Where did you get that?

This is how you know you've lived away from your siblings for way too long.

You look at recent pictures of them and don't recognize any of their clothes.

If you have to ask more than twice 'Where did you get that?' or 'When did you get that?', then it's been too long.

Tonight, I realised a gift my parents gave me....

was the ability to sit in a fancy restaurant, drinking expensive alcohol and the knowledge of which knives, forks and spoons to use without embarrassing myself.

It is the same ease with which I can sit and eat a simple meal with no cutlery involved (true Indian style!).

When we were young, my sister and I used to hop over the wall of our garden and go to a labourer's shack next door. The lady was working on the renovation work of our neighbour's building. We sat on the floor, ate from her plate and played with her baby.

Looking back, I see the house was makeshift and tiny, the food simple.

But the enjoyment was the same as any we had when we ate out with our parents.

One day we were at her shack. The next, we were at the five-star President Hotel eating at their famous Thai Restaurant.

It never seemed strange or out of place, the dichotomy of our social interactions.

But now, when I see how uncomfortable some people are when they are not at a place that serves food 'just so', or see friends who are used to simple food shift uncomfortably when they are invited to la-di-dah restaurants, I am able to appreciate this gift.

So to conclude, I was totally and completely able to enjoy Lahore Kebab House tonight.

Just as much as I was able to enjoy Assaggi, Status, Global Fusion or any other place I went to.

The fact that I'm a foodaholic has nothing to do with it of course.

Out to Dinner

I can see them wondering what our connection is.

What could we possibly have in common?

The old, white gentleman and the young, brown girl.

I can see what they see.

How absolutely happy we are to see each other.

How we both have tears in our eyes, and they lean closer to catch a snatch of the conversation - the stories you're telling me of people long dead and gone.

How I reach across to hold your strong, wrinkled hand - to comfort you as much as myself, as we talk of the worst bits of our shared story.

I want to tell them to stop staring.

To look away,

because they will never understand that what family means to you and me

has nothing to do with geography, colour or age.