Grandad

 I still carry it. For those who have, and those who have not, to find yourself as the product of a person two generations removed from you is so haunting. Our faces and their elements aren’t contrived from our choice, but by the biological choices of DNA set decades before us. We can’t really escape it: unless we get a nose job. The hook in my nose is one I hope - when I have children - will be present. It seems like everyone in my dad’s side of the family has a similar hook. For anyone who is all but white, we are made so aware of the hooks, bumps and curves in our nose. Ugly. Historic. Foreign. Ours and inescapable.Thank you, Grandad.

No need to export goods from elsewhere when you’re surrounded by all you need. After a meal, he’d sit contently at the table and rub his hands together veeeeery slowly, savouring the taste and communality. He’d rub his hands together deviously, bringing out all of the oil and ghee that he touched as he wrapped his roti around the okra salun and then smooth his hands over his face. He redistributed the natural oil into his skin and that’s what gave him that luscious sheen. You can’t do that with a KFC but you can do it with home cooking. Isn’t that what all the holistic self-care warriors are telling us to do now, use spices and oils to moisturise and cleanse the face. Let’s take a trip back to his pind, located between Lahore and the India border, Punjab. The milk and eggs would be gleaned from the animals lounging about almost every morning for tea and breakfast. This was not a luxury, it’s simply existing with the natural resources around you. There is no need to export goods from elsewhere when you’re surrounded by all you need.

Grandad