The colours and fabrics of my mother’s old saris are a thread linking me to my Indian ancestorsIt’s my first memory. I’m watching my mother put on her sari in her old bedroom in Southall. It’s 1969 and I’m two years old. It’s early evening, all dark browns and blacks in my mind, like a sepia-tinted film. I remember the long white petticoat, tied at her waist with string, her figure defined by a dim light from the hallway. She starts wrapping her body in the lengths of material, quickly tucking... Read this story
