Mother of Parliament
In 1942, there was a war going on in Europe, and by 1945, it had spread to the Far East.
Indian activists were using methods, non-violent (in most cases) and violent in a few, to
shake free of the Empire. Of the violent activists, three were executed (by public hanging)
and others were exiled to Andaman Islands till the island was briefly captured by the
Japanese.
By that time, (August, 1942) my father was in jail. He was one of the non-violent ones, a
staunch supporter of Gandhi. So he went, meekly, to jail, for two years. I continued going to
the local Sacred Heart Girls’ High School (the nuns were strong supporters of the Empire)
and took some nasty asides from Sister Benoza. (‘Your father is a criminal, isn’t he?)’ Sister
taught us needlework, and my backstitch did not resemble anything she could recognise,
remotely, as needlework.
All through these years we were being taught about the unique ‘Mother of Parliaments,
and the country that created democracy. I believed in that democracy. And now, we have
Boris. And a governing party that will hang on to power however they can. If Boris Johnso
can deliver the votes, he can get a donor to pay for the refurbishment of his flat, attend a
party during lockdown when ordinary folk were dying without the comfort of their families
to see them through. He goes AWOL whenever he feels like it. As now.
I am reminded of those students of mine at Beauchamps Comprehensive, who, when
they didn’t do their homework, had been brawling in the school assembly line, or swore at a
teacher, just ran away into the playground and hid. They did it again and again.
Boris Johnson will continue to have no respect for rules and laws; he will let down his
party in innumerable ways, thank God, and I don’t want him to resign. I look at the polls
with quiet glee and know that so long as the Trolley is shuffling around, the Tories will dive
into more and more trouble.
Boris as the P M is Labour’s best bet for a general election win.
