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gibbzer · 5 years

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To Scotland With Love

There was a gap of several years between the last blog post I wrote and this one. In that time, my dad developed dementia. I’ve written about dementia before - in my BBC film ‘Golden Wedding’ - and am working on two screenplays that deal with it just now. In 2017 the estimated proportion of the general population aged 60 and over with dementia was between 5 to 8 per 100.

“I was fifteen months old when I gave my mother a black eye. We were asleep, huddled together, in our wee hole in the wall bed, waiting for my dad to arrive home from East Africa. The knock came. I jumped up, startled, and smacked my mother hard in the eye. She hadn’t seen my dad for a year. The next day they were the talk of the close. The voices were hushed. Stilettos click click clacking on the stone stairs. (In time with their tongues) ‘He’s back a meal hour and look at the state of her face…!’

My dad never raised his hand to a soul. Well, not till the dementia took hold and he managed quite a few scraps with That Big Bastard John (his words, not mine) He'd dared to question my dad’s rightful occupancy of the care home bedroom overlooking the Clyde. No, Wee Andy Gibb (as he was affectionately known) was not your stereotypical west of Scotland hard man but a typical west of Scotland hard-working one.

Descriptions like hard-working are loaded, implying a superiority over those who don’t work for a living, but it’s exactly what he was. 'Salt of the earth’ is also overused but he was that too. Without him, our lives would have been devoid of all taste and flavour. My mother was in charge, there was no arguing with that, but he agreed to her having this power. Willingly, without rancour and with good grace.

He liked to look out, my father. Beyond the river he grew up on. The first time he left Greenock it was to join the marines, to do his national service. Duty done, he came home to serve his apprenticeship as an electrician but the bug had bit hard. He was soon on his travels again, this time to Borneo. Within a year he was home, on the point of death from Dengue fever, and no clue as to who or where he was. My nana nursed him back to life, told him he was never to set foot outside Greenock again, then waved him off six months later when the memories of those far flung places had returned to invade his dreams.

During his lifetime, he visited every continent bar South America. He plied his trade in eleven different countries, including his own. But he always seemed most proud of the jobs he’d done in Scotland. He never tired of telling us he’d rewired the big fire station in Greenock. My mother would raise one perfectly painted-on eyebrow, ‘Well. If you’re going to start a fire, I suppose a fire station’s the best place for it.’ It was water off my dad’s back, though he did have a temper when riled. Red hair, you see. But outburst over, it was soon forgotten. He never held a grudge. My mother, on the other hand, never forgot a trick. Especially if it was played on her.

He lived the last few years of his life in the place he was born. Not far from the Greenock fire station that had miraculously survived his workmanship. He spent his time, looking out beyond the river once more, from his small care home room. The fact he thought he was in Africa comforted me. I hoped he was not truly confined by those tiny walls but still travelling in what was left of his mind. The truth was, wherever he lived, my dad took Scotland with him. I've lost count of the number of Caledonian societies my folks belonged to. Everywhere they went, he and my mother found their kin. They organised highland gatherings in the sweltering heat of Jakarta and celebrated St Andrew’s Day in Lagos in kilts and sashes. Some might find this expat patriotism cloying. Or worse still, insulting. My nineteen year old self was mortified by it. But, make no mistake, there’s a hierarchy among ex-pats too. It all depends on whether you’re diplomatic or managerial. Or neither. Married. Or single. Then there’s the size of company car. Or where your house is. Or how many bedrooms it has. And how many locals are employed to work in it. It’s a dislocating experience for a working class family to be transported to another world, where Nigerians or Indonesians are paid to cook your tea. My mum responded by teaching every one of the men or women who graced her kitchen, how to cook mince, stovies and a decent lentil soup. She, in her turn, learnt how to make the best West African curry I have ever tasted.

My dad was never high up in the ex-pat hierarchy but it didn’t bother him. Because he was confident in who he was and where he came from. He worked alongside men of all nationalities and colour and was close to many of them. Once in Northern Nigeria, during the Biafran war, he was called out in the middle of the night to identify his foreman, Gabriel. Gabriel had been beheaded by Federal soldiers. He wasn’t even from Nigeria. He’d come from the Cameroons to find work to keep his family. The exact same reason my father had left his own country. All my dad could do was make sure Gabriel’s family were looked after but he never forgot his foreman or what he’d sacrificed to provide for his own. In my dad’s view, it was the mark of the man. The story of 'Dear Frankie' grew out of my long distance relationship with this absent father, because the first eight years of my life were spent communicating with him by letter. My mother point-blank refused to leave Scotland and my father could not stay. Who was the selfish one? Her for staying? Or him for going? Neither. It’s what suited them both.

I revelled in having a father who lived abroad. Our tenement flat was full of exotic treasures. We had a huge tiger skin rug in front of our fire, head and teeth included. (I'm ashamed when I think about it now.) But then I used to lie on it, pretend it could fly and go on adventures as far away as my dad’s were. I always had the best birthday cakes, because they were delivered in a box, sent by him. My Deputy Dawg cake was the talk of Primary Two. I told everyone it had come all the way from Pakistan even though, in all probability, it had been knocked up in Aulds the bakers, just down the road.

Then one day, out of the blue, my mother decided it was time we went with him and we were all shipped to the west coast of Africa. The first time I saw a black person was when the deck passengers alighted at Sierra Leone. My brother and I stood on deck, shoulders all pink and blistered, fascinated by the women with their babies on their backs. I was still feeling the wrench of being separated from my silver cross doll's pram and it confused me. Where were all the prams? My dad explained they didn’t use prams because babies preferred to be carried close to their mums. I never put a doll in a pram again.

My dad was a Labour man but he was not a radical thinker. Far from it. He and I agreed to disagree on many political issues but we almost had a catastrophic falling out in the 80’s because my folks were thinking of emigrating to South Africa. I was beside myself. How could he even consider it. His answer was simple, he needed to work. In the end, they didn’t go and our relationship remained intact.

I’ve been thinking about him a lot recently. It’s been prompted by many things, including the Clutha tragedy. Partly because he worked on the oil rigs in Indonesia for a few years, and travelled to and fro by helicopter. (Our hearts were always in our mouths when he took off for his fortnightly shifts.) And because the emotional coming together of the Scottish diaspora, in response to what happened in Glasgow, reminded me of how viscerally he reacted to any tragedy back home.

Perhaps it's easy to feel sentimental about a country when you're miles away, but why do men and women like my father remain so connected to a place they've chosen not to live in? Why do they cling to their national identity with such ferocity? Because it is who they are. It is them. My dad didn't travel half way round the world in search of somewhere to belong. He was striking out, in the sure and certain knowledge, that he'd already found it. And he always respected other people and their culture because his culture, his ‘Scottishness’ was everything to him.

The last six dementia years aside, Wee Andy had a great life. Rich in experience, full of adventure. For a man of his class and generation, he was extraordinarily lucky to have lived it. And I was equally lucky to have lived some of it with him. “

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parulsheth1 · 4 years

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Meet Arnav, 22, Ketu’s son

I remember when I went into labour a little early, at 11pm, a day before Ketu’s 29th birthday, we were super excited. It was a day of non-stop rain. Not just a downpour but a 5 - day week of torrential rains. We all eagerly awaited this “new baby”- little did I know then what it meant to be a parent!

Arnav, the first child to be born to our generation, was loved lavishly and indulged upon by all…grandparents(all) and ALL his (so many) aunts and uncles. Every moment – however insignificant, was recorded, each story - remembered. From his favourite rock song, to favourite food, from his first word to where he took his first step, each milestone was applauded and discussed. As is the privilege of all firstborns, all his actions were adorable and “the cutest” like how he would hide behind the pillar whilst eating chocolate (so that he would not have to share it) to how he would give directions to nana while being driven home from Nariman point.

As was Ketu. Even though he was the third child, he was “The Son”. Brought up, and spoilt rotten by his grandmother (she passed away when he was 18), he was really attached to her. Legend goes, whenever someone brought a bar of chocolate from abroad, he would get one half and both his sisters would have to share the other half. And on difficult days, if there was only one glass of “mosambi juice” it would be his!

To cut a long story short, both were the centre of attention and objects of great delight!

Today, adapting to this extra-ordinary shared circumstance as a family, we have cooked, cleaned, laughed, fought, argued about little things and big things, seen each other through our workdays and holidays, celebrated both important birthdays – shared life at really close quarters.

We have seen each other in a new light. I see Arnav as a mature adult balancing work, life and working out (and a LOT of gaming) He has emerged a diligent worker and a thinker, constantly trying to innovate and create. Sanjana and I have seen him transform from a jhola-toting socialist to a vociferous capitalist. He has given up his dreams of changing the world and is now ideating about creating a new app every week. He has discovered a flair for cooking and is enjoying it!

I don’t know what I should attribute it to, but father and son have a lot in common-could be heredity, genes and being born on the same day. With a brain for business, curiosity for contemporary issues, upright and principled, they would stand out amidst a crowd. Strong in spirit, they are both fair and kind, amiable and gentle, peace brokers to help balance my temperamental self (sometimes justified, other times a bit tantrummy!) And, it is amazing how “techno-laziness” can run in the family! Of course, their love for music (loud and noisy!), striking personality and similarity in appearance are a given.

Happy Birthday Arnav!

Wish you a year of new experiences, discovery, joy, love and happiness!

As we face life’s fragility together, it has brought us closer-and the one thing that it has reiterated time and again, is the resilience of life.

If you do not take an interest in the affairs of your government, then you are doomed to live under the rule of fools. ~ Plato

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