Memories of Her Future

Her feet are feeling the wet and warm tar of the street. “Am I getting an infection?” She wonders. She has always been paranoid about catching something. She has always believed to stay far above the ground wearing well protected shoes. “Boots are the best”, she always thought. She made sure her two sons always wore boots. But then how did she get here? She is wearing her summer slippers, walking on the wet autumn highway to get her travel pass. She didn’t have a penny left in her Oyster card. She actually found a couple of old Oyster cards in her old purse and returned them at the tube station so she could buy some food.

Why doesn’t this highway have a footpath? Who makes a motorway without a footpath? The bridge between Abbey Wood and Thamesmead has no footpath. “I hate Greenwich” she decides. She needs to go across the bridge to get to the town centre, make photocopies of some of her documents and top up her travel. Well it means she would have to use the money from her Oyster refund too. She will live on potatoes for a while.

She is terrified of the Lorries and the cars constantly coming her way, carrying goods to London. She is walking on the side of the bridge, believing a lorry or a bus could hit her anytime. “Well I am a small person; they probably wouldn’t even see me”. Perhaps this is how I end? How did I get here? This wasn’t supposed to happen to me. I worked hard, really hard. I wanted to give a better future to my children. This is not how it supposed to end.”

She retreats to her wet aching feet again as it feels impossible to walk on them now. She never felt the ground on her feet this way before. She worries about getting some kind of bacterial infection. “Perhaps I shall become disabled.” She wonders, she imagines herself homeless, alone and disabled. “I am not supposed to be here, I wasn’t in the wrong. How is it that the people who stole my childhood are alright and I am about to be a homeless and disable person?” But she gets destructed thinking if she needs to worry at all if this is her last day on earth. A high speed lorry passes her by; she sways by the commotion it creates in the air, “How easy it is to fall under one of these Lorries?” She wonders.

She looks down the bridge, “How painful would it be?” Either way, how is she ending up dying with so much pain? Isn’t the pain in her heart enough for the universe? Will her children miss her? Do they love her at all? Did anyone ever love her? She curses her tutors who gave her false hope that once she will complete her degree, she will get a job. She went to education as a mature student. The idea was to give a better life and give the children what they really deserve. Her boys were selected as “Gifted and Talented” students; they are extremely bright in arts. She has to encourage them to use their full potential. She will send them to Art school if she has to, she will do anything. She was told time and time again that a University degree would help her to go even further. All her family members have been but her; she is the only one without a degree so she needs to get one. But does she really believe in it?

They failed to stand by her when she finally spoke about the abuse she suffered by her own mother as a child. Nobody believes a parent can be a predator. So she stopped caring about what people think of her. She stopped caring about the society too. She could not really speak about it, because no one in the society wanted to hear about her pain. They immediately jumped into the conversation how perfect the white community is and that what happened to her is inevitable because it happens to every single person of South Asian origin. Abuse never happens in the superior castes. She became cynical about what education, leadership and importance actually mean. If people can be so preoccupied by the false portrayals so much rather than the reality, then what is the point of getting that education?

But it is at work, she felt it is a fault of her for not having a higher education when she heard the condescending voices, the gazes, and the treatment of being the second class person in the crowd. When her plans, presentations and suggestions would be used successfully but she would never be given the acknowledgements and at the end of the day she will hear them saying “Ask that Indian woman to take the garbage down.” When she asked why her contributions were never acknowledged, she was told that this is the way the world works, they have a degree and she does not. “I can get out of this if I can get a degree” she thought and I could actually send my sons to Art school.

She remembers on her first day how she was mocked for being a mature student and that she is not looking her age. Bizarrely she felt guilty for not looking old enough. Younger students impertinently told her how the people in other communities are never abusive but all South Asians are. She realised race is the most important thing in England even in this setting. She also realised  when it comes to race relations, she has no voice. Racial prejudice against her skin colour is not acknowledged. She was lonely; but with the discontentment of many, she managed to do really well with her grades and was the most well-groomed.   Few even offered her money to write the essays for them; expected her to do all the work in the group projects, same story, different setting. It didn’t matter, she was building the future.

She stayed wake whole night to study and went to work. She really trusted her educators, felt they would show her the ways to find a job and she would be set for life, or at least she could set the children’s future. The degree was sold to her; she bought it because she really believed in it. She even studied in the summer vacation to complete earlier and she actually received an academic award for writing the best theory on that summer of 2010. She was excited, that she was really going places.

As she walks on her defeated feet she remembers the day she went back to her University, just after she graduated. It was a conference for students who have just completed studies, her tutor told her “Well, you are a woman from the ethnic minority, unfortunately there isn’t much future for you in this job sector”. Strike by thunder she stood there; she felt a rage of fire going through her veins as she was remembering that day. The pain on her feet suddenly felt suited, it helped her to feel the anger,

She would work for papers and magazines for free for the next two years, people often would ask her why she decided to study when she could be with a husband and why she doesn’t have a husband. She knew she would never be asked this question if she didn’t look South Asian. She would also be told that her skin colour is wrong because she was not dark enough; she never fit the image.   

How did I get here? She remembered her teenage self. She was the child who never had to be told to do her homework. But she wasn’t the nerd either, in fact she was the popular child. She danced to Wham and Culture club and she entertained her friends with the silliest jokes, she performed on the stage and used her well earned money to feed her crowd. She was going to leave her pains behind, she was not going to let her addict mother damage her future and yet here she is, a failure, she has lost this battle. This is the end. “Then why do I walk?” She thought.

It was almost comical how every door for employment suddenly closed after she graduated. She was desperate, she worked for a coffee chain store without pay and they told her how good she was and they will definitely offer her something. Her colleagues reported how helpful she was so she started to make plans. Few days later she was told that after care full consideration they felt she didn’t have the unique qualities for working as a Barista. She applied to a restaurant at a supermarket as a Chef’s assistant. She worked for free, the Chef called all the staffs and stood in a line and asked everyone about their opinions. They all spoke highly of her; the chef told her she is hired without a doubt but the manager has to give the final “Yes.” She had no doubt that she had a job; she was excited about a new way of making a living. After all, she has always been a good cook; let it be it was minimum wage.  The manager told her that he doesn’t think she was suited for this job because she went to university and she is not reliable.

She felt an anger sparking through her veins one more time as she was struggling to put strides, in fatigue and in pain, she felt she was going to fall on the ground.

She lost the house, jobless and was suddenly asked to pay what is called the bedroom tax because the new law recognised she has an extra room and she was forced to pay more than she could. Not been able to carry out the expenses, she lost everything. “I made my sons homeless.” She thought.

She is living in someone’s patio, “How did I end up losing everything, penniless, living in a yard?” She decided “I don’t deserve to live. I need to go. They won’t miss me.”

A sidewalk was slowly developing as she was gazing forward. It means the bridge is ending. “Why didn’t they make a footpath on the bridge?” She wondered again in fury. “I crossed the bridge” she thought. She felt safe on the pavement; she stood there thinking “Who could have done that, cross the bridge on these feet? I did that, just like I crossed many bridges with these boys, but nothing, nothing is enough. Nothing is enough; I am not here to pass this test.” She didn’t see the point of going to the town and getting those documents so that she could attend the job the agency is sending her to tomorrow. They even promised her a wage in advance so she could manage the month. Yet she knows she will again lose a battle, it is pointless.

Suddenly she remembered something. She remembered her eldest working as an animator, her youngest as an actor. She remembered how amazing those desserts she used to make in the future. It all came back from the future. She clearly remembered writing about her culinary delights, making those amazing cakes and her bourbon and orange Panna Cotta, Bergamot and Mango crème Brule, her triple chocolate cookies and her brioche buns that make the mini sliders taste so good.  She remembered writing about her saffron rice and aromatic duck and those googly eyes of the boys with that discreet smirk they always have on their faces when she comes up with amazing creations.

She remembered her children found a new life in a new world and how she did not fail. They were doing exactly what she imagined them to do in the past. She remembered gaining new children when she met their partners. She remembered wanting to make a new life on a new land too so she found her faith back again in the future. She remembered working really hard again, one more time; she gave it a last try.

The pain she felt on her feet was too much; she could not remember anything of the past. The pain could only keep the memories of the future alive. She walked to the town and placed an ad for a chef’s job. With her surprise she was called right away, she did a trial and the head chef told her just like he told her in her memory “You have some natural skill.” She gave life one more chance because she wants to go back to the future.

She appeared slightly lost in people’s eyes. She tried to talk about her memories of the future and they seemed ridiculous to people. But it didn’t matter anymore, the prejudice she faced in the past didn’t matter this time, she had no time to be angry at the people who have let her down. She was on a quest to return to the future. Nothing was going to stop her now.

Her sons and her new children are waiting for her in the future. She will be there soon. She crossed the bridge, she passed the test, and she won the quest because she had the memories of her future.

Shanta S Sultana

shantasultana@hotmail.com