Muslim, he was quite apprehensive about going into a temple. What if he got caught? What if they beat him? He was afraid of all the possible consequences. Right then, he heard a huge growl from his stomach and it was decided. He was going to masquerade as a Hindu.

Walking inside the temple, he saw two idols, one of a man and the other of a woman. They were dressed quite elaborately. Having never stepped inside a temple before, he had no knowledge of how Hindu Gods looked. Since everyone was gathered around the two idols, he assumed that the idols were God. Hindu gods looked quite different from what he was used to seeing. Muslims don’t have idols, they have prayer rooms and minarets and domes. It was a completely new experience for Karim. He instinctively raised his hands in front of his face as if he were praying in the usual way. Just before the priest could see him do that, he recognized his error and looked at the couple before him. They had their palms joined in front of them in Namaste position. He mimicked them.

When he moved forward with the line, he saw that the priest was offering sweets and everyone presented their right hand forward with the left one supporting it from below. He kept his hands in that position when his turn came.

But what he wasn’t expecting was the priest to ask his name. Again, his instincts had him saying, ‘Karim’. The priest smiled but then stopped. He asked him to repeat his name. Karim realized his blunder. But he didn’t have any Hindu friends and whatever he knew about them was already limited. Something came in his memory from a long time ago, when he was a kid and used to play outside with his friends. There used to be a group of Hindu boys who used to play sitoliya (3).

Remembering one of the names he heard when the guys used to call each other, he blurted out, ‘Karan'(4). The priest smiled again and murmured something about his old age and how he has trouble hearing these days. When he got the sweet, he swiftly moved away before he causes any more mistakes. After coming to the side of the temple, he breathed a sigh of relief. Opening his palm, he hurriedly gobbled up the sweet.

Now all he had to do was to go the pandaal (5) behind the temple and have food. But there was one more barrier. There was a man in front of the gate asking people to recite a mantra from the Hindu’s holy book Bhagvad Gita. Now, he truly had no option left. He had zero knowledge regarding Hindus, forget about knowing anything from the Bhagvad Gita. Dejectedly, he turned to go away when he heard two women talking about the event. He tried to eavesdrop on their conversation without making it look too obvious. But the looks he was getting from other people made him realise he was quite unsuccessful in that case.

Having no other way to go inside, he left. He had to satisfy himself with that piece of sweet. At least he’d got that. He was about to leave the temple when he crashed into an older man. The one thing he knew about Hindus was that they can start a conversation anywhere and with anyone. And that’s what happened. The man whom he had never met before started talking to him as if they were long lost best friends. Karim tried very hard to shorten the conversation so that his identity wouldn’t get leaked, but the man seemed in no mood to stop. While talking, Karim found out that the man’s name was Kishore and he was going to a tailor’s shop from here. His daughter wanted a salwar kameez (6) for her birthday so he was going to ask the tailor to take her measurements.

Once again, Karim couldn’t stop himself and said, ‘I’m a tailor as well.’ And then instantly, kept his hand on his mouth. He just couldn’t shut up. He regretted saying that. What if this man asks him to come home with him? At least here, he had the option of running away if he got caught. But there wouldn’t be any escape at this man’s house.

As soon as the words had left Karim’s mouth, Kishore smiled a wide enough smile to break his cheekbones.

‘Oh thank God! I am so lucky to have met you. It’s true that everything turns out well in God’s home. Will you please come to my home to take my daughter’s measurements for the dress? I would be so grateful if you would do that,’ said Kishore exactly as Karim had feared.

‘But, but what about the other tailor? Don’t you have a permanent tailor from where you get all your clothes done? He might feel offended if he comes to know that you went to someone else.’ Karim tried pushing the man in the direction of his original tailor.

Kishore wasn’t going to let him win though. ‘No no, he is not permanent. Our permanent tailor has gone to his village and the one I’m going to is so far that I really didn’t want to go. So, no one would feel bad and we both could gain something from it. Plus, my wife has made Aaloo Puri(7) today, I’m sure you’ll like it. Come, my friend, let’s help each other.’

If Karim wanted he could have just said no but Kishore was so friendly to him that he didn’t want to upset him. Also, he was getting free food. Wasn’t getting free food the whole point of him being here? If he could have a nice meal, it would all be worth it.

When they reached Kishore’s house, Karim saw that the house was two-storeyed and quite simple. No elaborate paintings or showpieces. And it felt at home. Karim was still in doubt but since he was already here, he wanted to make the best out if it.

Kishore called for his wife and a woman dressed in a sari came out with a glass of water. Seeing Karim, she went back inside and brought two glasses of water. Karim eagerly gulped even the last drop. He was about to thank her when he heard Kishore telling her to prepare the food. Hearing that, Karim kept quite and waited for his first meal in days.

Soon, the steaming plate of food was in front of him and he ate heartily. He, for the first time, thanked his stupid mouth. Kishore wasn’t lying about the food and everything was so delicious that he just couldn’t stop himself from having refills. Even though there was no meat, since Hindus don’t eat meat, the food was still quite delicious.

After everything was polished off, Kishore called for his daughter, Aarti. Out came running a young girl who looked no older than twenty. She had long hair which was tied in a braid and she was wearing chaniya choli. Karim had never seen a girl who could look so pure and beautiful at the same time. He quickly averted his eyes. Even he knew that staring at a girl wasn’t appreciated and it is the same in every religion. There was a tinge of red on his cheeks which he quickly tried to hide.

Kishore told Aarti that Karim will take his measurements and left the room. Now, normally a parent wouldn’t leave their daughter alone in a room with a strange man. But, Kishore had to check on something and his wife had already begun the preparations for the dinner.

He looked at Aarti to find her looking at him softly. He got up and with shaky hands, picked up the measurement tape. He was able to relax when he saw that she was looking at him with a kind smile, rather than as someone who was ready to charge him with assault.

He began taking her measurements. He first took of both her hands, her neck and her waist. When he came to take the measurements of her chest, his hands once again grew shaky and he looked up when he heard her speak.

‘Wait, I’ll raise my hands so that you can take it easily,’ she said.

He took the measurements of her chest and noted down all his markings. He then went down on his knee to take the measurements for her legs. He didn’t want to ask her to raise up her dress, but he didn’t have to. She did it herself. His hand went inside her dress and he carefully took the measurements of her ankles and then his hand went up.

By now, he was sweating profusely and he just wanted to run away. But he knew if he did that, it would only make him more suspicious. Shaky hands travelled up her legs and stopped when they reached her thighs. Very slowly and making sure he didn’t move his hand upward or anywhere else, he took the measurement. Then he hurriedly removed his hand from her dress, breathing heavily.

Quickly, jotting down the measurements he blurted something like that he’d come back to show her the fabric and everything and to thank her father for the meal. Then he rushed out of the house knowing that he’d never come back, and with only one thought in his mind: Was he still a virgin?

© Alisha Mor, 2019. All rights reserved.

‘1920’ was Inspired by Faizur Raul’s book Bengal to Birmingham, in the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiography, Special Collections, Brunel Library, Brunel University London.

Author’s note:

I was particularly inspired by Bengal to Birmingham because being an Indian, the title intrigued me and I was quite curious to know more about it. Also, when I first started reading, I didn’t think I’d make it to the end but as the story progressed, I felt like I was taking that journey alongside the author. And I am glad I made it till the end because it was simply an unearthly journey.

Alisha Mor is a part-time share market analyst, choreographer and an avid reader of fiction. She is the author of ‘Mine’ and several other short stories. She initially started writing on Wattpad, where she posted her very first story. In just a month she had gained thousands of readers which gave her the confidence to write more stories. Now, she’s the author of five novels and goes by the name of ‘alishamayamor’.  She’s currently doing her Masters of Arts in Creative Writing from Brunel University London.

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• (1) Food given as an offering
• (2) The celebration of the birth of Lord Krishna
• (3) A game of stones “Times New
• (4) A Hindu name
• (5) The place where food was served
• (6) An Indian dress which consists of a long top and loose pants
• (7) A dish made of potatoes and bread

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