In the summer of 1963, I met Atam Vetta on the steps of the U.K.’s first Gurdwara in Smethwick. He was teaching Maths at Smethwick Hall Grammar School for girls as he didn’t have sufficient funds to see him through his second year as a PhD student (he was later awarded his PhD at UCL). At the time, I was teaching English as a second language to the children of immigrants – a voluntary community service job I took up before going to college.
This rendezvous changed my life. We fell in love and decided to marry.
This happened in a place, and at a time, when there was no racial harmony. The optimism of youth gave me the courage to face a hostile world, but Atam was more pragmatic. He said that unless my parents approved and supported us, we shouldn’t marry because our lives would be too tough.
Both my parents left school at the age of fourteen. But my father got a job as an RAF sergeant during the WW2 and led a team of twenty mechanics who were sent all over the UK repairing damaged aircrafts. But he was never sent abroad. In fact, both my parents never left the shores of the UK.
At the time, the UK was very homogeneous, with mostly white people. There weren’t many people of other races. But my parents liked Atam and supported us. Even today, I admire the way they welcomed him.
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