We weren’t the type of family to do annual holidays. Facts—there was no money for that. The only family trip I remember was a day out to Blackpool beach. We travelled there in our bottle-green, white-topped VW van, which had foam seats in the back. We got to ride on donkeys. I don’t really remember going on any rides, but I vividly recall the cool bag that travelled with us. It was packed to the brim with Indian delights—a proper bhaji-on-the-beach kind of day. Only one of my sisters came along; the other three had already moved out. My cousins joined us too. It was a really good day; my mum and dad were in high spirits.
We’ve never been on a trip as a complete family—all seven of us. In truth, I don’t think we’d all survive—not even the journey to the airport. We all have such different styles of travelling. Some arrive at the airport four hours before a European flight. Others arrive just 30 minutes before.
The first time I went abroad, I was about eight or nine, and it happened to be international. I have no idea what possessed anyone to just plop me on a plane for the first time, alone, for 8+ hours. I flew solo to see my sister (#3). When I arrived at the airport, they asked me my sister’s name. Easy question, right? Wrong.
You see, my sister was born with an English name. There was immense pressure for Indians in the 1960s to conform to British standards. My dad used to get shouted at for speaking Punjabi on buses. He tried to fit in, rocking a Teddy Boy haircut, narrow trousers, and slicked-back hair. But when my sister was a pre-teen, my grandfather threw a fit, and all the names were changed to Indian ones. I only knew her by her Indian name, but she was using her English one. After some discussion (and me sweating buckets), border control finally handed me over to her.
She lived in a complex up a hill, surrounded by security, with two dogs and a swimming pool. On the complex, there was another family with a daughter about my age. I got a trip abroad and a friend out of it.
Now, my sister, I’ve come to learn, is a compulsive liar. Even when there’s absolutely no need, she’ll pull a fast one. She likes to keep you on your toes, constantly guessing. A prime example? The swimming pool incident.
I couldn’t swim, so she said she’d teach me. We walked to the pool—me in my swimsuit, her in normal clothes. She pointed to the far end and said, “That’s the shallow end; you’ll be able to stand there.” Then she pointed at the spot by my feet and said, “This is the deep end.”
And then she shoved me in.
The push had momentum, so I landed about a metre away from the edge and started drowning. In my spluttering panic, I heard her shouting, “Swim!” Somehow, I clawed my way to the side. When I finally caught my breath, she’d already walked back to the house. I genuinely thought I was going to die. But here I was—alive.
The holiday activities didn’t stop there. It was a rollercoaster of highs and lows. High: My sister purchased me a spectacular studded cat outfit—something new. It was from a fancy shop that had a changing room. We got my size, so it fit perfectly, and it wasn’t handed down. Something I picked out and tried on. It had studs!
Low: Witnessing someone beg for their life. This poor burglar had tried to break into a house down the road from my sister’s complex. My brother-in-law (BIL) spotted him, whipped out a gun, and shot him in the knee. This was acceptable practice there—guilty until proven innocent. Shoot first, ask questions later.
Even mundane things like supermarket trips were an event. One day, we went shopping. As soon as we walked in, I was mesmerised by the aroma of ripe bananas, papayas, and mangoes. I wandered off to explore while my sister took care of the shopping.
Then I heard shouting.
A woman with an English accent was screaming, “Don’t touch my kids!” My heart sank as I strained to hear the reply. My sister was screaming back, hurling threats. When I got closer, I found the two women launching pots of spices at each other. Each pot smashed loudly on the ground.
From the yelling, I deciphered the reason. My sister needed eggs (of course she bloody did). The woman’s kids were in front of them, so my sister gave them a little tickle to move them. The woman interpreted this as assault and went ballistic. But she didn’t realise my sister’s spirit animal was Wrath of God.
Tired of smashing spices, the woman charged at my sister. She was a bit like Braveheart. Instead of a blue face and on a horse, she wore lashes and a beach cover-up. She grabbed my sister by the neck and bent her backwards into the freezer chest. My sister, flailing her arms, managed to locate and grab a frozen chicken. She used it as a mallet to tenderise the woman’s face and head.
I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t look away. This was magnificent. I never knew people were allowed to act like this in public.
The woman let go of my sister’s neck and retreated, but my sister wasn’t done. She carried on striking her with the chicken, then yanked her wig off and threw it over the shelves. Security eventually dragged the woman away. My sister? She stood there, creating a huge scene, ensuring everyone was aware of the narrative. She had provoked. And, of course, the bitch had it coming.
We finished the shop. As we were driving, I glanced at my sister. She had scratch marks on her arms. Her t-shirt was all bagged out by the neck. She had red marks near her neck, and she smelt of cinnamon.
When we got home, my sister told her husband what happened. He opened a drawer, took out his gun, and said, “I’m going for a drive.” Before he left, he asked me, “What does she look like?”
I wanted to scream, She has a fucking chicken-shaped dent in her head! She shouldn’t be too hard to miss!
When I got back to the UK, I didn’t tell anyone what happened. To be honest, we hadn’t talked about it after that day. If I said it out loud, it all sounded ridiculous. So I just buried it.
As I got older, I’d drop small snippets of the story into conversations to gauge reactions. My friends’ eyes told me it wasn’t normal. I’d quickly retract and suppress it. My family? Completely different story. They’d listen, share similar crazy tales, and then say, “Well, at least you learnt how to swim!”
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