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| A New Year that changed me: when my mum was star of the dancefloor A New Year that changed me: when my mum was star of the dancefloor | |
| (35 minutes later) | |
| I didn’t expect Mum to say yes. She wouldn’t have normally, but there was something different about her that day. Perhaps it was the shoes – chunky silver platforms covered in glitter which caught the light wherever they went. “They were £6 in a closing-down sale,” she told me. “It’d be rude not to buy them.” | I didn’t expect Mum to say yes. She wouldn’t have normally, but there was something different about her that day. Perhaps it was the shoes – chunky silver platforms covered in glitter which caught the light wherever they went. “They were £6 in a closing-down sale,” she told me. “It’d be rude not to buy them.” |
| It was New Year’s Eve and we were finishing up a belated Christmas dinner. I’d spent Christmas Day with my in-laws and this was our surrogate celebration, but now it was time for Mum to go and she was gathering up her things. The blinking lights from the Christmas tree bounced off her wedding-best bangles, unboxed just once this year, and in the low light the shoes spoke to me. | It was New Year’s Eve and we were finishing up a belated Christmas dinner. I’d spent Christmas Day with my in-laws and this was our surrogate celebration, but now it was time for Mum to go and she was gathering up her things. The blinking lights from the Christmas tree bounced off her wedding-best bangles, unboxed just once this year, and in the low light the shoes spoke to me. |
| Mum was nowhere to be found. I wandered around until my ears tuned in to cheering on the dancefloor | Mum was nowhere to be found. I wandered around until my ears tuned in to cheering on the dancefloor |
| They said two words: disco inferno. I had a change of heart. | They said two words: disco inferno. I had a change of heart. |
| A nearby mega-pub had a large back room it used for occasional club nights, playing that specific brand of inoffensive, decade-old pop you’d probably hear at a wedding. That in itself was significant. My mum doesn’t “do” pubs; she doesn’t “do” drinking, even in moderation. Drinking was a source of conflict between us, but it wasn’t really about the alcohol. Rather it was a symbol of something bigger, and not just in the obvious way: that I was becoming “westernised”. It was everything else that followed. | A nearby mega-pub had a large back room it used for occasional club nights, playing that specific brand of inoffensive, decade-old pop you’d probably hear at a wedding. That in itself was significant. My mum doesn’t “do” pubs; she doesn’t “do” drinking, even in moderation. Drinking was a source of conflict between us, but it wasn’t really about the alcohol. Rather it was a symbol of something bigger, and not just in the obvious way: that I was becoming “westernised”. It was everything else that followed. |
| My hunt for hedonism regularly took me into central London. On breaks from university, I would temp in the City. I made friends there; I slept on their couches. When I came back to our modest council house, I talked about avant-garde theatre, cocktail bars and essays about Karl Marx in papers you could only read by subscription. I once corrected my mum’s pronunciation of fajita (she said it with a hard j) and I saw her eyes well up. | My hunt for hedonism regularly took me into central London. On breaks from university, I would temp in the City. I made friends there; I slept on their couches. When I came back to our modest council house, I talked about avant-garde theatre, cocktail bars and essays about Karl Marx in papers you could only read by subscription. I once corrected my mum’s pronunciation of fajita (she said it with a hard j) and I saw her eyes well up. |
| “Pubs are for white people!” she would say as I slammed the door behind me. She wasn’t completely wrong about that. If I think about every time I’ve been really heinously abused for the colour of my skin, when I think about the times I’ve been truly afraid, a finger hovering over the call button having already typed in three nines, and if I think of the times I’ve been reminded I am a mere visitor in the nation in which I was born, they have been in a boozer. And now, here she was, in the pub: my mum. | “Pubs are for white people!” she would say as I slammed the door behind me. She wasn’t completely wrong about that. If I think about every time I’ve been really heinously abused for the colour of my skin, when I think about the times I’ve been truly afraid, a finger hovering over the call button having already typed in three nines, and if I think of the times I’ve been reminded I am a mere visitor in the nation in which I was born, they have been in a boozer. And now, here she was, in the pub: my mum. |
| The queue for the bar was five deep and when I finally squeezed myself out of the scrum, Mum was nowhere to be found. I wandered around until my ears heard cheering from the dancefloor. | The queue for the bar was five deep and when I finally squeezed myself out of the scrum, Mum was nowhere to be found. I wandered around until my ears heard cheering from the dancefloor. |
| Approaching the crowds, a familiar song came over the speakers. I’d recognise the Nile Rodgers-esque guitar intro anywhere. It was Mark Morrison’s Return of the Mack. I pushed past people until I fell into a clearing, at the centre of which was my mother, eyes closed and lost in her own world, doing what I can only describe as a kind of Bollywood dad dance – noticeably retro, creaky and totally out of time to the music. One hand was on her hip as she slowly shuffled around in a circle; the other arm was up, her hand doing a kind of exaggerated “come hither” gesture synonymous with Hindi dance (especially from the 70s). | Approaching the crowds, a familiar song came over the speakers. I’d recognise the Nile Rodgers-esque guitar intro anywhere. It was Mark Morrison’s Return of the Mack. I pushed past people until I fell into a clearing, at the centre of which was my mother, eyes closed and lost in her own world, doing what I can only describe as a kind of Bollywood dad dance – noticeably retro, creaky and totally out of time to the music. One hand was on her hip as she slowly shuffled around in a circle; the other arm was up, her hand doing a kind of exaggerated “come hither” gesture synonymous with Hindi dance (especially from the 70s). |
| People were surrounding her, whooping and cheering: “Go Saima, go Saima, go go go Saima!” I laughed, touched to the heart. Then I noticed a group of three lads also laughing, perhaps a little too hard. One of them was recording my mum on his phone, while another stood in between her and the camera as though he was “presenting” the video. | People were surrounding her, whooping and cheering: “Go Saima, go Saima, go go go Saima!” I laughed, touched to the heart. Then I noticed a group of three lads also laughing, perhaps a little too hard. One of them was recording my mum on his phone, while another stood in between her and the camera as though he was “presenting” the video. |
| The presenter was copying my mum’s dance while throwing in a couple of stereotypical gestures. He clasped his head in a namaste gesture and gave a little head wobble, followed by a bow to the camera. They were laughing at her. Was everybody? | The presenter was copying my mum’s dance while throwing in a couple of stereotypical gestures. He clasped his head in a namaste gesture and gave a little head wobble, followed by a bow to the camera. They were laughing at her. Was everybody? |
| Before I’d had a chance to gather my thoughts, the countdown to midnight began; people were kissing and hugging – now really was not the time to start a fight. | Before I’d had a chance to gather my thoughts, the countdown to midnight began; people were kissing and hugging – now really was not the time to start a fight. |
| Mum practically skipped home, regaling me with stories about how, before she got married, people said she could have been a dancer, and did I know that she even had an audition once? I didn’t mention what I’d seen. | Mum practically skipped home, regaling me with stories about how, before she got married, people said she could have been a dancer, and did I know that she even had an audition once? I didn’t mention what I’d seen. |
| In the weeks after that, I thought a lot about those lads, and looked for them every time I went to the pub. I wanted to know what, or who, the joke was and why exactly it was so funny. I even decided to search online to see if they’d uploaded the video. | In the weeks after that, I thought a lot about those lads, and looked for them every time I went to the pub. I wanted to know what, or who, the joke was and why exactly it was so funny. I even decided to search online to see if they’d uploaded the video. |
| By the end of the search I’d watched hours of grainy, shaky footage: a slightly different accent here, a different outfit there, all seemingly hilarious for reasons I didn’t want to think about. But in all those videos, I never found my mum. | By the end of the search I’d watched hours of grainy, shaky footage: a slightly different accent here, a different outfit there, all seemingly hilarious for reasons I didn’t want to think about. But in all those videos, I never found my mum. |
| I still don’t understand why that night was so significant. Each time I try to figure it out, I come to a dead end. But most days I just laugh, my heart bursting with joy at the memory of my mum; my Bollywood dancing disco queen. | I still don’t understand why that night was so significant. Each time I try to figure it out, I come to a dead end. But most days I just laugh, my heart bursting with joy at the memory of my mum; my Bollywood dancing disco queen. |