In 1984, I boarded a musty Air India plane with my aunt, leaving my parents and baby sister in the south of England, and flew to live with my maternal grandparents in a tiny fishing town south of Goa. At a time when many Indians were emigrating to Britain in search of a more prosperous life, I seemed to be the only brown person going in the other direction.
I was eight years old. I was being sent to India to get up to speed with the language (Kannada) before my family followed, as we were planning to relocate from England. It would only be for a few months, I was assured. The separation ended up lasting four years because the big move never materialised.
In the sliding doors version where I stayed put with my family, I suspect I would have plodded through life in England being the quiet kid with soda-bottle glasses and curly black hair, who would have had some sort of rebellion as a teenager involving Nirvana and piercings. As it happens, the door I walked through in India shook me out of my timid existence. The suburban streets I grew up on back in Kent were quiet and tree-lined, where nothing much ever happened. India, however, threw my life into technicolor, with such a riot of noise and chaos it would forever imprint on my personality.
Those years in India gave me something British Asians didn’t have: I was a brown kid surrounded by millions of other brown people. For a second-generation immigrant in the increasingly racialised country that Britain has become, this laid powerful foundations that my other Asian and Black British friends don’t necessarily have. Eating with my hands, taking my shoes off at the door, and dressing up for religious festivals and family functions are the norm – neither exotic nor strange, these are just things we do. Growing up with that sense of belonging in my blood has connected me to the core of who I am.
In India, I was also quite literally raised by a village, surrounded by parental figures who would guide me over the years. In my 20s, when I told the story of my childhood to white British people I was met with mild horror – as they conveniently forgot the English tradition of boarding schools – and was made to feel as if I had been abandoned in some way. But in many cultures across Africa, Asia and Latin America it is completely normal for kids to be brought up by aunts and uncles or grandparents.
In western countries, with both parents working long hours and commuting, a lot of kids don’t get much one-on-one time within their family, as they are moved from childminders to school or afterschool clubs. I, on the other hand, was always surrounded by family. I had my mum’s younger brother, who was extremely kind and gentle, teaching me the value of sweetness instead of sharpness; my aunt who had been divorced and was forging her own unconventional way in the world; and both my grandmothers – one who had been a teacher at a time when it was unusual for women to work, and another who had singlehandedly raised four children. I always felt loved. I was seen and heard.
Despite being away from my own parents, being raised by so many loving role models made me feel extremely secure in who I am. I fly two-footed into new situations and can make rapid decisions, be that to change jobs or move country, because I’ve always had a strong belief in my own ability to deal with anything.
It helped, of course, that while my grandparents were loving and watchful, they also largely left me to my own devices. At an age where my mum and dad would normally be fixing any problems I had, sorting out issues at school or just offering life advice, I was figuring out a lot of things myself (albeit with the help of a never-ending supply of books).
There is a downside to being fiercely independent and obsessed with doing everything myself though. When I was getting divorced, I plastered on a huge smile, told jokes and made people laugh. I was effectively saying, “See? I’m fine!”, while eating a packet of crisps for dinner and crying every hour on the hour.
It took having a baby in my late 30s and moving away from my family in England to France and then to Spain, to realise that a strong sense of self is valuable but that leaning on friends and family for support is no bad thing.
Still, my time in India transformed me from being a shy kid to one with the quiet confidence of knowing I had survived being separated from my family for years, and coped well with the culture shock of moving from England to India and back again. That kind of resilience and inner strength is hard to teach – it comes from experience. As unusual as my childhood was, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
• M(other)land: What I’ve Learnt About Parenthood, Race and Identity by Priya Joi is published by Penguin Life (£16.99). To support the Guardian, buy your copy from guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
