My parents aren’t really great believers in holding back.
See it. Say it. Sort it.
These are just a few things they’ve said to me — on the regular:
“Why do you have spots? Don’t you wash your face?”
Thankfully, my skin is usually quite stable. But they’ll spot any blemish like it’s a moral failing.
You usually get a pre-warning — like when you’ve veered into territory they don’t want to discuss.
Something as innocent as asking if they’ve drunk enough water.
Next thing you know, their eyes lock onto your face. Not your eyes — a point on your face.
A tiny squint of micro-aggression.
You see it. Then it comes:
“Do you even wash your face?”
“That’s rubbish. Use mustard oil.”
“Look at your knees and elbows. They’re so black. Look at mine.”
I don’t know if it’s a cultural thing, but my parents are obsessed with the colour and texture of elbows and knees.
Ashy, dark ones meant you didn’t wash properly.
The look on their faces when my kids rock up in shorts and T-shirts?
Aghast. Appalled.
By the time we leave, my kids have a new level of paranoia unlocked.
The other day I walked into the kitchen and my daughter was busy covering her knees in Greek yoghurt — as advised by my dad.
“You’re just like your dad — hairy.”
My mum loves to throw this one out.
All of my sisters are hairy — all five of us.
Hairier than my mum, who only gets hair on her calves.
For me, it’s easier to list where I don’t get hair… just my eyeballs.
She always says it with a little sneer.
Then I remind her of my theory:
The child ends up looking like the person who put in the most effort.
Which means… my mum is very much a “lie back and think of India” kind of lady.
“That outfit would look much better on one of your other sisters.”
This one’s a favourite.
I walk into a function feeling alright — maybe even good.
My mum greets me, scans me like airport security, says nothing.
Later, usually mid-bite of samosa:
“That outfit would look better on your sister.”
Why? Because:
- She’s got better tits
- She’s taller
- Her colouring suits it more
- Her figure would carry it better
My sister will agree.
And we move on.
I lend my sister the outfit after the event.
“You sit at a computer all day and still complain about being tired?”
My dad was a labourer.
My mum was, for most of her life, a housewife — though she did moonlight in a sausage factory, as a dishwasher, and as a cleaner.
Their perception of my job is: lazy.
Which is ironic, because this is the exact kind of job they wanted me to aspire to.
And now I have it? It’s like an anti-climax.
Working from home after COVID really messed with their minds.
“I’ll come round and do the garden,” she says.
Great.
From the moment my mum walks in, it’s a never-ending stream of questions — all starting with:
“Just quickly…”
The last time she came round, by the time she left, my fitness tracker said I’d done nearly 10,000 steps.
Way above my usual 2,500.
I had to cancel meetings!
All she did was tut and roll her eyes, muttering:
“You talk so much rubbish.”
“I heard you laughing and talking to someone on the phone — and you said you were working!”
Laughter is not allowed at work, apparently.
“Why are your teeth so yellow? Don’t you brush them?”
My mum doesn’t even have all her teeth — most of them are false.
And she has the audacity to comment on mine?
She asks me what toothpaste I use.
Do I brush hard enough?
Why don’t I have teeth like the Americans?
“Don’t laugh too much — you’ll cry later.”
This was my mum’s favourite.
If me and my sister were laughing uncontrollably — at home, at a wedding, anywhere — she’d tell us to calm down.
“Don’t laugh too much, you’ll cry later.”
It used to stop us in our tracks.
It made me wonder: Is that true? If you have highs, you must have lows?
It definitely made my sister try to suppress our laughter.
If the laughter got hysterical, my mum would double down:
“You’re laughing so much, your teeth are going to fall out…”
or
“You look stupid when you laugh like that — stupid and crazy!”
You have to know — none of this comes from a place of malice.
It’s more about keeping me humble. Focused on self-improvement.
Or maybe… they’re just bored.
Either way, I’m off to scrub my elbows, wax my moustache,
and order that purple toothpaste I saw on TikTok.
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