A trip to Coventry

On Sunday we travelled up to Coventry to meet Anya, the new baby of one of my cousins. Kirin was keen to wear his kurta pyjama, which my mum and dad bought when they were last in India. He was equally keen that Malik wear his and they look so cute that we were happy to oblige. These pics were taken in our garden before we left.

We had to go the mandir, the Hindu temple that I remember going to as a child on our trips to the UK to visit relatives. Unlike our British cousins, my siblings and I did not grow up surrounded by all things Indian. But even though my parents were not especially religious, when we did come to the UK, we would go to the temple for weddings or special occasions. And my paternal grandfather was heavily involved in running this particular temple.

As a kid, I always thought that spending a few hours of my weekend at a place where I had to cover my head, the boys and girls would have to sit on separate sides of the room and we would listen to an old man reading a religious book in Punjabi was not the best use of time. So, it was strange to find that I was quite excited about taking the boys on their first trip to this temple. It actually felt good being there, much more so than when I was a kid. It was, of course, nice to see some of my family (in this case, the family of Lashkar, one of my mum's brothers) and the boys enjoyed themselves. Kirin even did some tidying up in the kitchen. He was heard asking one of my cousins, in his proper little English accent, "Do you need some help?"

Even though I didn't spend a lot of time there growing up, and can't remember the last time I had been, the familiarity made it seem very comfortable. It wasn't so much the religion, so I can't help but think that it is down to wanting the boys to know about their family history. Who we are, where we came from, how we got here and how lucky we are to live the relatively easy lives we do. Going to Coventry is a glimpse into our past.

We drove down Princess Street, the road where many of the first Indian men to arrive in the city took up residence. Many other areas weren't open to non-whites; the rental signs would include the warning, "No dogs, no coloureds". So, the men would pack into the types of terraced houses you see at the start of Coronation Street, work long and hard in the factories that the Midlands used to be famous for, save enough to buy a property and somehow get their families over from India or east Africa.

In my family's case, the Mattus were at number 50 and the Sidhus (my mum's side) were at number 53. I pointed out the houses to Kirin (Malik was asleep within a couple of minutes of getting back into the car). He seemed to know that there was something important about those places. "Dada and dadi lived there, when they lived in England," I told him.

As the boys get older, I imagine we will be visiting again.