I’d like to take my mother for a day trip to the English countryside. Which probably sounds simple enough. But single-handedly decoding the human genome would be easier. Not least among the complicating factors is the fact that, as a family, like many immigrant Asian families, we have no tradition of leisure in the conventional sense. I recall only three outings as a child that weren’t visits to relatives’ houses.

There’s also our highly unrelaxed approach to travel. Even a trip to a park down the road involves extensive fuss: time to pack the necessary chapattis and brazil nuts into containers; more time for general conversation, noise and argument; and additional time for calls to random relatives who may or may not want to come along. This tendency has got more acute as my 59-year-old Sikh mother has become more religious and correspondingly stricter in her dietary and religious observances (often the same thing).

Then there’s the fact that my mother has never actually visited the English countryside in her 40 years of British residency, and also doesn’t speak English, meaning that conveying the concept of a “day trip to the North York Moors” in my rusty Punjabi is a challenge, both culturally and linguistically. In the end, after consulting a friend for the Punjabi translations of a host of terms including “walking” (“torna”), "nature" (“kudrat”) and “cow” (“gai”), I put the idea to her one evening during a trip home to Wolverhampton.

She is at the time watching a TV show on an obscure Asian satellite channel hosted by a bearded yogi who seems to be suggesting that consuming turmeric can prevent the common cold, among other ailments.

“Mum,” I venture. “Do you fancy a day trip [I use the word “phera” here, which literally means “round trip”]... to the countryside [“hariaval”, which means “open pasture”, as opposed to “farmland”]?”

“He’s right about turmeric,” she responds. “My gums stopped bleeding when I started taking it. You should have it once a day in milk – you’re always sniffling.” An abrupt advertisement break. “What did you say?”

“Do you fancy a stroll [this time I use the phrase “sair karna”]... next month... to the country... to a park?”

“A park?” She peers over the rims of her spectacles. “Like Alton Towers?”

“Well, a bit like that, but without rides. It’s a park for adults. A ‘national park’, it’s called.”

“What will it cost?”

“Nothing.”

“Hmm.” Never keen to spend money, the idea suddenly seems to hold some appeal. “Why do you want to go?”

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