When I was growing up, all I wanted to be was a footballer. I was convinced ‘Bend it like Beckham’ was about me, although I don’t recall fancying my coach. My mum swears I wanted to be a pharmacist but I’m almost certain that was just her wishful thinking.
As a second-generation British Hindu Gujrati, I was acutely aware of my difference from as early as 6 years old. I mean, I was super proud when a group of ‘friends’ said I could sit with them at lunch because I didn’t smell of curry and my mum dressed like their mums and spoke like them too. They were less impressed when they found out we didn’t own a corner shop.
Looking back, I’m not sure if it was competitiveness that I had when I was growing up – it certainly wasn’t confidence, I just wanted what my brothers seemed to automatically get and the more I was denied it, the more I worked hard to get it. My parents would describe this period of my life (which started age 7 and still exists today), as me being rebellious, unrelenting, disruptive and ultimately, a total pain in the arse.
So, what do I mean by getting what they got automatically? Well, it started out with the usual boys verses girls crap with a large dose of traditional Indian culture thrown in, like staying out with mates, being seen in public with (non-Indian) boys or not having to help in the kitchen every night. But as I got older it was access to education, professional development or career options. Being granted insider knowledge to advance into more influential circles or positions of leadership I never knew existed. Being given a chance to try without having to prove 100% competence first. Don’t get me wrong, I am super proud of my brothers, and they worked hard to get these things, but so did I and yet the difference in access, experience (and outcome) felt so stark and lonely.
Only now, as a parent myself, have I understood that despite appearances, throughout my childhood my parents didn’t want me to stop and accept the world around me. They just didn’t know how they could help and thought conforming to norms was the best thing to do. They didn’t see their own incredible journey of migration as a huge step in paving a progressive cultural movement that would shape generations to come and therefore, didn’t think to share or celebrate it. Most crucially they lacked the access and knowledge of the people, systems and rituals around them that could have helped channel my demands for equality within a country they, themselves, were still learning to call home.
Whilst this is my story, I know I’m not alone. I want to pay it back, for me, my parents, my brothers, my children, my children’s children. And so, Cerestrial was born.