“Tsk…later, eat these first.” Daddy points to piping hot samosas. ‘Got them specially for
you.’
It’s been thirty years. He doesn’t know I’ve turned gluten free.
I ask again.
“We must’ve given them to the maids or something…it’s been thirty years.”
“Not even one?”
“What use is hoarding rubbish? Tsk.”
It’s been thirty years and I remember how Mummy’s wine-red Banarasi silk, her light-as-air-
pineapple-yellow chiffon with silver gota patti and her favourite moong-green crêpe de chine
made me feel when I wrapped me in them, secretly—as a child, as a teenager. Back when this
was home.
Daddy’s new wife offers me chutney.
“What about Mummy’s saris?” I ask my father after thirty years
