When we were kids, I remember my parents were quite sociable. They would always insist on dragging us along with them. The company was usually other Indian families with children. Friendships were often based on shared roots—same village, same pind, or some distant familial connection. These outings were regardless of homework or exams.
I can’t tell you the number of homes we visited the day before major exams, including GCSEs! As soon as we got there, we’d be ushered into a room to study. My parents’ rationale was simple: if we really wanted to study, we could do it anywhere.
There were children, after all, who studied by candlelight—hadn’t we seen that Channel 5 film? If we struggled, we were deemed lazy and full of excuses. My mum would scream, “Be lazy then!” usually while pounding her chest or hitting her head. “Then you too will have a life like me, married to a man like your father!” This was meant to terrify us into studying. Study or get married. There were only two ways out.
When my parents did go out without us, they would leave my sister in charge. She was deemed the more responsible one, even though I was usually the one sorting out food. Since she was older, I guess it made sense. I used to walk my parents to the door to say goodbye. If my sister didn’t join me, I’d get anxious—it meant she was getting ready. That’s when I knew it was going to be one of those days.
We had a wooden knife block in the kitchen, and when we bought it, I thought it was the best kitchen gadget ever. “What? It sharpens knives when you put them back in? This is Tomorrow’s World-level stuff!” Little did I know, that knife block would become my tormentor.
I’d shut the porch door, then the font door, promising my parents we wouldn’t open the door to strangers. Especially the gas and electricity man—but we’ll talk about that later! We were told to check who was at the door by peeking out of the front room window, making sure we couldn’t be seen. If the doorbell rang, I’d dive behind the sofa, while my sister would hide behind the thick velvet curtains, peeking from the side.
The truth was, what was outside was probably a lot safer than what was inside. I’d head towards the kitchen, ears straining for the shhh-thunk of the knife leaving the block. Our house had a circular layout—you could run around the back room, kitchen, and larder/boiler area, all connected by the hallway. I’d walk into the kitchen to find my sister, armed with the largest knife from the block (the one in the middle). She’d turn to me and say, “I’ll give you a five-second head start.” And then, the Benny Hill chase would begin.
She’d sprint after me at full pelt with the knife, and I’d run for my life. Sometimes she’d change things up, switching from clockwise to anti-clockwise. It normally ended the same way. When I thought she was getting tired, I’d make a run for my parents’ bedroom. It was the only room with a lock and key. The bathroom had a lock too, but a butter knife could open the lock.. So it wasn’t safe. The bedroom key was always on the outside of the door, an old skeleton key that needed wriggling and jiggling to remove. Sometimes, I wouldn’t make it in time.
She’d burst in, breathless and still holding the knife. Then she’d make me lie on the bed and smother me with a pillow. She wouldn’t let go, even if I panicked or became breathless. “Calm yourself down,” she’d say. “Control your breathing. This is for your own good.” I’m not sure why I let her smother me, but I did. While struggling under the pillow, I’d think, If I just comply, she’ll let me go. So, I’d try to calm down and mentally escape.
I’m claustrophobic—not sure when it started, but this probably didn’t help.
After she finished, she’d congratulate me, get off, and we’d go downstairs to tidy up and start dinner.
To this day, I can’t have the duvet anywhere near my face, not even on a cold night. It makes me want to hyperventilate. I guess all those suffocation training sessions didn’t really work. Well, you win some, you lose some.
We laugh about it now, as if it was normal. “Remember when you used to suffocate me?” I’ll say. Her response is always the same: “Yeah, I had to.”
Fair enough!
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