Meera Syal reveals all about her extraordinary career

Goodness Gracious Me resonated with a whole generation of British Asians who could relate to the clingfilm on the remote control, the Tupperware full of curry, suitcases on top of the wardrobe and phrases such as “kiss my chuddies” (if you don’t know what it means, just look in the Oxford English Dictionary, where it appeared after the programme).

“We didn’t know if the rest of the world would get it,” says Meera. “It was such a struggle to get it on. We had to go through several hoops, and I mean the concept of Asians being funny was just so unknown. Nobody thought of us as the comedians. We were always the people that were the butt of the joke, never the ones telling it. And so we had nothing to lose, which gave us a kind of dizzying freedom. We thought, we’re going to do the stuff that absolutely makes us laugh and is absolutely authentic to our British Asian experience. But I think the fact that we were genuinely authentic and that it was a very inclusive celebratory show, celebrating who we were, is the thing that’s made it last.”

These shows were a gamechanger and paved the way for others from ethnic minorities to pursue their dreams. “If you’d have told me when I was a 10 or 11-year-old that one day there would be mainstream south Asian stars like Riz Ahmed or Himesh Patel or Archie Panjabi or Parminder Nagra, I wouldn’t have believed you,” says Meera. “I wouldn’t have believed that we could have had a south Asian prime minister.

“That doesn’t mean we haven’t got a way to go. I still think we suffer from a slight otherness when it comes to our stories, that they’re not considered mainstream yet. But, for example, The Split Up has been a huge success on BBC One. That we can be out there on prime time is a huge step forward.” Meera says she wouldn’t have been able to go down the creative route herself had she not had the support of her parents (they had broken convention themselves by marrying for love rather than having an arranged marriage).

“Which is why the book is a sort of love letter to them and their generation – their sacrifices and hard work,” she says. “It meant everything that my parents supported me, because I had a lot of friends who were forced into things they didn’t want to do, whether that was relationships or career paths.

“I was so lucky that I had unconventional parents who were quite creative themselves. I mean, don’t get me wrong; there was a bargain there. Like you do your degree, you get a good grade, and then you’ve got something to fall back on. And they were right – it did give me a security blanket of kinds.”

In her memoir, Meera shares stories from her grandfather’s attempts to arrange her marriage to her life as an actress and writer to her journey to motherhood. She delves into her parents’ past, revealing lives deeply affected by the partition of India in 1947 and its effects on so many people of her generation. She also talks openly about personal traumas such as divorce, sexual assault and her father’s Alzheimer’s. 

The reason the book is called Vigilauntie is because her aunties have been the backbone to Meera’s life – “the blowsy Greek chorus to my trials and successes, triumphs and failures, my inspiration and, occasionally, my conscience”, she writes. The aunties who would constantly tell her: “Don’t sit with your legs apart”, “You can only get fat after you’re married” and “Divorce? Call it ‘dievorce’, because better you die than do that to your family.” 

Now an auntie herself, Meera understands that their controlling behaviour was the only way they knew how to offer protection. Often these were strong women who hadn’t fulfilled their own dreams and passions because they hadn’t been encouraged or had the opportunity to spread their wings.

“I will never forget them,” says Meera. “Most of them are gone now, and I miss them terribly. But the couple that are remaining came to my book tour in Birmingham. It was fantastic seeing them again, and even the bad ones I remember with fondness because, you know, they were great comedy material for a start. But also, that journey I went through between fearing them and understanding them – it’s like a journey of womanhood.

“I was lucky. I was surrounded by incredible women, and generally throughout my life, it’s been women that have inspired me. Toni Morrison inspired me as a writer so much and Alice Walker – all that generation of extraordinary women who were breaking barriers. Women like Shonda Rhimes and Mindy Kaling who are heads of their own production companies and can put the stories on that they want without going through the gatekeepers. I think that’s amazing. 

Growing up, one of Meera’s role models was Victoria Wood. She recalls an excruciating audition for the woman she describes as her “absolute heroine”. “I finally met my inspiration and let myself down very badly. It was the worst audition of my life… because it meant too much. I loved her too much. I wanted to work with her too much, and I brought in this air of utter desperation.”

I ask Meera what she considers to be the biggest lesson she has learnt from her success and what advice she would give her young self. “I’d probably tell my young self that it’s going to get better – and don’t give up. It’s lonely, so find your tribe. Always generate your own work because this is a really tough industry, and no one’s going to hand it to you on a plate. And find mentors. You need powerful people that can open doors for you sometimes when they remain locked.

“Goodness Gracious Me and The Kumars at No 42 were championed by white, middle-aged, middle-class men who believed in the project, and that was great because somebody with power took a chance on us. And often you do need those people when you keep hitting that glass ceiling. You need someone who will step up and say: ‘I will take a risk on you.’”

Now she’s an auntie herself, does she find herself saying the same things as her aunties used to say back in the day? “Yes, I do. My kids say: ‘Oh my God, all right, auntie.’ But I do think we can all be vigilaunties. We can redefine what auntie means, and I think particularly for bringing our girls up and giving them opportunities, and also how we raise our boys – and raise boys who really know what gender equality is, and don’t just mouth it, but actually live it. 

Meera certainly channelled every bad-ass auntie she knew to play the naughty, outrageous character of Granny Kumar in The Kumars at No 42. And, of course, she always sat with her legs apart.

Vigilauntie by Meera Syal (published by Weidenfeld & Nicolson) is out now; weidenfeldandnicolson.co.uk