In Sindhi households, everything is veiled. It starts at the heart of the home – the kitchen. The refrigerator handle dare not stand in nudity. The mixer, when not in use, stands gracefully under a crocheted hood. Twenty five years ago, I used to mock this great Sindhi cover-up. Today, I’m the one doing the covering.

Much has been said about motherhood. “Motherhood is divinity” – I suppose that can be debated. “Motherhood is a job you can never quit” – True that. “Motherhood is a responsibility? – Hey, preaching to the choir, here! But to me, here’s what it really is: Motherhood means you are never alone in your thoughts.

My young nephew knows A for Asparagus, B for Broccoli, and C for Celery. While the proletariat “palak” and “methi” draw a blank from him, his eyes light up with joyful recognition at the mention of rocket, kale, and arugula. His international school has only taught him about “angezi sabzi”.

In Indian homes, closed doors hold dark secrets; they’re a salacious stand-in for “the deed”. Closed doors evoke innuendos, like the suggestive “Hum tum ek kamre mein band ho’n” from Bobby. But today’s generation thrives on the belief that there’s more to fear from closed minds than from closed doors.

I suppose nothing quite tells you that age is not just a number like hitting 50 does. And we now celebrate it with a big, extravagant bash. Does anyone really care about us turning 50? Then again, does that argument hold in an age where beauty standards for even ageing women are relentless?

As Indian girls, we are raised with the strict instruction that our bras should not be hung out to dry like the rest of the dirty linen we wash in public. Perhaps the reason that the bra has come to be a trigger garment is not because men can’t deal with it, but because with all our hiding we haven’t really given them a chance to.