I don't know what year I was born because in those days we didn't have ways of documenting people's dates of birth. But I must be in my 80s now according to the date on my passport – probably even more! And I guess because I’ve lived in this country for such a long time I have become walaythee (British) myself! I live on my own in a big old house near Lister Park and Oak Lane, it has central heating so it's nice and warm and I’ve got a stair lift that I hardly ever use because it scares me.

I was born in Pakistan. We were only small when our father passed away. I’ve never even seen a picture of him. I don't know what he looked like. It's not like we had cameras or anything in the villages then. There was nothing in the grahn (village) – no cameras, no TV, no microwaves, no cassette players, nothing at all. We grew up at a time of war and food like flour and sugar were rationed, entire families had to share; sometimes you had to go without and sleep on empty stomachs. You had to patiently endure the hardships. Pakistan was our beloved country, a source of our pride and our joy: a young country trying to find its feet and a lot of blood and sweat was shed to create it. In those days life was so different from the life I have now and the life my children and grandchildren have.

People trusted the decisions that their parents made for them. My elders used to tell me that when I was born my grandma tied a piece of string to my wrist, and she told my father, “Son, I’ve promised your daughter to your brother's son.” Can you imagine! A piece of string! A piece of black string! That was my fate – so I’d been promised! My father agreed to the marriage.