It must have not been winter quite yet. For it was after school and there was still just enough light for my mother and I to take the dog for a walk. As we were making our way slowly round the park, which lay just two streets away from our home in Beechwood Gardens, Siby was off bounding across the grass; stopping every now and then to have a sniff in the bushes. Before emerging triumphantly, turning to check that we were not too far behind before resuming her own private and most jolly doggy adventure. We passed a group of much older schoolgirls. They were hanging round the deserted children’s small playground, which, to me, still appeared sufficiently large to promise untold adventure. Like that time when Siby had had followed me up the slide and my mother had to come up to bring her down. Only for our little golden ratting terrier to whizz round to the bottom of the ladder and yap at my mother: again, again! As we walked past this gang, I noticed that they were smoking. To my primary school self — this seemed the absolute height of rebellious decadence. My mother, not wanting to draw attention to my furtive glances, began regaling me with stories about her own childhood in the north of England. Of how she had been warned that any woman wearing an ankle chain was more than likely to be a prostitute. And of how when she was very young, women still stomped across the road to avoid crossing paths with a fallen woman; an unmarried mother. Such tales are part of England’s cultural tapestry of yesteryear. And they are accepted as such. Yet when it comes to ethnic minorities recounting their own narratives — the rules appear to be somewhat different. The Boy with the Topknot was screened by the BBC earlier this month. The film is an adaptation of the memoir with the same name by The Times journalist, Satham Sanghera. And it is an absolute breath of fresh air. A (belated) coming of age tale; a story of reconnecting with family and a desire for a deeper understanding of those who comprise this unit not of our own choosing. This memoir challenges the notion of being identified as the perennial ‘other’ as the only indicator of a life led. Sadly, this seems unpalatable to much of the British broadsheet press. Because when it comes to the immigrant narrative — anything less than a critique of multicultural Britain will not do As a young man, Satham flees the West Midland town of Wolverhampton for the bright and cosmopolitan lights of London via a First at Cambridge. Not at all bad for the son of a working-class Punjabi family who immigrated to Britain in the 1960s. But it is when a 14-year-old Satham takes it upon himself to have his topknot cut off — that this mother first realises he would leave them. And it is Laura, his secret English fiancée, who sees the situation with the most clarity. He has made his great escape to the Big Smoke while the ‘peasants’ have been left behind in Wolves. Although part of Satham’s story is about not having the initial courage to broach the subject of Laura with his mother; it is only one piece of the family mosaic. And here is the beauty of The Boy with the Topknot. The narrative isn’t framed exclusively as an immigrant one. Rather this memoir offers a slice of life and all that this brings with it. A glimpse into how Satham comes to grips with recently discovering that his father has suffered from schizophrenia since before he was born. And how everyone knew but him. This is the catalyst to his fledgling maturity. It is borne of wishing to make up for lost time; of seizing the chance to really get to know his ever loving but stoic mother as well as learning about his parents’ early life in England. And what he finds is a strong, unflinching woman without whom his father would have lived out his days in a nursing home. A woman who protected her youngest son from all this so that his was a childhood filled with love and happiness. In short, it challenges the notion of being identified as the perennial ‘other’ as the only indicator of a life led. Of diminishing this to such casual tokenism. Sadly, this seems unpalatable to much of the British broadsheet press. Because when it comes to the immigrant narrative — especially that seen through the eyes of the next generation — anything less than a critique of multicultural Britain will not do. One particular reviewer for The Telegraph insists on terming this adaptation a multicultural love story — as if forever stuck in New Labour’s inglorious past. This focus conveniently frames the tale as one of an inevitable culture clash; whereas it proves far more nuanced than such reductionism would suggest. The same reviewer dwells on how Satham’s mother had never met her husband until their wedding day, when she realised he was unwell. “A girl was not consulted about their marriage any more than a cow being asked which field to graze in.” He craftily contrasts this with the following observation: “One generation down and in another continent, he and his girlfriend can share secrets in the bath . . . One day, perhaps, these stories will no longer need to be told.” But this begs the question: why can the children of immigrants not tell their own stories as well those of their elders in a narrative of their own choosing? Because the white man says so? Or is this the unsaid grand bargain: ethnic minorities are only welcome provided they uphold the crudest end of the multicultural myth? Meaning that their stories are only deemed ‘authentic’ when played out against a conflicting majority background. The Boy in the Topknot is, quite simply, Satham Sanghera’s love letter to his parents. It is a personal story that is his alone. And just like my English mother’s reminisces about life in a northern town — it is not up for co-opting. Not by anyone. The writer is the Deputy Managing Editor, Daily Times. She can be reached at mirandahusain@me.com and tweets @humeiwei Published in Daily Times, November 22nd 2017.