Real Talk: Writer Anjali Chadha on Defining Her Own Story

[Photo Courtesy Anjali Mya Chadha]

by Rema Chandran

“Being brown?! No, my daily struggle in life is trying to get a seat on the tube!” UK-based actor, writer, and creator of the hit comedy play, “The Dateless Wonder,” Anjali Chadha talks exclusively to Brown Girl Magazine in honor of International Women’s Day on why she’s refusing to dance to the “typical” South Asian narrative.

As Chadha approaches me in a heat-deprived Victoria station, she manages to do what I thought would be the impossible. She warms me up by giving me the biggest of hugs, before going on to apologize profusely for keeping me waiting. The reason for her tardiness (if indeed you can call being 2 minutes late tardiness) is rehearsals and production necessities for her latest play. “Dadism,” starring Jason Kavan, is a solo male show about the experience of a South Asian male becoming a first-time father.

Anjali Mya Chadha's Dadism starring Jason Kavan

It’s a late Sunday afternoon and Chadha has been working through most of the day. As creator, writer, producer and publicist of “Dadism,” she has a lot to do. As we settle down in a cozy local pub, she hands me a press copy of her first play, (or her “chosen child” as she likes to call it) the prestigious Meyer-Whitworth nominated, “The Dateless Wonder.” She encourages me to read it on the tube and insists I will find it funny; I have no doubt it will be.

Appearing in award-winning shows including “Little Britain” and “Mitchell & Webb,” comedy and Chadha are natural bedfellows. As she goes through her career to date with me, she remarks how simple it all sounds now—but there’s a caveat

“What you don’t see is all of the letters that have been written to agents, along with the meetings of rejection and approval,” she said.

“The Dateless Wonder,” a successful solo show, was born from a lack of appealing casting calls.

“I was looking at Matt Lucas and David Walliams (of BBC’s “Little Britain” fame) who’ve literally done their own work and then there’s Ruth Jones with “Gavin and Stacey”. And it became very apparent that if I wanted to sustain a living, waiting around for a casting call wasn’t going to be the way forward. I had to write for myself.”

Growing up immersed in youth theater groups combined with a degree in drama, it was clear that there was no other career path so distinctly carved out for Chadha. “It was always going to be something creative. It was never going to be academic – I’m not academically minded,” she remarked.

A scholar she may not be, but commercially savvy she is. With a business mind-set firmly in check, Chadha shunned the heavily competitive world of television, instead deciding to write “The Dateless Wonder” as a play, with a steely determination of getting it first shown at The Edinburgh Fringe, the world’s largest arts festival. It was here that she was to meet Salema Khanum, producer at leading arts center, Watermans Theatre in London, who chanced upon the script before going on to give Chadha her first break in bringing her “baby” to life.

“The closest thing to getting to know me is if you read “The Dateless Wonder.” It’s me. My humour, my sarcasm, my one-liners – how I get myself into havoc in the most ridiculous situations. I could create havoc in a padded room  and I wouldn’t be any other way,” Chadha confessed.

Anjali Mya Chadha in the Dateless Wonder

Chadha certainly is an intriguing character: super cool, but really warm and lovely at the same time… am I starting to swoon? She gives off this childlike quality that’s full of energy. It makes me start to wonder—does anything bring this woman down?

“Of course!  Do I want to jack it all in and get a 9 to 5 job? Yeah, I would be lying if I said otherwise,” Chadha said. “You’ll have days when you’re crying, nothing’s happening and the phone doesn’t ring. But no matter what, I’m always writing, so that release is always there. And there’s always that belief that I’ll do something with that piece of writing one day.”

Her no-nonsense approach, sheer gumption and tenacious attitude are probably all thanks to who she’s inspired by!

“Katrina Kaif. She walked into India, didn’t know a word of Hindi, didn’t know the trade and learnt it all from scratch. She then allowed herself to be critiqued before going onto become a bankable actor. That’s admirable, that’s inspiring,” Chadha said.

So does Chadha see any differences in the challenges faced by a woman actor/writer compared to a woman actor/writer of color?

“You can interview ten people and all ten could say something different. Either ‘Oh my God, I’ve had a brilliant career and I’ve gone from job to job’, or say ‘I’ve been unemployed the whole time I’ve been in this industry!’ But what you will find is a very similar thread that a lot of artists from an ethnic background, will say about those who hold a position of power. ‘Oh, we’re going to increase diversity by doing one more play by a black writer or sticking a couple of Asians in the cast. That’s our diversity quota ticked.’  I don’t want a job because I’m filling a criteria. I want a job because I’m the best person for the job.”

Perhaps this is the reason why Anjali feels strongly about the main character in “Dadism” being played by a brown-skinned man?

“Just because the play doesn’t have wife beating or honour killing in it, why can’t a brown man be a normal everyday guy who hits his ‘40s, goes on a dating website, meets someone and bang! They’re having kids. It’s happened to so many guys – guys who just didn’t think it’d happen to them.”

Chadha thanks her own father for passing on her love for the arts. Being able to share this creativity with her family and social circle, and choosing her passion as a career path, proved that she was exempt from family pressure or obstacles.

“My dad used to love to read and he loved poetry. He loved watching films. And it was something I would do with him. It was always something creative. This thing that Asian parents have with wanting their kids to go a certain way, to me, that’s not the norm. What I’ve grown up with is the norm. To me that’s the exception and that’s where my writing comes from.”

It’s evident that Chadha’s writing stems from her life, her friends, her family and her surroundings, regardless of whether they are Punjabi or English. What matters is which memory is relevant for the particular point in the play she’s writing.

“Being Punjabi is a part of me and it’s a part I can’t deny, but it’s not necessarily a point to always make. Is it a negative part of me? Absolutely not! I’m a Punjabi girl who’s grown up in a Punjabi family. But I’m also a Londoner, I’m also a city girl, I’m also a girly girl. I like watching “Sex in the City”, I like chick flicks. And I’ve always been a city girl; all of my life has been in London. Everyone expects this big cultural crises. Well, I’m a city girl with a plethora of friends like me who are single, who aren’t married and who just have a really brilliant city life.”

This state of mind is probably why the only other time Chadha does struggle (albeit an internal creative one) is when she’s given a character that she just doesn’t resonate with.

“You know we have this one stereotype. Every time an Asian woman has done something or has achieved something, she’s had to break barriers to do it, she’s had to fight her family, or her community or cultural pressures. I’m looking at my friends and we’re all sat there with our cocktails going, ‘really’? You know, my biggest struggle is trying to get a seat on the tube. But that doesn’t resonate with a certain narrative that is expected from an Asian woman and my life isn’t like this. I don’t find this “struggling, breaking boundaries’”story relatable. A lot of women I know have just done what they’ve done and any struggles they’ve had are probably no different to any other woman or person for that matter. I know a number of women who are 30 plus and single and have no pressure. But where are their stories, where are their narratives?”

So clearly, she doesn’t feel the pressure of marriage, 2.5 children and a Volvo then? What does this multi-talented artist foresee in her future? With a glint in her eyes, she says,

“If I walk into a friend’s house and her boyfriend’s sat there playing PlayStation, I’m thinking, ‘is that what I’m missing out on – really?’ My dream is to be paid enough money to sit in a nice little cottage somewhere and write full time, with good bottles of wine, cheese, butter, and crusty baguettes. And on a typewriter! That would be the dream, but I know after 10 minutes I’d be peeved with the lack of Internet connection. But yes, that’s what I want. No more, no less. Oh and maybe a Netflix series”

“The Dateless Wonder” is now available in print on Amazon.

Rema Chandran headshotLondon girl, Rema Chandran is a marketeer by trade, with a love for cricket, bad-ass Bollywood, all sitcoms and samosa chaat. When she’s not talking brands and how to leverage growth opportunities, she’s busy writing. Her topics will vary: whatever gets her at the time excitable/sad/angry, you’ll probably find it here. Oh and one last thing: call her what you want, but don’t ever call her a coconut!


By Brown Girl Magazine

Brown Girl Magazine was created by and for South Asian womxn who believe in the power of storytelling as a … Read more ›

Culture Series Part 3: Remembering Indentureship Through art in Suriname, Guyana and Trinidad

Featured Photo Credit Kevita Junior | Left to Right: Tu hiya ka kare he, Tu kaha bate, Tu hamar ke bate 

Thundering waves clawed on the body of the vessel as the sea swallowed the voices of terrified passengers. They clung to the shreds of the Eagle Speed as each hour submerged the ship deeper within the kala pani (dark waters). Steamer ships were sent for rescue, finding two children alone, clenching to the remains of the mast. The unscathed captain and crew fled in boats, leaving the lives of coolies (indentured laborers) to the fate of the dark waters. The Eagle Speed set sail on August 19th, 1865 from Calcutta to Demerara. This tragedy took the lives of over 300 hundred indentured laborers. The coolies onboard were not just casualties of the kala pani, but a larger system of British colonialism.

The crossing of these tumultuous seas was forbidden for Hindus, as it meant the severance of reincarnation and the unraveling of caste. Yet more than 2 million Indians were taken across the kala pani. The forbidden water carried stories along its transatlantic waves, bearing witness to history lost against its tides. The restraints of caste drowned along the voyages as surnames and relations were cast across the seas. They became Singhs (lions) and Maharaj’s (great kings), Brahmins by boat instead of birth.

[Read Related: The Culture Series Part 1: Descendants of Indentured Diaspora a Look at Fijian Representation]

These indentured workers were mainly taken from regions of Bihar and Uttar Pradesh to different corners of the globe, with some of the largest to the Caribbean. Guyana experienced around 238,909 workers, Trinidad 143,939 and Suriname 34,304. With 399 Indians, the Lalla Rookh docked on June 5, 1873, at Nieuw Amsterdam in Suriname, later becoming known as the coolie depot. As workers poured out of ships and onto plantations, they experienced violence and oppression at alarming rates, especially against women.

Coolie Belle

They were nameless and barefooted with gold jhumkas and bangles adorning their bodies. As tourism increased in the Caribbean’s, photographing indentured women on postcards became part of its selling point. These women became subjects to appease the white colonizer gaze and fetishized exotic ‘Coolie belles.’ A bulk of these postcards were shot in Trinidad and sold in local shops to visiting tourists. Yet these postcards failed to translate the hierarchy of power between the photographed and those behind the camera. The white European men who carried out these photoshoots chose backdrops that masked the real conditions of sugar cane fields and living quarters. Who were these women? What were their names? The women were juxtaposed with the term ‘Coolie,’ a slur for laborer and ‘Belle,’ the French word for beautiful. They were coined as laborers of beauty, yet their eyes tell a story of fear of pain.


Tu hamár ke bate? (Who are you to me?) Tu hiyá ká kare he? (What are you doing here?) Tu kahá báte? (Where are you?) Artist Nazrina Rodjan posits these questions that rummage through the minds of many Indo Caribbean descendants. Who were my ancestors? What did they experience? Rodjan aims to explore the experiences of indentured women through her oil painting series “Kala Pani.” In this series, she reimagines the postcards of indentured women alike the depictions of European nobility. In conversation with Rodjan she mentions,

 I’ve thought long and hard about whether it would be ethical to reproduce these staged images of women who might have felt scared and uncomfortable being brought into these studios to be photographed by men. I will never know their true experiences and how they might have felt knowing a stranger in the future will decide to paint them in the same positions they were put in for the original photograph.

Rodjan’s art series started as a way to commemorate 150 years since the first indentured workers arrived in Suriname and expanded to include regions like Guyana, Trinidad and Jamaica. 

Wanting to reclaim these images comes from feelings of injustice whenever I see these postcards. They were made from a dehumanizing perspective. Reclaiming these images becomes necessary knowing how the violence Indo-Caribbean women still face today is just a continuation of the violence brought onto indentured Indian women then. To me, creating this piece, symbolized the acceptance of questions remaining unanswered, stories being lost forever, and realizing that after a history full of trauma, there’s a treasure in the women that are still here to tell their stories.

The ratio of men to women arriving on these ships left little to no autonomy for women. Experiences of violence on ships and plantations were common throughout the Caribbean. Despite this, indentured women became trailblazers and pioneers in uprisings against poor working conditions. 

Everything about these women seems to be a question we can never answer, but I decided to give them titles in Hindustani that are questions they might have for me as the painter who looks at them and sees both a stranger and a loved one. Tu hamár ke báte? Who are you to me?

Living in the Netherlands, Rodjan talks about her experiences tracing her ancestry and honoring this history:

 Unfortunately, in the Netherlands learning about the history of Dutch colonization only meant memorizing all the different spices they brought in and listening to teachers talking proudly about the Dutch East India Company in elementary school. Tracing back my ancestors has so far only led to a picture of my parnani and a few more names in the family tree.


On May 5, 1838, Anat Ram stepped foot on the rich grounds of Berbice, becoming the first Indian laborer in Guyana. The Whitby and Hesperus departed from Calcutta on January 13 and arrived in Berbice first then West Demerara. Over the course of 79 years, approximately 259 ships voyaged from India to Guyana. While the experiences of these ancestors may remain unknown, artists like Suchitra Mattai aims to revitalize the voices of our indentured ancestors.

[Read Related: The Culture Series Part 2: Exploring the Indo Jamaican Identity ]

Suchitra Mattai is an Indo Guyanese multi-disciplinary artist. Through her work, she uses the experience of her family’s migration and the history of indentureship to rewrite and expand our notions of history. In her piece, Life-line, a rope of saris pours out of a tilted boat, mirroring the experiences of her ancestor’s journey across the transatlantic. The saris serve as both water and a connection to two lands, India and Guyana. Mattai further explores indentureship in the piece “Coolie Woman,” depicting a woman seated with a sari, embellished with jewelry and flowers. 

I wanted to reimagine the photo to give her agency. I also wanted to address the desire for people of the diaspora to connect to their homelands and ancestral pasts. The painted wallpaper drips and fades to parallel the way my memory of Guyana ebbs and flows, Mattai says.


Anchoring at the Port of Spain on April 22, 1917, the last ship to ever carry indentured Indians made its final stop. A system that bound Indians to an unknown land finally ended after 79 years. 

To invoke conversation and pay homage to their memory, artist Gabrielle Francis creatively analyzes indentureship. Gabrielle Francis is an Indo Trinidadian queer interdisciplinary artist, writer and organizer from Queens, New York. In her piece “206:21 Queer Altar Mixed Media Performance,” Francis pays homage to her indentured ancestors with a focus on queer identities. The title 206:21 reflects the ratio of men to women that journeyed on the Fatel Razack, the first ship from India to Trinidad. A mirror is decorated with the colors of Trinidad’s flag along with six candles embodying the pride flag and vibrant red carnations. Written across the mirror is, “I wonder how many of you were queer?” A question that allows for openness and conversation around potential queer ancestors. Written records around indentureship were translated and produced by European men, leaving little to no room for women or queer folks. Francis’s work aims to transform and challenge Eurocentric narratives surrounding indentured history.

 {insert photo} 206:21 Queer Altar Mixed-Media Performance, 2021

As descendants of indentureship, it becomes difficult to sit with questions that may never have answers. Visiting National Archives or exploring digital databases can help connect descendants to learn about their own history. As we unravel difficult experiences of the past it’s important to ask, how do we carry the legacies of our ancestors? How do we honor their sacrifices?

As they were stripped of their identities and reduced to passenger numbers, they fostered new relations—jahaji bhai and jahaji bhain (ship brother and sister). From shipmates to family, to present-day melodies of chutney music to the stew of pepper pot on Christmas morning, these bonds of community have evolved and are seen across the diaspora today.

By Anjali Seegobin

Anjali Seegobin is an undergraduate student at the City College of New York, majoring in political science and anthropology. She … Read more ›

‘The Black Rose’: British Asian Shweta Aggarwal Voices her Truth Against Colourism and the Battle to end her Skin Whitening Cream Addiction

Black Rose

I was a mere 14-year old on the fateful night of 22 April 1993. The night that witnessed black teenager Stephen Lawrence brutally murdered in a racially motivated attack as he waited for a bus. The night that cemented my fear, that the colour of my skin does matter. The same night that confirmed my indifference as a British Asian in the United Kingdom — were we really united? Fast forward to May 25 2020, the murder of African-American George Floyd by a white policeman was the turning point for British Asian author and my lovely friend, Shweta Aggarwal to finally break her silence and narrate her story of colourism, in her new book, “The Black Rose.” 

Aggarwal’s gripping memoir emits so many emotions; that of an awakening, a voice that has been suppressed for years, filled with anger, mistrust and guilt. But most importantly, “The Black Rose” successfully disrupts the narrative that consistently allows society to box someone as indifferent based on a visibility factor. For Shweta, this factor was the colour of her skin. The injustices she consistently endured via some family members and fellow South Asian peers throughout her life, was as a result of her skin tone failing to qualify as ‘acceptable’, or as she often quotes in her book, not ranking high enough on the ‘fairometer.’ Whether she was in India, Japan or London, the scale was never too far behind. 

[Read Related: Liam Neeson’s Week of Rage is Every Person of Colour’s Truth]

Within the first chapter, she recalls as a child in India, the distinct lack of subtlety displayed by certain family members through direct taunts of her duskier appearance in comparison to her parents. She realised that she wasn’t in complete isolation from this prejudice, as her maternal aunt and uncle were also harshly nicknamed on the basis of their skin colour — Kaali (black) and Savla (wheatish). Aggarwal was left mortified by what many South Asians sadly still continue to casually exercise. Echoing similar incidents within my social proximity, it’s infuriating witnessing the recipients of such remarks surrender to laughing at themselves too. 

Except it isn’t funny. Born into a culture where conversations on religion, caste and hierarchy in India are still so prominent, the comparison of Aggarwal’s skin colour being as dark as that of the domestic help (often from poorer families), prematurely planted seeds in her mind that she simply didn’t belong with her family, especially  when she was sent to boarding school. Her lack of self-worth coupled with these taunts, gave her a whole new vocabulary for the letter B, that grew in parallel with the ongoing prejudice and anxiety. B for blackie, beggar’s child, bedwetter! Not funny, but derogatory. Post her book launch that Brown Girl Magazine attended, she tells me,

I personally feel we are way behind when it comes to understanding the importance of mental health. Name-calling was normalised and if you objected, you were ridiculed further with remarks such as ‘So sensitive! Can’t you take a joke?’ Body and colour shaming can lead to a feeling of inadequacy in the victim, which can further lead to depression and much worse mental illnesses.

During the 1984 Hindu Sikh riots in India, where over 3000 Sikhs lost their lives, Aggarwal recollects the frightening moment when she and her classmates fled into hiding to escape the violence during a school trip. As a means to save all the students from harm, the Sikh boys were forced to remove their turbans and long hair — their visible identities stripped to keep them alive. Yet, ironically, even in this horrifying situation, Aggarwal felt least at risk, attributing this self-assurance to her darker appearance. 

The crux of her self-loathe was the love-hate relationship she formed with skin whitening creams. The birth of Fair and Lovely, India’s most renown brand (now known as Glow and Lovely following a backlash) was notorious for selling the damaging message that fairer skin equated to a happier and fulfilling life. For it was fairer skin women that would qualify for marriage — clearly their only sole purpose! 

Tactfully using famous fair-skinned Bollywood actresses in television ads and posters, their so-called perfection would scream out to vulnerable young girls. (Men were targeted much later on, but the importance seemed less). Akin to the wretched beach body posters plastered on every corner in January — because apparently bikinis only look good on a certain body type —  the damaging message remains the same. Social acceptance comes at a cost, and that cost is to look a certain way. 

[Read Related: Dear Priyanka Chopra, Endorsing Colorism and Discrimination is not ok. It Never was and Never Will Be]

It’s an extension of the dated methods imposed on women from the womb, where mothers are lectured on drinking milk with saffron to ensure the baby is fair, traditional matrimonial sites asking women to specify skin colour, and women being told to stay out of the sun. These socially ingrained views are eventually developed into modern day methods in the form of cleverly marketed consumables. Aggarwal admits, 

Most people only use the cream on their face just as I did. At that time, I didn’t even think about the rest of the body. I felt that if the face becomes fairer, that will be enough for acceptance. My mum noticed the difference for sure and I was lighter by the time I met my husband, Amit. I must admit the addiction is a combination of three factors: the justification in your own head, the strong marketing message that ONLY fair is beautiful, and the ‘compliments’ from those around you. 

I admired Shweta’s honesty on admitting what essentially was a dangerous obsession that she remained faithful to throughout her teenage and adult life. A ritual that, whilst prompted gradual results in her appearance, was never going to eliminate the insecurities she felt within herself. Moments of joy with her husband and children on holidays abroad, would be broken up by the need to ‘fix’ any damage the sun may have inflicted i.e. reverse her tan. The booming tanning industry in U.K., her now home, and admiration of her ‘sun-kissed’ look by Brits initially surprised Aggarwal — as if her colour had now gained acceptance. 

But who are we seeking acceptance from? A society that is still deep rooted in patriarchy forcing women even now to adhere to dated rites of passage that holds no relevance? Or a society that seeks to point out one’s indifference because of how they look — their skin, their religious attire, their weight? Or a society that passes judgement on a woman’s self-worth, and continues to abuse that same woman behind closed doors under the eyes of Goddess Kali? Aggarwarl goes on to explain,

The more damaging perceptions of colourism, are that ‘fair is rich’, ‘fair is successful’ and ‘fair is better educated’. Essentially, ‘fair is supreme’ in every sense. And if that’s the case, where does that leave dark-skinned people? In Ukraine, for example black and brown people were discriminated against and  not given a fair chance to save their lives. Is it fair to be denied a basic human right — survival — based on your colour? 

I personally was curious to know from my family what the definition of prejudice in the Hindi vocabulary is and how it is/was applied to in India. “Pakshappat” (taking sides) or “poorva dhaarna”, were the closest pure Hindi definitions known to my cousin, yet rarely used. However, my dad stated that “hum bedh bhau nahin hai” was the common term used to state amongst family and friends when someone was not biased and believed in equality. Somehow, colourism never really came under that category. A sentiment echoed by some of my Chinese and black friends . Even in parts of China and Africa, the belief that darker skin is perceived as inferior, is accredited to stereotyping certain groups of people as manual labourers working under the sun, and therefore of a lower class or caste. Does Shweta believe we can change this attitude?  

A couple of my aunts are still reluctant to help me with my mission. One even said ‘it’s pointless fighting it’, while one said, ‘everyone has the right to define beauty for themselves and being fairer is what beauty is for some.’ The problem with this is that people then start to look down on people who aren’t. Colourism, casteism and classism divide people, creating more unrest in society. If we continue to aspire to be fairer, we’re still encouraging white skin privilege, and encouraging colonial values. The more we allow ourselves to succumb to these social constructs, the more enslaved we feel internally. Melanin is crucial for protecting our skin against the harmful radiation of the sun. Feel blessed that you have it and wear it with pride! 

I wonder how we can dare to walk shoulder to shoulder with our black friends in the Black Lives Matter movement, if we refuse to face up to our own biases against colour? We seek equality in the U.K., but deny our deep-rooted prejudice, whilst a white privileged man lectures the world on the difference between racism and unconscious bias (yes Prince Harry, I’m looking at you!). “The Black Rose” has paved a way for many more voices to speak out against the damaging impact of colourism, and in my view, rightly belongs under the definition of prejudice in the collective South Asian vocabulary.

“The Black Rose” is available to purchase on Amazon.


Photo Courtesy: Shweta Aggarwal

By Sejal Sehmi

Brown Girl Magazine’s U.K. Editor Sejal Sehmi is an IT consultant by day, whose passion for writing stemmed from challenging … Read more ›