Legacy

---

Today marks twenty-three years since I arrived on Earth. Like most people, I can get pretty nostalgic around my birthday, peering into the void, questioning every stupid and smart – mostly stupid, though – decision that got me to where I am today. Recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about the concept of legacy. The legacy I’ve inherited, the legacy I want to leave behind, and the one place that encapsulates it all: Leicester Square.

For those who don’t know, Leicester Square is a town square located in London’s West End. Home to over a dozen theatres and cinemas, Leicester Square has become synonymous with Britain’s entertainment industry, with most, if not all, major film premiers, both domestic and international, taking place there.

Just last week, I was passing through Leicester Square. The premier for Gladiator II was in full swing, with Hollywood stars Denzel Washington, Pedro Pascal and many more walking the red carpet that night. Even the King made an appearance. But my own personal history with Leicester Square goes back further than this. Back before I was even born.

In the early nineties, Leicester Square was undergoing renovations. A new electricity substation supplying power to the West End was built beneath the square, and the iconic TKTS booth, which sells discounted theatre tickets, was built above ground. The company in charge of the project was Taylor Woodrow. They appointed one of its engineers to oversee it. That engineer happened to be my father.

It’s been my lifelong ambition to premier a film in Leicester Square. The imagery of my dad shaping modern-day Leicester Square and myself being an actor isn’t lost on me. It’s a poetically saccharine portrait: my dad quite literally building the foundations upon which I’ve staked my dreams. Insha’Allah, I can fulfil that dream and bring things full circle, as they say. Yet, in the same way, I’ve built my dreams on the foundations laid by my dad, so too did he build his dreams on those laid by his forebears.

Not much is known about my family history. We’re no Dalrymples, after all. Yet, from what I’ve managed to piece together from conversations, the story goes something like this:

Around the late 1850s, an ancestor of mine based around Rohtas Fort (now in modern-day Punjab, Pakistan) migrated east to a town called Tahlian Wala (now a part of Jhelum). Rohtas Fort was built in 1540 by the Sur Empire, passed on to the Mughals following Emperor Humayun’s triumphant return, then to the Sikh Empire, who primarily used it for administrative purposes, before finally falling into the hands of the British in 1849, following the Second Anglo-Sikh War.

Very little is known of this ancestor of mine. Still, it’s interesting to note that his migration eastwards seems to coincide with the 1857 Indian Rebellion, indicating that he was most likely a refugee or perhaps even a revolutionary rebel. Of course, this is all speculation. Though I do like the idea of being descended from one of the daring sepoys who defied their British overlords, there is no way of knowing for sure.

Over the next few generations, my ancestors gradually moved northwards, eventually ending up in a village called Araiyan (now found on the provincial boundary between modern-day Punjab and Azad-Kashmir). My great-great-grandfather was a humble farmer. Meanwhile, family legend says his younger brother was a pious man with access to esoteric knowledge.

One story goes that the parents of a soldier serving in the British Army during World War One went to consult him on their son’s whereabouts. Back in those days, letters written by Indian soldiers rarely, if ever, made it back home, and the British officers didn’t bother informing Indian families as to the fate of their sons fighting abroad.

With no other option, they went to visit my great-great-grandfather’s brother. After briefly retreating to meditate, he returned to the worried parents and told them: “I’ve looked across the battlefields of Europe, and I did not see your son. Whether he is alive or dead, I cannot say.” The son returned a month later.

For the last twenty years of his life, my great-great-grandfather’s brother secluded himself in a small room, spending all his time praying and meditating, only ever taking a break for bodily necessities like eating or sleeping and only ever leaving the room to answer the call of nature.

Until this point, my family primarily survived on the food they grew and traded in the neighbouring villages. It wasn’t until my great-grandfather married the daughter of a gardener that my family’s social standing began to improve.

My great-grandfather’s father-in-law – so really my other great-great-grandfather (all these fathers are starting to get very confusing) – was no ordinary farmer; he worked for the local British cantonment and was well-regarded as someone who provided shelter and food for weary travellers passing through the area. When he retired, the British asked him to recommend someone from his family to take his place. He gave them my great-grandfather.

My great-grandfather continued on the legacy of his forebears. He was said to possess some of the same spiritual insights as his uncle and even wrote a book on Sufi teachings. I own a copy of said book, although I cannot read it because it was written in the Punjabi Nastaliq script. A frustration that inspired my most recent poem, The Book. Meanwhile, the gardening job he inherited from his father-in-law afforded his younger sons a formal education.

My grandfather completed his junior certificate (the equivalent of modern-day GCSEs) and went on to work as a local teacher. When the Pakistani government built the Mangla Dam in the 1960s, my grandfather was granted a work permit to migrate to Britain, like many others from the Mirpur-Dadyal area. This also explains why most British-Pakistanis have ancestry originating from this same area.

At the time, British policy welcomed migration from its former colonies to satisfy its post-war labour needs. In 1962, my grandfather found himself in Burton-on-Trent doing quality control for Pirelli tyres as well as United Biscuits in nearby Ashby-de-la-Zouch. Both towns are just northeast of Birmingham, where I currently attend university. That’s the first full circle, I suppose. From the Midlands to London and back again.

Like his forebears, my grandfather was also a pillar of his local community, helping translate and fill out paperwork for Burton-on-Trent’s growing Pakistani population. At the time, most Pakistani immigrants were illiterate, so they would ask my grandfather to write letters to send back home to their families. When the responses from home arrived, my grandfather would read them to their recipients. As a result, he knew a lot about people’s personal lives but never betrayed anyone’s trust. The original Whistledown, if you will, just without the public shaming.

My grandfather sent most of his earnings back home, paying off his family’s debts and funding the development of the local area overseen by his brothers back in Pakistan. The first luxury item he bought for himself was an Omega watch. He’s passed it down to me, and I intend to pass it on to my firstborn if I am blessed enough to have children. Insha’Allah.

In early 1967, my grandfather married my grandmother, and my dad was born later that same year. My dad didn’t really know his father for the first decade of his life. My grandfather only visited for brief periods, busy working hard in Britain for most of the year. Instead, my father was raised by his uncles and my great-grandfather. My dad says that when he was a boy, he used to look up at the sky and dream of becoming a pilot so he could visit my grandfather in Britain.

It wasn’t until 1977 that my dad and grandmother were finally allowed to move to Britain. When he arrived, my dad didn’t know a word of English. In 1989, he graduated from Imperial College with a civil engineering degree and a job at Taylor Woodrow, Britain’s most prestigious engineering firm at the time. An example of how Britain’s free education has the potential to transform lives. Three years later, in 1992, he married my mum, the daughter of a Pakistani intelligence officer – a story for another time.

I owe a lot to my mum. And I really do mean that because my dad, as analytical as he is, isn’t very creative at all. There’s a reason he did civil engineering rather than architecture. My mum, on the other hand, is insanely creative. She makes all kinds of soft furnishings. Pretty much all the blinds, curtains, pillows, chairs, and even the sofa at home were made or upholstered by her.

Back in Pakistan, she used to act in her school plays and was so good that they called her back to perform after she graduated. She also runs the creative club at our local masjid, a weekly meet-up where attendees learn sewing, among other skills. Without her creative genes, I wouldn’t be an actor and writer.

In 1995, my older brother was born. He works as a disability consultant, advising companies on how to better accommodate the disabled workforce by drawing on his personal experience living with Limb-Girdle Muscular Dystrophy. It is a scheme far more dangerous than the Trojan Horse Affair in which the disabled population are planning to infiltrate the workforce and steal our jobs.

A year and a half later, along came my sister in 1996. She’s a drug dealer who insists on being called a ‘pharmacist’, whatever that is. She spends her time advising ‘patients’ on how and what ‘medicines’ to take to treat their ‘ailments’.

Fast forward to 2001, and yours truly was born. Like all great men of history, my mum says I was her most difficult pregnancy. #causingproblemssincedayone. I’m very much the black sheep of the family, airing out our family history on the World Wide Web.

Sometime in 2003, my younger brother popped out. He opted to one-up my dad by studying aeronautical engineering at Loughborough University, where he is also a boxer. In the summer, when he’s back in London, he coaches in Shadwell, recruiting more impressionable youths to join his violent posse of fitness, discipline and self-confidence.

It’s crazy to think about all this. Did my forebears centuries ago ever imagine one of their descendants would be gallivanting as an actor – Between Us is now available to rent/buy on Amazon Prime – let alone being born nearly four thousand miles away from where they were laid to rest? And yet, without them, the foundations they laid and the legacy they built, I wouldn’t be here today pursuing my dreams.

But there’s also another way of looking at it. My family has also contributed to Britain’s national legacy. My distant ancestors, who were unwitting contributors to the war effort. My grandfather, who helped reignite the British economy during the post-war years. My dad, who supplied electricity to the West End. My mum, who teaches at her local masjid. My older brother, who is making the workplace more accessible. My sister, who was on the frontline during the pandemic. And my younger brother, who provides teenagers with a positive outlet.

In a sense, my family are nation-builders. That’s their legacy. They built this country and are still building it. Despite how the media may frame it, being British isn’t their privilege; it’s their right. And it’s my right, too, no matter what those racists who rioted over the summer say.

So, what about my legacy? What foundations do I plan to lay for my descendants to stake their dreams on? How do I plan to contribute to Britain’s national legacy?

It all comes back to Leicester Square. In the garden, at its centre. There, you will find a statue commemorating Britain’s most celebrated storyteller, William Shakespeare. Originally hailing from Stratford-upon-Avon, another town orbiting Birmingham (damn, Brum really is where it’s at, huh?), Shakespeare is the most prolific writer of the English language. His works are known throughout the world. In no small part thanks to the British Empire.

That said, they really are works of culture-defining art. “Out damned spot!” “To be or not to be?” Shakespeare’s words have resonated across generations and continued to inspire more recent stories like The Lion King, Haider, and The Godfather. Like Shakespeare, I want to be a storyteller. Inspired by the great British writers of old but also drawing on my rich South Asian ancestry, vibrant Islamic faith and modern British identity.

I want to define the culture the same way Shakespeare did. To tell stories that redefine what it means to be British so that future generations don’t have to question whether they belong in this country like I did. To entertain, educate and inspire the masses at home and abroad. To tell stories that resonate for generations.

I hope I’ve done that with some of the stories I’ve shared on this blog of mine, and I hope to continue to do so, whether it be upon the silver screen, the stage, or the page.

Watch out, Leicester Square, here I come.