A Race We Can All Win - Part 1 of 5

“Until the philosophy which holds one race superior and another inferior is finally and permanently, discredited and abandoned - Everywhere is war!” sang Bob Marley.

I am thirteen years old. I have been at this grammar school barely a couple of weeks. I’m exploring the grounds on my own at lunchtime when I notice another pupil, Brannigan, and his gang advancing slowly towards me. I have an ominous feeling as I see a menacing look on his face and the expectation of a ‘rumble’ in the eyes of his friends. I naively wait till they have cornered me before acknowledging their presence. It is clear to me that there is an intention of some kind of confrontation, but being new to all this I have no idea how this is supposed to unfold.

 “Oi, Paki!” he addresses me. His friends laugh. At this point in my life, I have never been called a Paki before, though I know that it is a racial insult directed towards anyone of South Asian descent, or even of a slightly darker complexion. I stand there sheepishly, not knowing what to do. Should I try to run away, or stand my ground? Instead, I pretend that I do not fully understand. “Hello,” I reply, a little nervously. He looks back at his friends with an incredulous smile. “Paki!” he says again, more forcefully, trying to goad me into a fight with him and his friends, a fight that both he and I know I would lose.

“Actually, my parents are from India and I was born here,” I say, hoping that this will somehow make a difference. Since I’m not responding to his provocations, he decides to use this opportunity to make a political speech justifying his behaviour in front of his friends. 

“Well you still come here and take all our jobs,” he announces. I think about this for a moment. It really doesn’t make any sense to me, and feel I should point this out to him.

“But I don’t have a job,” I reply. “I’m still going to school, you see.” His friends start laughing, but this time at him. He looks a bit confused but tries to maintain control of the situation.

“Yeah, but you will take our jobs one day,” he retorts.

I try to negotiate, appealing to his sense of reason. “Look, I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you tell me which job you’re going to do, and I won’t go for the same one?” His friends giggle at this and somehow I have managed to diffuse the situation for long enough: the school bell rings, and I am proverbially saved.

The subject of race and migration, and the conflict with which it is often associated, is a contentious one for many. It is probably one of the most difficult topics to tackle with any objectivity, since we have all been exposed to assumptions about race and migration which we may have internalized without knowing. I will endeavour to write as honestly and openly as possible about my own personal experience, interspersing my writing with titbits of information garnered from my literature review (with links to media in blue) and some of the conclusions at which I arrived. I deliberately include racist labels for context and use colour descriptors, as well as the word ‘race’, which I completely acknowledge is itself a social and political construct.  I apologize in advance for this, as well as the stream of consciousness style.

We live on a beautiful planet, with so much potential, and have come a long way in many regards. Paradoxically, it is also a world ravaged by pollution, environmental devastation, endless wars, famine and brutal inequality, where 10 men own more wealth than 85 countries! That should give us pause to reflect on our predicament. Even those who are doing relatively well need to heed the cautionary tales of history - that without systemic change, their own good fortune cannot last forever. Their legacies will not be passed on to future generations beyond their own lifetimes. Sir Francis Galton the pioneer of Eugenics was ultimately proven wrong in his study, showing that success in one generation is not a guarantee of its continuation in others. A global pandemic and its economic implications just exacerbate this pre-existing condition.

The state of the world, and its socio-economic malaise, is undoubtedly complex.  I believe there is a roadmap to a solution which requires a shift in global consciousness, and a little imagination to dare to dream of something better for all of us on this planet.  In the world order we live in, some human beings are valued less than others. This is evident through our global economic system and its institutions that strongly favour the wealthy, feeding the ever-growing gap between rich and poor. This happens on both an internal and international level, where the powerful can siphon off the resources of the powerless. This juggernaut of consumption and exploitation is unsustainable for society and our environment.

The way we treat each other as human beings must be examined. The simple truth is that we are all interconnected, as COVID-19 has adequately demonstrated. Despite our nation states, we are essentially ‘one people’. Building a new socio-cultural-economic model is part of our evolutionary journey. We need a new set of paradigms to replace old ones that are no longer relevant or sustainable. That is what I hope to demonstrate by relating my own experiences within a historical context. I will expand upon these memories and extrapolate them to the challenges that all people face – since, returning to my proposition – our interdependence is the basis for a global community.

As a British Indian, I have had numerous encounters with both overt and institutional racism. I grew up in the 1970s and 80s, when Margaret Thatcher talked about the fears Britain had of being “swamped by a different culture”. This was apparently in response to the rise of the National Front, who were campaigning in competition with the Conservatives over the very hot topic of the time - immigration.

The National Front, 1970s.  Credit: Spectator.co.uk

The National Front is a far-right, fascist political party founded by Arthur Chesterton in 1967. He was a follower of Oswald Mosely and a member of the British Union of Fascists and National Socialists - the closest party Britain had to the Nazis. They believe in white supremacy, biological racism, racial separatism and antisemitism. They were popular in the 1970s and 1980s but have never won seats in Parliament and have now lost their power to other far-right parties such as the English Defence League (EDL) and The British National Party (BNP). They were very well known to the generation of immigrants who were the subject of their rallies - the alien cultures.

The band Alien Kulture, formed in 1979, who played in 30 shows before disbanding in 1981

Since the 1950s, Britain was desperate to acquire ‘skilled’ workers from its former colonies in order to deal with the shortage of labour of the post-war years. This was a real problem for the British economy that needed a boost and the only way to do it was to increase the work-force by importing labour. The British Nationality Act was passed in 1948 in order to allow immigration from the former colonies and Commonwealth countries.

British Nationality Act of 1948

A lot of those skilled workers, including my university-educated father, were forced to take unskilled or semi-skilled work in order to sustain themselves and their families. He had a degree in physics and had studied aeronautical engineering, yet his first job was working in a factory as a labourer. This was a typical situation in these days and remains a barrier for many immigrants where licensing and certifications are used to exclude.

My parents’ generation of immigrants also had to deal with the prejudice of landlords, many of whom imposed strict rules to keep their immigrant house ‘guests’ in line. I remember reading my father’s old letters, discovered in a suitcase in the attic of our house: a treasure trove of memories of when he first arrived in Britain.

Among them, I found several warning letters from various landlords, including one about not being able to use the heating in the ground floor accommodation he was renting. I remember my father telling me how he used to have to sit around with blankets and cardigans to fend off the cold, as landlords restricted the use of heating in their tenants’ rooms in the winter.

There were many things they were not ‘allowed’ to do, and so many restrictions that a human rights lawyer in today’s world would have had their work cut out for them. When my parents’ landlady observed my pregnant mother’s distended belly, instead of congratulating her on her pregnancy, she immediately gave my parents an eviction notice. It was so difficult for my parents to find accommodation that allowed young children that my mother had no choice but to take me, as a two-week old baby, back to India to live with my grandparents.

Notices such as these were part of life in 1960s Britain. Credit: Race Relations Board (1969)

Just a few years earlier, Enoch Powell, a Conservative Member of Parliament, had famously warned about the “rivers of blood” that would flow as a result of immigration into Britain. The Beatles even satirized this in an early version of ‘Get Back’ before the commercial release, known to bootleggers as ‘No Pakistanis’. To their credit, the Beatles used their fame to speak out against racism, they refused to play to a segregated audience in Florida in 1964 until the audience was desegregated, and their song ‘Blackbird’ was written in support of the civil rights movement.

Enoch Powell. 'Rivers of Blood' Speech. Credit: birmingham-rep.co.uk

 For a long time, I believed there was no sense in dwelling on these past memories, as they could not be of any benefit. I had previously believed that incidences of racism were diminishing as the world was changing, and that racism itself would soon be a relic of the past. Living in Philadelphia in the second decade of 21^st century USA, I now doubt whether this is really the case. Anyone who had spent time in Philadelphia will know that racism and prejudice are alive and well in the ‘city of brotherly love’.

Philadelphia magazine 2013

People of diverse cultures and ethnicities still face barriers of exclusion, and socio-economic hurdles, that many of their white counterparts do not. Clearly there is a power dynamic that needs to be addressed. There is such a thing as white privilege; it is difficult to quantify, and even more difficult to explain to a person who does not see that it exists, because they themselves do not feel they have been privileged at all.  Arguably, there are also many white working class people who suffer discrimination too. This is a nuanced issue complicated by class, gender, and other visible signifiers that may make skin colour less relevant.  I do not want to diminish these experiences and I will revisit this later. However, the suffering of these people is not primarily defined by race, which is the issue I would like to focus on for now.

Until I was eight years old, we had been living in Harrow, a very diverse neighbourhood in London, and then moved to the countryside, where I grew up surrounded by mostly white working- and middle-class people. At the local junior school, my best friend was a British-Chinese guy, whose parents had emigrated from Hong Kong. I did not personally experience any discrimination there, except for the time when I helped my friend defeat one of the school bullies. It was also the first time I experienced racism directed at someone else.

After school one day, Ken and I were leaving school when a bully, ‘Smith’, called out to Ken, “Bye Chinky!” Ken had been told by his dad that he should always stand up to bullies, or the bullying and name-calling would never stop. He squared off against Smith, who was two years older than us.

“What did you say?” Ken asked.

Again, Smith repeated,“Chinky!” Looking down at him, he was almost a foot taller than Ken and did not expect him to retaliate. He put his fingers in the corner of his eyes to simulate epicanthic eye-folds, and goaded, “Slit-eyes!” 

Without hesitation, Ken landed a punch right in the bully’s face and the now red-faced Smith, both surprised and angry, rained blows down on Ken. I could not stand there and watch my best friend being beaten up, even though I was scared of the older boy, so I summoned up some courage and landed a few punches of my own. Smith was so taken aback at these two smaller kids working together in unison that he decided to retreat. He turned away and ran off. We were both high on adrenaline, feeling victorious that we had seen off this bully, and walked home recounting the fight, blow by blow.

Picture of myself and Ken around the time of our fight with Smith

As far as I can remember, Smith did not bother myself or Ken again. That was one of my few successes in fighting off a racist using brute force.

There were other fights that I had later at the grammar school, but I had no allies, and found myself facing more than one opponent at a time. Luckily, most of these fights were broken up by a teacher. For most of my teen years at school, I had a fair share of racist abuse. I was called ‘Paki’, ‘Nigger’, ‘Coon’, ‘Chocolate-face’, ‘Black bastard’, ‘Wog’. Whenever I hear racial slurs and names also being used to insult people of different backgrounds than mine I find it just as abhorrent. The hatred comes from the same source of ignorance, and could therefore just as easily be directed at me. I still remember some of the chants that were used against me: “Pull that trigger, shoot that Nigger - Join the National Front!” Another was, “There ain’t no black in the Union Jack!” Even today when I see the British flag, it triggers memories of seeing it being brandished aggressively as a symbol of extreme nationalism. Rationally, I know it is not, but the association was there. The English flag, or St. George’s flag, is also used by the English Defence League, a far-right, racist organisation. This is quite ironic as St. George was born in Cappadocia in Turkey, of Greek parents, and is regarded as a saint in both Christianity and Islam.

 At this early stage in life, It became quite apparent to me that even though I was born in England I was not regarded as being English by everyone. I remember feeling very alone in my school days, particularly at the grammar school. I was called names and had to deal with racial abuse on almost a daily basis.  I eventually learnt to ignore the name-calling, even though it did still get to me, and this was reflected in my educational performance, which declined. I didn’t tell my family, as I felt shame, so they didn’t know about it till much later. I remember even a teacher at the school making fun of my name for cheap laughs, and I had a general feeling of hopelessness. I felt I had no-one who would stand up for me the way I had for my friend Ken a couple of years earlier. There was only a handful of boys in the whole school who were from any ethnic background and only two I remember who were black. If you were good at sports, which I was not, that made a difference to how you were perceived, so a couple of those minority students’ skin colour was overlooked because of their physical prowess.

William Golding’s Lord of the Flies, which we had to read for English, became my favourite book, because I felt I could really relate to it. The descent of a group of boys into a groupthink pack, and the resulting tension that leads to the bullying and eventual death of Piggy, the child perceived as ‘different’, seemed to sum up my own predicament.

The film Lord of the Flies (1963), based on William Golding’s book 

Indian Words

When I lived in London, an Indian friend Raja would always say, “Hey Man!” whenever we met. His name was ‘Raja’, but everyone called him ‘Roger’. He used the word ‘man’ quite liberally and would add it into any conversation at least a few times, the same way some people do with profanity. He had long hair, was extremely chilled, a bit of a hippie, so I kind of expected him to say something like that. One day he must have said it about ten times in one conversation that I simply had to point it out. I suggested he was overusing it just a little. He raised his eyebrows and looked at me very seriously and told me that I did not realize the true significance of what he was saying. I asked him to elaborate and he told me that this was one of the earliest greetings and words used by our ancient Indian ancestors, and connected them to their humanity. I must admit even though I was intrigued, I still thought this was the ramblings of an eccentric at the time. Still, I wanted to hear what he had to say. He explained that the word ‘man’ originally came from Sanskrit that was part of the original language that all European languages had branched off from, over centuries as people migrated Westwards. The Sanskrit word itself was ‘manu’. The original meaning of ‘manu’ was similar to the gender-neutral word ‘human’, as in mankind. After learning about this from him, I researched what he had talked about and found that indeed he had a point, based on the study of language – linguistics.

I wanted to explore the archaic and modern influence of the Indian languages on English. We know that hundreds of words were appropriated into the language from the colonial age when the British ruled India. But well before this, there were already ‘Indian words’ in the whole of Europe. This was observed in the 16^th Century when visitors to the Indian subcontinent noticed similarities among Indo-Persian and European languages.

A hypothesis was formed that there was a relationship between them. Sir William Jones, a philologist, remarked in a lecture on linguistics in 1786 that the structural similarity between Sanskrit, Greek and Latin had to be more than a coincidence, suggesting that there was a common source. Just a few decades later, the term Indo-European was used to describe the relationship and by the mid-1850’s it was accepted that there was a strong historical and geographical relationship which has now been researched for at least the last two hundred years. Proto-Indo-European is the root of these languages that are interconnected like the branches of a tree.

Credit: Wikimedia Commons

This also parallels the movement and migration of people known from the genographic project, a genetic anthropological study to examine the migration patterns of people over thousands of years using gene markers in their DNA. There is a strong correlation between the migration patterns and the prevalence of languages related to those people who migrated. 

Ancient DNA and the Proto-Indo-European Homeland Credit: Anthrogenica.com

It is thought that somewhere on the Eurasian Steppes the archaic Proto-Indo-European (PIE) language was born. There are many competing theories about when and where this happened, but many point to the area of the fertile crescent and the rise of agriculture, around 12000 years ago, being the catalyst for the spread and differentiation of these languages. Indo-European languages then flourished over this area as migrations continued in all directions. As a result, we have language trees and common roots of many words in the modern languages that resemble the original words and sounds very closely and others that have changed over time.

Spread of the Proto-Indo-European word for ‘Brother’ Credit: Bigthink.com

I was particularly interested in the connections between the Sanskrit words that had given rise to many of the Indian languages including Urdu and Hindi and the Germanic language- English. English was first used in India as early as the 1600’s, but the official language of the East India Company was originally Persian and later replaced by English in the 1830’s, together with Urdu and Hindi. This was maintained when the British Raj took over governance of the country from 1857 until 1947.

 Urdu and Hindi are both very similar in their syntax and phonology which makes them interchangeable in general speech, although they have totally different scripts. Urdu has a Perso-Arabic script with grammar derived from Persian influence and Hindi has the Devanagari script drawn from Sanskrit. The core vocabulary of both Hindi and Urdu are almost identical being derived mostly from Sanskrit with a substantial component of loanwords from Persian and Arabic. ‘Hindi’ denoting the language comes from the word ‘Hindu’, which is the Persianized version of the Sanskrit ‘Sindhu’ meaning a large body of water or river. This was not originally a religious label, but referred to the civilization of the Indus river valley and was an ethno-geographical term. Since the 16^th century and colonization, the languages evolved into cultural identities of the speakers, but this incontrovertible relationship between the two also gave rise to the concept of ‘Hindustani’ as a pluricentric language with two standardized registers and was endorsed by Mahatma Gandhi as a unifying fusion language. It is also the third most commonly spoken language in the world after English and Mandarin.

The interaction between speakers of the English language and Hindustani during the time of the British Raj left an indelible mark on both languages. There are many English words that have been incorporated into Hindi, particularly during the 19^th and 20^th centuries where modern inventions which had no Hindi equivalent were used. Likewise, there are over 700 words that were learnt by English soldiers, administrators, governors etc, that were transported back to Britain and adopted into the English language. These Indian words came from a variety of languages including Hindi, Urdu, Punjabi, Gujarati, Bengali, Marathi, Kashmiri, Sindhi, and the ancient language of Sanskrit. Of course, there are literally hundreds of languages in daily use in the Indian subcontinent with at least 22 scheduled languages and two official languages of the government of India, Hindi and English.

Here is a compiled list of favourite words that are commonly used in English that have Indian origins:

 

Avatar- originally from a Sanskrit word avatarana meaning descent, referring to the descent from heaven by a Hindu god into an earthly incarnation. Later on it became a reference for the embodiment or personification of something and is now commonly used as a graphic representation. 

Bandana- from the Sankrit roots of the Hindi word bandhna, ‘to tie’. A piece of cloth worn around the head or neck originating from the Indian subcontinent.

Blighty- A corruption of the Urdu word vilayati, meaning ‘foreign’. Originally used by British troops in Colonial India as a term of endearment for home. It was then commonly used in the early 20^th Century to refer to Britain and is still used now.

Credit:Sepiamutiny.com 

Bungalow- from the Hindi and Urdu word baṅglā, literally meaning ‘house’ in the Bengali style

Cash- This word is controversial in that it may have also been derived from the Middle French word caisse, as in a case where money was kept which would have been a more local explanation. However there is evidence from logs on ships in the 16^th century that it was only used to denote money after the establishment of the East India Company and the word kasu was already used in Tamil, itself derived from the Sanskrit karsa. 

Cot- from the Hindi khat, a small light bed or crib for a child.

Cummerbund- Urdu origin from the Persian kamarband. Kamar meaning waist.

Cushy- from Urdu and Hindi Khushi which was derived from the Persian word khoši meaning easy, happy, soft.

Dinghy- from ḍīngī in Urdu and Hindi denoting a small rowing boat used on rivers and lakes in India.

Doolally- from the town of Deolali, which in the 19^th Century was the location of a British army base and sanatorium where soldiers were sent before leaving for Britain. Those that became mentally deranged after contacting a fever, or Tap in Urdu, were said to have ‘gone Doolally’.

Dungaree- from the Hindi ḍūṅgrī referring to the coarse calico fabric that was worn by labourers in the Dongari area of Mumbai.

Guru- from Sanskrit Guruh which literally means weighty or heavy used to denote a spiritual leader, as a teacher or one to be honoured.

Jodhpurs- Named after Jodhpur in Rajasthan where similar full-length trousers, baggy around the thighs and hips and narrowed down to the ankle were worn by the Rajputs for horse-riding. They enabled more freedom of movement and were based on Churidar pyjamas.

Juggernaut- after the Sanskrit jagannātha a form of Vishnu- lord of the universe in Hinduism. The massive Jagannath Temple in Puri, Odisha is well known for its festivals of Rath Yatra when thousands of devotees pull large wooden forms of Vishnu along with his brother and sister along on giant chariots through the streets. Used in English to describe a large vehicle as well as being used metaphorically.

Credit: nationalheraldindia.com

Jungle- from Sanksrit jaṅgala, meaning sparsely grown, arid and uncultivated land. Now used in English to mean any mass of wild and tangled vegetation. 

Karma- from Sanskrit karman, the sum of a person’s actions in life as well as the effect of the actions, hence fate. The cycle of cause and effect is embodied in karma.

Credit: karma-a-osud.cz

Loot- from the Hindi luti, the one who plunders or steals 

Mogul- From Hindi and Urdu originally from the Mongol Emperors known as Moghuls, such as Sha Jahan, the chap who commissioned the Taj Mahal. Used in English to indicate the leader in a field such as a ‘Media Mogul’. 

Punch- From the Hindi and Urdu word panch meaning ‘five’. The drink was originally made up of five ingredients and was particularly popular with the East India Companies’ Employees. 

Pundit- From Sanskrit Payndita, a learned man, scholar or teacher, also a priest.

Pyjamas- From Hindi and Urdu paijaamaa, meaning garment of the leg, originating from Persian. These are still the traditional dress in many parts of India, loose and comfortable that are now worn at bedtime in many Western countries.

Credit: movies.ndtv.com 

Shampoo- derived from the Hindi champo, meaning ‘to knead’ or massage.

Tickety-boo- My personal favourite and an interesting story behind this one. Originally it came from the Hindustani reply to an officer enquiring how everything was going. ‘Thīk hai, bābū’ literally meant, ‘It’s all right, sir’. This was shortened to Tickety-boo!

Credit: Buzzfeed.com

 

You can’t control the tide, but you can learn how to Surf!

 The first time I tried windsurfing I nearly ended up with a severe concussion. It was in Lorient, In Northwest France and I was about 22 years old. I had taken a coach from London to Paris with my friend Malcolm and we were very excited about the prospect of learning to sail. We were staying at a friend’s villa on the coast and we were expecting some good strong winds for the 2 weeks we were there. We had driven up to Lorient from Breuillet, a village south of Paris, where we were staying at our friend Arnaud’s house. It had taken us a good six hours to get there and all along the journey we were talking about windsurfing which was still a relatively new sport that became popular in France in the late 1970’s. Arnaud was quite an experienced windsurfer who had sailed competitively and for pleasure. He had taught others to windsurf and was going to be our instructor on this trip. Little did we know that there was a storm brewing and our single day out on the water turned into the first and last time it was safe to venture out. We arrived in the evening at the villa. Arnaud and his friend Herve, prepared dinner and discussed the plan of action for the next day. They were a little concerned about the weather, but we all wanted it to be windy because, without that, we would not be sailing anywhere. 

The next morning, we got suited up in our wetsuits and Arnaud brought the boards and sails to the beach where we prepared to launch. After some basic instruction, I was out on in the water and struggled to get the sail up while kneeling on the board. The wind was so strong that for a beginner like myself, it was impossible to control the sail and the mast came crashing down on my head, not once, but a total of 3 times. After the 3^rd time, I had enough and gave up, deciding that this windsurfing stuff was not for me. The next day, the wind was even more powerful, and a small craft warning was issued on the radio. Needless to say, we did not venture out that day or for the next two weeks of our stay. We saw boats being wrecked by the high winds and many had capsized in the marina, so our windsurfing adventure turned into a storm watching experience. Although I did not learn to windsurf on this trip, I did get quite good at ‘WhiteWater’ pinball instead which we played daily at the local arcade. 

‘White Water’ The machine that lead to us becoming Pinball Wizards instead of windsurfers

Incidentally, the earliest windsurfers were ‘invented’ by Polynesians who had been riding the wind and waves for centuries, early accounts told of people standing upright on an adapted voyaging canoe with a vertical sail. Much later, in 1948 Newman Darby invented the first ‘sailboard’, but did not have the funds to patent it. The basic design was a rectangular board with a sail attached by a universal joint that allowed the sail to be moved in any direction. The first patented design was actually developed by an aeronautical engineer, Jim Drake who applied the principles of flight to design the sail to function like the wing of an aircraft, pivoting on the universal joint as before. The sail was manoeuvred by adding a wishbone boom, so it could easily be moved in the universal joint while standing. He and his surfer buddy, Hoyle Schweitzer, also changed the design to resemble a surfboard with a fin and added a keel and the windsurfer was born!

Illustration from Patent of windsurfer filed in 1968 Credit: Wikipedia.com

About 10 years later, on English Bay in Vancouver, British Columbia, I was given the opportunity to try again under better conditions, when my friend Charlie suggested I have a go on his windsurfer. I really did not think it was even worth trying as I was much older then and thought that it was too difficult to learn something new that required both technical skills as well as balance. I declined at first, but Charlie insisted that I at least try and balance on the board and see if I could even stand up on that without the sail. He was a better motivator than he was a teacher but sometimes that is precisely what you need to start anything!

I found it easier this time as the water was much calmer, so I managed to get up and stay up for a while. When he saw this, he took me through the basics of how to pull up the sail and hold it, rehearsing on the beach with the mast planted in the sand. Again, I did not have much confidence in myself and half-heartedly went through the motions, though it was more to please my friend than myself.

I managed to get the sail up with the board on the water. It was a beautiful sunny day; the water was calm and there was a gentle breeze. I was standing on the board with the sail correctly positioned and I was just about to lose my balance…when the magic happened! The sail swelled and distended. At the same time, I felt a sensation of being propelled forward with a great force. It was an incredible feeling. The wind had caught in the sail and I was pulled as if by an invisible hand out to sea, not too fast but enough for it to be exhilarating. I heard a friend’s voice shout from behind, “You’re doing It…. you’re actually doing it! It only lasted for about 30 seconds but that was enough to get me hooked. For the next few weeks, I was down at the beach every afternoon, hauling up the sail, practicing the “chicken wing” and falling in the water most of the time. I didn’t manage to actually sail for as long as the first time, but now I couldn’t give up. I was now addicted!

The harnessing of this great force of nature, the wind, to move through the water is a Zen-like moment. There is a strange calmness of mind and body working in unison at a task that is both peaceful as well as exciting, particularly when I reached that instant when all forces were working together. The wind, the waves, the force of my arms pulling in the sail and my balance- everything had to be in the perfect proportion to make the whole system work and propel me forwards. I would imagine the wind as an invisible creature that could be summoned by will and sometimes it seemed like it could. The waves were another kind of animal, sometimes angry and unhelpful to my endeavor, other times calm and serenely guiding me along. I would come down to the beach every day after work practicing, many times just losing my balance and falling in with the sail landing on me unceremoniously.

I was dumped on the beach regularly by the waves 

Sometimes I felt that the wind was playing with me, gusting at just the right moment to send me for a quick burst of speed, only to overpower me a moment later and push me over like a mischievous child. I would continue trying again and again, day after day until the sunset reminded me that it was time to go home.

Summer came and went, and the water became too cold, so I waited till the next summer and took lessons at Jericho beach where there was a sailing school. I perfected my balance and learnt how to tack and jibe. 

Finally getting the hang of it.

By the end of the summer I was confident enough to go out on my own and was now sailing for an hour or more each time. I became good enough to go out in high winds and choppy seas. I was constantly watching the wind radar to see when the wind was strong, and I would particularly go out on those days as I had a need for speed!

English Bay, my home for the summer

 I eventually bought a board and sail from a friend and would sail around English bay on summer afternoons with Charlie. Sometimes we would play “chicken” and sail our boards at each other to see who would be the first one to change course at the last minute.

 

Charlie playing Chicken with his rig

I have never been a great swimmer, but I could always swim far enough with the added buoyancy of a board and lifejacket to get back to shore if there was a problem. It was this lack of respect for the power of nature that was to be my undoing and taught me a lesson I shall never forget.

  I woke up one Saturday morning and looked at the wind forecast for the day. It was about 20-25 knots- a pretty good speed for some high-octane sailing. I made myself some eggs for breakfast to prepare for the day and drove down to the beach. After setting up my rig I looked at the horizon and saw the bent-over sails of some morning sailors and thought I would have some fun that day. As I paddled out on my board, I realized I didn’t have my lifejacket with me, but I had become quite confident in my abilities that I felt I didn’t always need to wear one.

Even if I fell off the board it was not usually too far to get back to the board, so I foolishly carried on. I got up on the board and caught a good strong wind that was constant and not gusting- perfect! In no time at all, I was planing across the water and could feel the wind and spray on my face. The adrenaline was pumping through my body and I did not want to stop. I managed to get to Jericho beach in just 10 minutes and zig-zagged my way out to the mouth of the bay where the water changed colour to a deep blue and the waves and swell where much bigger than I had ever previously experienced. 

I was still unaware of the dangerous situation I was in until a huge gust of wind pushed my sail with such force that I catapulted right over my board and into the water about 15 feet away! The arm that had been holding onto the boom had been yanked so hard, that It felt it had come out of the socket. It hadn’t, but I was in pain and I could not swim as fast as usual. As I got closer to the board, suddenly a wave would take it away further from me. I panicked as the realization dawned on me, I was not wearing a lifejacket and was now out in the open ocean. I prayed that I could get back to my board and put all my effort into swimming as fast as I could before another wave pushed my board further from me. With great difficulty and on a wing and a prayer I somehow managed to grasp my board just as another wave came in. I pulled myself back up on the board while still gasping for breath. I knew that I could not risk being separated again from the board, but I still needed to get back to safety, so I pulled up the sail very slowly.

 Every time I tried to grab the boom the swell of the ocean would unbalance me, and the wind howled around me. It was an impossible task. After about half an hour of struggling with the sail I was out of breath and very tired. I sat on the board, bobbing around in the waves, despondent and somewhat defeated, wondering how on earth I had got myself into this situation. I vowed never to sail without a lifejacket again in high winds or even go out in such conditions this far away from the shore. As I sat there pondering my predicament, I noticed a red dot on the horizon getting bigger and bigger. It was the coastguard who had come out to rescue me! I felt a mixture of embarrassment and relief as they threw me a rope and said they would tow me into the shallows. I talked to the crew as they towed me into shore, and they told me that a small craft warning had been issued and they were telling all the small vessels to come into shore.   

 This incident gave me a healthy respect for mother nature. I have been humbled by the first-hand knowledge that the great forces of water and wind can toss us mere mortal humans around like rag dolls. This just reaffirms the feeling of awe and wonder at the delicate balance of forces that hold our fragile planet together. Now, whenever I decide to go out for a sail, I will usually spend a little time on the beach first looking out at the water and watching the movement of waves and any sails I see on the horizon. I do this partly to gauge the conditions, particularly on windy days, but I also do it to out of a need to maintain that spiritual connection. I know I cannot control these powerful forces, but I can appreciate them and work in unison with them. Since those early days, I have had the good fortune to windsurf in numerous places around the world, including, the Jersey shore in the US, Canada, India, Mexico, Cuba, and Morocco.

Windsurfing in Essaouira, Morocco near one of the ‘Castles Made of Sand’ Jimi Hendrix sang about.

I recommend it to both young and old as a very enjoyable sport, the equipment is much lighter than it was 40 years ago, and it is more about technique than strength. I recently sold my old board and sail to a 70-year-old woman, who was an avid windsurfer in her younger days and recognized my board as the same brand she had previously owned. When I met her, I was reminded of my lack of confidence to try windsurfing in my 30’s. My self-imposed limitations and assumptions came back for a moment. I watched as she balanced herself carefully on the board. Seeing her give the rig a test-run and taking off as easily as if she were riding a bicycle just confirmed you are never too old to do something you enjoy.

The Lingo Kid

   I first met Ravi Kumar, aka "the lingo kid" when he was just 10 years old. After taking a video of my encounter with him that went viral with over 3 million views and answering hundreds of emails about him, I decided to tell his story. It's also the story of so many other children around the world, born into poverty, who through sheer determination and ingenuity strive to lift themselves beyond the limitations that life has imposed upon them.

I was visiting my uncle and aunt in Mumbai and had decided to take a trip to the site of one of my earliest childhood memories, the hanging gardens. I had first travelled to Mumbai with my mother at the age of two weeks and was then raised there by my grandparents for the next few years, before returning to England. We had also spent many holidays in Mumbai when it was still known as "Bombay", so I had a special connection to this city, where my mother was born.

The hanging gardens are terraced gardens on the top of Malabar hill, overlooking the Arabian Sea and were built in the late nineteenth century over the top of a reservoir. The gardens contain many hedges cut into the shapes of various animals. I had vivid memories of these "sculptures" since my childhood and it was as I wandered around the gardens reminiscing about my childhood, that I was approached by a young boy who was selling peacock fans.

 As I saw him approach me out of the corner of my eye, my first instinct was to continue walking, as I had been accosted by so many street hawkers trying to sell me countless objects and souvenirs I did not want or need. I stopped momentarily since he started to give me his sales pitch in English with an amusing tag line. He referred to his wares as "walking Indian air conditioners". The thought of a handheld fan made from peacock feathers  being described as a portable air conditioner was enough for me to be impressed with the creativity of this kid. I reflected for a moment and thought it was smart, but not enough for me to buy something that I really couldn't see myself using. I carried on walking, smiling back to acknowledge him.

I saw a look of concentration on his face as if he was trying to work out a strategy with he could hook me into buying a fan and then he tried his sales pitch again, but this time in Hindi. It was particularly interesting to me that he switched into another language, that's one of the most important criteria in communicating with another person - speaking their language. Since he had already tried English without a verbal response from me, he tried Hindi. When I carried on walking, still not responding he didn't give up, he started asking me which country I was from. He said it in English, Hindi, French and Spanish. I was stunned that a street kid in India had the capability to speak these different European languages and the enterprise to do so to find the right language to communicate in. I stopped walking. I thought even though I had no intention of buying any of his fans, I felt that I should at least engage with him as he was making such an effort. I asked him what other languages he knew. He rattled off his pitch in Italian, German, Japanese, Arabic, Farsi and Hebrew. He told me he also spoke 4 other Indian dialects. At this point I was seriously impressed.

I asked him a lot of questions about how he knew these languages and how extensive his knowledge of them was. He told me he spent most of his days at the gardens talking to tourists from all over the world. He had been able to educate himself with the basics of all of these languages, enough to hold a basic conversation with them as well as learn the necessary technical words to sell his fans in all these languages. I admired his ingenuity at learning different languages that allowed him to connect to so many people, many more than if he had only known English or Hindi. I am sure that the tourists who heard this 10 year old child speaking their languages would have been just as surprised and as appreciative of his efforts as I was. This was more than enough justification for me to buy a few of his fans, even though a fan was the last thing that the comparatively cool weather in Canada, where I was returning to, warranted.

I found Ravi's personality and his spirit inspiring, particularly because he had been able to transcend the lack of opportunities of his background and poverty by creating his own through his efforts and ability to communicate with others. I asked him if I could record his repertoire of languages and put it on YouTube. He was very happy about demonstrating his linguistic abilities for all the world to see. I thanked him and wished him the best in his endeavors, suggesting he go to school with the money he earned and develop his talents. About 5 years passed before I returned again to Mumbai. This time I went again to the hanging gardens with my uncle with the intention of perhaps meeting Ravi again and interviewing him about his life. I really had no idea if he would still be there or if he had moved on. I knew it was a long shot, but decided to try it anyway.

I didn't see him at the same entrance to the gardens that I had previously, but asked around a few of the vendors who directed us to where we might find him. He was well known and well-liked by the other vendors who sold souvenirs and refreshments at the gates to the gardens. Ravi was there. I recognized him instantly as I had seen the videos so many times that I knew his face even though he was now a teenager. Ravi had added a couple more languages to his collection and could now speak some basic Mandarin too, as the influx of visitors from China had increased. We interviewed him and I posted the videos again on YouTube. I told him that we would make him famous and bring him more business which he acknowledged as he told me that due to the "internet man" (my previous YouTube video) people had come to find him after they had seen his video. We gave him some money, which I told him was towards his education which I strongly urged him to pursue. He thanked us and told me that he would like to go to school, but didn't know who else could do this job in his family. I was well aware of the catch 22 situation he was in. Since he was the primary income earner for his family due to his talents, going to school would compromise the income he gained for his family from selling fans.

The videos that I had taken of Ravi, provoked a massive reaction. I have received and continue to receive so many comments and personal messages due to these videos. The vast majority of them are extremely positive and encouraging, though there are a few offensive emails about him and also criticizing his vocabulary, grammar or accent in speaking the various languages. The people who focus on this are completely missing the point. They are focused on the technical aspects rather than seeing the big picture. A kid from an impoverished background and without a formal education in most of these languages using his communication skills and an open spirit to connect with people and break down the barriers of "us" and "them". I doubt most of the people who bought a fan from him needed a fan, they bought it because of who he is as a human being. While backpacking around India many years before, I remember meeting a boy who sold newspapers to mostly British tourists and had memorized the postal codes of the whole of the UK so that he could tell the tourists what their postal code was upon hearing their address. In a similar way to Ravi, he had found a "hook" that had increased his sales of newspapers. The fact that a child living thousands of miles away could know a detail such as this and hence make a connection was astounding to most people. Ravi had extended his ability to connect with even more people by learning the basics of so many major languages.

When I returned to Canada, I felt mixed emotions. I was happy that I had met Ravi again, and was able to interview him, but I was also disheartened that despite his talent and genius spirit that he was still selling fans at the hanging gardens. This is a common predicament for so many gifted and talented children around the world who simply don't have the means to develop their abilities through education and often find themselves doing the same routine work throughout their lives. Apart from the tragedy of a wasted ability, it also means that the cycle of poverty remains unbroken. Since our children are the future of the world we live in, it makes sense that we would invest in them, and give them the education they need to make a difference in our communities. This needs to be on a global as well as a local level, since we live in a globalized world. We are all interconnected, and this is more apparent now due to the Internet age we live in, than ever before. 

Googling "lingo kid", the name I gave to the video I published on YouTube, will bring up plenty of websites referring to his linguistic skill and how he wished he had gone to school. He is even featured on CNN travel and given as an example by a professor of Georgetown university of ingenious marketing. It's really heartening that so many people were moved by him and I hope this will translate into something bigger. A realization that the energy and optimism of youth facing difficult circumstances needs to buoyed by the goodwill and generosity of those who have the money and power to do so. I have monetized the videos I posted on YouTube, donating to children's charities such as UNICEF. I would urge anyone who is interested to visit their website.

According to UNICEF, the United Nations Children's Fund, out of the world’s 2.2 billion children, a billion children live in poverty. This means they do not have the nutrition, resources or education to help themselves out of this predicament. Compare this to the fact that the richest 1% of the world’s population will own most of the world’s wealth by next year (based on Oxfam's report at DAVOS). It should be alarming to anyone regardless of their politics that the gap between rich and poor has widened to this extent. Alarming not just because of the inequality which is obvious, but also because of the financial and social systems that remain unchanged despite its widening. Meanwhile, the world's collective wealth has increased dramatically.

Why should we care? Children are the most vulnerable of those who live in poverty and the most deserving of assistance. No political argument can justify the suffering of children as the collateral damage of poverty. There are millions of children like Ravi all over the world, in every country, developed and developing. In the USA, the richest country in the world, UNICEF states that one in three children live in poverty. Children who cannot earn money through other means are often forced into criminal activities including drugs and prostitution. This is a deplorable fact and a good reason why it is our collective social responsibility to give these children a head start through education and charity. It makes sense after all to invest in our own future.