The Right Sort of Girl

by Anita Rani

  When I was finally old enough and allowed to go out with my friends (to dance, laugh, jump around, sing at the top of my lungs, literally let all my hair down, get whiplash, release stress and all those pent-up emotions, discover that listening to music and dancing with a crowd of people makes up a rare collective experience in a life that can otherwise feel solitary), I was instantly sold. I’d found my sacred space, a place I could lose myself. The dancefloor.

  Embrace Your Inner Drama Queen

  My world was being formed, I was starting to take shape. But I still didn’t really fit in anywhere. I was always holding something of myself back, apart from in drama class.

  I adored drama and English at school. I hated having to read aloud in class, which is strange to think about as it’s a major skill required for my job now – just goes to show you can overcome fear. When I was 13 and studying Shakespeare and the Brontës, I’d dread the moment the teacher would call out my name. My heart would pound from the beginning of the class. I couldn’t even concentrate on what was being said, all I could hear was my own internal dialogue, ‘don’t pick me’ ‘don’t pick me’ ‘don’t pick me’. It was somehow different to performing, being put on the spot like that. It felt so exposing and I didn’t feel I was as good as everyone else. I’ve always said how confident I was at school and I was, on the surface, but underneath I was a sweaty-palmed bag of nerves trying to adapt and fit in, so much so that I could hardly focus on the words in front of me.

  But performing, that was different. No desks to tie my fidgety ass down, no sitting in silence in front of a stern teacher. No, this was the opposite of double geography. Maybe it was getting to play the principal role in my nursery nativity that gave me the bug for performing. Yes, in Bradford Elm Day Nursery in 1980, there was a little brown Mary. That’s some forward-thinking nursery. Or maybe it was a way to channel my boundless energy? Drama suited me – I felt comfortable and at home. I was obsessed with the improv TV show, Whose Line is It Anyway? I studied speech and drama as an extracurricular activity. I’d get my folks to drop me off at the Alhambra Theatre and its adjacent Alhambra Studio in Bradford to watch plays, on my own. Bradford was a hub of arts and culture, for me at least, because that’s what I was seeking out. I was hungry for it.

  I didn’t know anyone else who wanted to go and see The Tara Arts adaptation of Cyrano de Bergerac, set in India and starring one of my favourite Indian actors, Naseeruddin Shah. I wasn’t pretentious, it was just my thing. I just wanted more than what was around me. Maybe I was aspiring to be pretentious. Tara Arts was a vital discovery for me. It was a touring South Asian theatre company from London, who would take Western plays and set them in India. They told stories through another lens and I saw life through another perspective. I saw myself in classic tales. What they brought to life on stage was pure magic. Their stories empowered me. Even something as simple as being in a theatre space with older brown faces who all loved theatre, who were unapologetic about their ethnicity and their identities, empowered me. I loved being around these arty farty literary types with their jeans and kurtas and hand-embroidered Kashmiri shawls casually draped across them. ‘Is she Punjabi or Bengali?’ Mum used to wonder out loud. Bengalis are seen as the cultured intellectuals of India, the opposite of the Punjabi stereotype. I was internalising that spaces where these stories, my stories, were told, were hidden in pockets that I would have to search for.

  I did a lot of things on my own as a teenager. I could be a right loner, but it was a simple and enjoyable pleasure. Much easier than having to organise a group excursion and it involved little convincing of the parents. I spent hours in the Bradford Film and Photography Museum, wandering round the exhibitions, particularly the photographic ones. Soaking it all up for myself. Not waiting for anyone to tell me or show me, opening my own eyes to the world.12

  I joined the Bradford Playhouse Saturday morning drama class at 14, a tiny theatre and cinema in an area called Little Germany. This area is full of beautiful architecture and it’s called Little Germany because most of the stunning buildings were built by German wool merchants who came to the city in the late 1800s, when Bradford had a thriving wool trade.

  There were no purple leotards here, no jazz hands, no singing or dancing, this was straight up theatre. Although, there was an upright piano in our dusty, dark little rehearsal room, and a few of us girls would stand around and make James play while we’d sing Beverley Craven’s ‘Promise Me’ on loop. It was the crew of kids I met here that really made it for me. They were not my friends from school, they were not my Asian family mates, this gang was a bunch of misfits from all over Bradford. There were a couple of older girls, maybe 15 or 16, super naughty, with tattoos and they smoked! Oooh, if only I could be that wild. There was a tall boy with shocking black hair who wore a floor-length Matrix-style leather jacket, pre-Matrix, with a Sisters of Mercy T-shirt and nails always painted black. There was the lad in the Dead Kennedys T-shirt too. The kids here were either naughty or nerdy, or a bit of both, but what connected us was that we were all outsiders in our own worlds. Here, somehow, this oddball bunch came together. It’s the magic power of theatre, daaarling, the comradery of that space.

  So much of my life was always filled with an undercurrent of dread. Going to school, being at home. But not at drama class. I don’t remember anyone making anyone feel self-conscious and we were doing plenty of out-there, embarrassing stuff. We had a Russian teacher give a session on Stanislavski . . . I mean, we were teenagers! We had another session in mime, where we had to crawl across the floor and pretend we were trees, and I never remember feeling self-conscious. We all probably felt like complete wallies, but we were wallies together. If we were all at school together, we’d never have been friends, but here we were, thick as thieves.

  In 1992, we were invited to go to a European drama festival in Germany. Forty-eight hours later on the coach, finally we arrived in Erfurt – a city which, only five years earlier, had been in East Germany. The trip was funded by an arts grant, which is why all the misfits were able to go, as most of our parents couldn’t afford to send us. The hotel was a first for all of us: a cavernous Eastern Bloc building, a terrifying, huge, concrete monster. It was basic by all our standards and, at 14, most of us had no hotel standards to compare it to yet. The rooms were huge and sparse. There were no showers, just baths, and concrete, blood-stained floors (at least, I imagined them to be blood-stained). We attended mime, physical comedy, circus skills, pantomime and mask-making sessions. I remember rolling around on the floor like a marooned seal for a lot of them. Thankfully, none of them required too much language, as it became obvious we were the numbnuts of Europe. Everyone had some English, apart from the East German kids, but they were the first generation to live in a united Germany, so we’ll let them off. The kids from Luxembourg were communication wizards, holding conversations in pretty much every European language at the same time! The Spanish only ever seemed to appear in a circle playing hacky sack or in a circle around a guitar, and their English was based on soft rock ballads. What the heck did we, the UK contingent, bring to the party? Nirvana T-shirts, aloof attitudes and really fussy but basic taste buds. For Sarah, the food was too foreign, so she ate pasta with ketchup for the entire trip. We were also all given a piece of steak for dinner at one point. I wasn’t supposed to be eating it, Hindus and Sikhs don’t eat the sacred cow and I’d never really eaten a slab of cow before, although I had no real beef with beef. My parents were never really that strict about the whole no beef thing.13 We just never cooked it or talked about it. As it is, I had nothing to worry about. Turns out none of us had eaten beef on this trip, it was horse steak.

  The days were spent making friends through hand gestures and facial contortions, which I’m pretty good at, as I have a very expressive face. It’s useful when interviewing someone or for a good reaction on the telly. This trip was liberating. I was free, there was no family and no school friends either, with no judgement, just a little gang that I fe
lt part of. I also tried my first real taste of alcohol, a Budweiser, on a tram. I felt pissed after half a bottle and got up to do impressions, terrible impressions, which signalled the beginning and end of my career as an impressionist.

  The wonderful thing about acting is that the experience is bigger than the individual. It’s why I always wanted to be in school plays. Even just sitting in the wings, in the darkness, watching the others on stage performing, creating a world, using an ancient artform, that takes both the people on stage out of themselves and the audience to another place. It’s been said so many times about the feeling you get when ‘treading the boards’, but it really does get under your skin. I will never lose that itch to create, to be part of something, to tell stories.

  Drama was the perfect space for someone who could effortlessly put on different hats depending on the situation. It was the perfect place for someone who finds it hard to express emotion in real life to go and let it all out. Playing at make believe was such a gift, especially when my make-believe life was so much easier than my real one.

  * * *

  Oh, to not be flippin’ self-conscious! What I will tell you, younger me, is not to forget your passion for drama. We can’t let imaginary voices and worries about ‘what people might say’ get into our heads. Remember what it taught you, what you felt like, when you managed to rid yourself of those feelings. It’s hard, though, not to constantly be in a state of panic about what people think when it’s a script you’ve heard over and over again your entire life. ‘What will people say?’ You have to get out there and play nonetheless, play with everything you’ve got, because you have no other choice.

  The trip to Germany with the misfits was transformative. I loved that I was there as an individual, with individual and unique skills, not part of any clique but still part of a team. The time I spent in the tiny, dark and dusty studio theatre in Bradford may well have been some of the truly happiest hours of my life.

  I came back from Germany full to bursting, the same but changed, grown by my new experience. Dad picked me up off the coach and on the drive home he told me that Mum was in Birmingham with her sister. My uncle had died by suicide. Drama was a place I could rid myself of all the feelings I didn’t know what to do with and take my mind off my real life. And it was sorely needed.

  12 The galleries in London are now my sanctuary for solo wanders. Galleries, cinemas and theatres are great spaces to spend time alone, places you can hang out with no one and not feel like a total weirdo for doing it. Don’t lose this when you grow up, young Anita! Just go. Make time for yourself. Solo dates nourish your soul. Spending time alone, quality time enjoying your own company, is an essential life skill.

  13 We never cooked it at home and Mum claims she’d never eaten it. When I reminded her about the burgers she made, her response was, ‘But they are hamburgers.’ You can see how easy that mistake was to make. ‘Ham’ burgers and homemade chips was a regular ‘English’ dinner for us.

  You Can Love Home But Also Desperately Need to Leave

  When I think of Bradford, the weather is always grey. The mood is always melancholy.

  Everything I did when I was younger was to work towards my exit strategy. To be somewhere other than where I was. Not to get to ‘that there London’, that possibility wasn’t on the horizon, not just yet. When I was young, my dreams were really only to get out of Bradford, and not even that far. Just to the converted barn halfway between Baildon and Ilkley would have been fine. Just beyond the outer ring round would have done. I was itching to get out.

  I loved Bradford and hated her too, in only the way a Bradfordian can. It’s like that feeling of knowing someone so well you can see their flaws, they can really wind you up, but you still love the daft bastard. That’s how I feel about Bradford. I carry so much shame as it is, the last thing I need is to add the city of my birth to the list as well. Bradford has been described as a shithole, but it is mine. And to call it a shithole is really doing her a disservice. Plus, you can only get away with calling her a shithole if you are from there. Bradford gets bad press but she made me. She cultured me. Bradford’s fortunes have changed in the last hundred or so years, from one of the wealthiest cities in the world to somewhere associated with poverty and deprivation, race riots, book burning and a permanent promise of regeneration, which never seemed to materialise. Even in my lifetime, I saw shops and department stores slowly pack up and leave the city centre. I’ve also known people from Bradford to lie and say they’re from Leeds. Can you imagine feeling so crap about your hometown, you pretend to be from Leeds? Not me. Bradford and proud.

  The population of Bradford is just over 500,000, with 63.9 per cent white British and the largest proportion of British Pakistanis in the country: 20.3 per cent. (So large, it was known as Bradistan when I was growing up.) British Indians make up 2.5 per cent, so I really was an ethnic minority in Bradford. In my time, the city had become quite segregated in inner city areas, mainly due to white flight – as more Asians moved in, white families moved out. Growing up there, it seemed everyone had an opinion about the place, whether they’d been or not. Usually it was negative, which only strengthened my love for her.

  Knowing Bradford and generally the culture of a northern city gives you a completely different perspective and understanding of life, especially when you move to London and realise how different things are. It gives you the edge. It gives you an understanding of England fully, the land beyond the M25. Leeds got all posh and swanky with a Harvey Nichols and Manchester has always thought it was IT with its cocky swagger, even before Selfridges opened up. But can either of these places claim to have Britain’s biggest pound shop? No. Didn’t think so.

  I loved Bradford but I really couldn’t wait to get out.

  My dream wasn’t even just for me. It was a dream for my entire family. I wanted us all to live in the converted barn between Baildon and Ilkley. I wanted us all to have space. Away from our predominantly white suburb. I wanted to look out of my window and see the horizon and not just the cul-de-sac opposite. I was so bored of knowing my neighbours’ movements, week in, week out. The mundanity of suburban life.

  Monday – Andy at number 3 goes to cricket.

  Tuesday – Judith gets dropped off after aerobics but always spends half an hour talking to her mate in the car before going in. Which I always found very strange. Just invite her in for a cuppa, Judith?

  Wednesday – Val goes to Asda or, as we call it up north, Asdas.

  Thursday – Jack practises his golf swing in the front garden.

  Friday – Pat’s granddaughter comes to stay. (She was mixed race, which I thought was thrilling. I was fascinated by mixed-race relationships. Probably because they were painted out to be such a taboo. Something my mother had already drilled into me was not an option.)

  I’d sit at my window, music on to drown out the fights downstairs, watch suburban family life and feel numb. My home was claustrophobic. My only sanctuary was my little box bedroom, which was a swirling mess of feelings and homework and worries and plans. In my room I was always in my head. Dreaming of the places I would rather be. My alternative lives. I lived in America sometimes. Somehow, America was brighter and sunnier and seemed a more equal society to my eyes. I consumed so much American culture in TV shows and movies, hip hop and dance music, MTV. Failing getting on a plane to the US, Leeds or even Manchester would have done. The bright lights of these exciting big cities with their opportunities. As a teenager, these cosmopolitan cities felt full of hope compared to my Bradford. I needed more than Kirkgate market and Wimpy.

  The day I passed my driving test, aged 17, may well have been the most liberating day of my life and I knew exactly where I was heading. Now I didn’t need to ask for a lift, I didn’t need to wait for the bus, I didn’t need to ask anyone to pick me up. No friends, no family, just me, my beat-up Vauxhall Astra and a selection of cassettes. The day I’d been dreaming of had finally arrived. I was outta there. At 17, I probably drove like
a bit of a maniac. With no one else in the car with me, I pushed it more than was safe. Which really wasn’t that fast as the car started rattling over 40 miles an hour. I was a bit of a teenage speed demon. Driving for me was independence. Driving is freedom still.

  The journey to freedom takes me from home through Bradford city centre, past the imposing edifice of Bradford Town Hall, the iconic Alhambra Theatre, past my mum and dad’s old shop and the factory. Traffic lights are red on the steep hill, so I attempt clutch control and hope and pray no cars pull up behind as I might roll backwards. I just about find the biting point, I push the accelerator too hard, but I’m off again with a jerky vrooom. There’s the eighties concrete block of the Arndale Centre and up beyond the seventies single-storey indoor John Street market. I know these streets, I’ve pounded them my entire life. I don’t need a map, I’ve memorised the route. It is in me through osmosis. Today, I’m seeing them all from a new perspective, in my peripheral vision. Today, my eyes and mind are focused on driving, buzzing with excitement, adrenalin coursing through my veins, riding the edge between the pure terror of being in complete control and on my own for the first time in my life and the pure exhilaration and excitement of being in complete control and on my own for the first time in my life. I’ve waited for this moment. Dreamt of doing this. Onwards to my destination!