The Diary of a BindiBabe—Series 1: The Drive

Whilst I’m writing what you are about to read, I too have finally understood why my life took such a strange course. Oh, I love an equilibrium…

Monday, August 10, 1996

I was on my way to spend a week of the summer holidays with family "down south" in greater London. I can’t quite remember the night before or getting into the car, but we had set out early on Monday morning, and as we were driving, the earlier part of the journey was blissful. Blue skies, some clouds. Next to me, my dad. His name is "Samrat," meaning Emperor in Hindi. But he was English teddy bear in my eyes.

It wasn’t long before I started to suspect that something wasn’t right and the claws of his fiery mood started to open—which isn’t an easy sight, because his soft expression, like the one I witnessed when he blew cigarette smoke, mists over his coarse skin. I never tried to tell my dad to stop smoking. Not sure if that's because the first puff of smoke he’d take when I was around him smelled strangely sublime... Only ever the first. Dusky looking on the outside and dimly lit on the inside. An intelligent spirit, who could quickly take physical form of the injustices of life. A passionate Disney character dedicated to the story line of his life. He’d be able to animate his features mid conversation, for example, when he’d read me a bedtime story, he’d acutely adjust his features to become Snow White. He’d even attempt the accent of the Seven Dwarfs. Dopey was my favourite. All his ecstatic efforts to show me his ability and other capabilities across time was like a history lesson on a roller coaster ride. When you meet him you feel the potential within you to suddenly find out more about him—with caution. He came without a warning sign for whoever dared cross him. That’s because of his inner animals, his spirits if you will. His enclosed thoughts, if opened, were what I grew to know as his internal companions. It seemed like ‘they’ were almost as important as me and my mum, Jamna, who might I add, was not on this trip we were taking. His thoughts, his organs. Vital.

Comfortably sat with my dad on the drive, seat belt on, I was wearing my favourite black dress, decorated in little white and violet petals. We were about to stop for McDonald's. I ordered a Happy Meal of course.

Having spent a lot of time with my grandparents from my mum's side during my youth, my precocious mind grew to understand the tea leaves that were set to stir the beauty in my brain, never to expire. They always kept me on my toes. Whilst both my parents went out to work a hard day's slog, I would happily spend the earlier part of my youth with my hearty grandfather and beauty of a grandmother. Some days we would cook sweet corn in the garage on the BBQ, other days, watching cartoons. “Tea time!” my granddad would roar! My favourite programme was Bernard’s Watch. And after 5 PM I’d get ready for the best of Bollywood! I loved films, music and Kareena Kapoor. Always have, always will. Kareena is the ultimate babe. She was my kind of Babe, just like my grandmother. Both grandparents and even Miss Kapoor fed me the wisdom of life and bathed away all potential for bad habits to breed, as all amazing carers do. As a toddler, my Punjabi heart would beat through my lentil eyes, oozing through the rose in my cheeks. I was a reflection of moonlight to them.

Anyone that can teach you to maintain your world—mind, body and soul, and help you 'mix it up' like a tasty Bombay mix can only prepare you for the best. Heartful!

The sky was still clear with no chance of rain. The brief conversation I had with my dad before I left the drive was what I later understood to be my first heartbreak as bare as it was.

“Dad, how long until we get there?” No response.

“How come you can’t stay over Dad?”

He murmurs, “I’ve got work this week.”

Like discovering a new invention, I verbally jolted, “Yeah but if you stay tonight you can go in the morning, that’s a good idea.”

“I can’t beta,” (Beta is an Indian expression used as a term of endearment for a younger person). “So what am I going to do this week?”

We both acknowledged the dense lull in the air but he did reply...

“Don’t know yet. We’ll see in a bit.”

“What time is it, Dad?” And in a tense flash he replies, “It's 11 o’clock.”

Immediately, I respond “No it's not, it's 10 o’clock!”

“OK, be quiet now, I’m dropping you off and then I'll pick you up on Friday, and on the way back we can get McDonald's, yeah?”

The drive and its journey, now creepily purring to its destination. It was just after 10 AM and I’d slowly gave up on the conversation. Just as we were pulling up to the gated driveway of this semi-detached house, I felt my spidey senses pulling me towards some type of 'trap'. I tried to show I was nervous whilst winding the car window closed. I sheepishly looked across to my father, wanting to lock eyes. We did! Luck struck me, but left cold, because what I saw through his beady eyes was NO expression. Did he know that I didn’t want to leave the car? The seat. His side.

Just talking minds.

But before arrival, it was just me trying to prepare to face something far greater than my reach, but certainly not special enough to strain for. I, creeping closer to something much deeper and darker than I’d ever imagined. My thoughts? Initiate web of protection. Preserve and maintain inner joy.

The car stops. Time to part ways in all aspects. I kissed my dad on the cheek, turned swiftly to pull the car door open and took that first step gracefully toward the familiar figure waiting behind these silver rusted gates, whose expression looked gripping.

I was 3 years old.

I didn’t keep a diary that week.

My name is Aasna, meaning beautiful and intelligent. A prideful Punjabi and Literature lover. British born, but very much a Bindi Babe. Always.