A few months before my brother’s wedding, my mother and I gather in the living room to plan our outfits. Boxes of jewellery lie scattered around us: glittering gold and turquoise bangles and chunky necklaces. A leather-bound suitcase sits open on the floor, revealing numerous sarwal kameez – traditional silk outfits in a kaleidoscope of colours – that my mother brought with her from India decades ago.
As we sift through the jewel-toned garments, my mother reaches for a mehndi-green one with heavy gold beading and a long dupatta.
“This type of design is called zari. See the metallic threads handwoven through the fabric? You won’t find this kind of workmanship now, because they use cheaper materials.” My mother folds the salwar kameez inside out, showing me how to handle it so the threads don’t get tangled. 
I hold it against my body, feeling its weight and wondering what it would look like on me. I inhale its deep, musky incense scent. I recall a visit to India when I was six years old: playing with a small grey cat outside the apartment in Mumbai I was staying in, and visiting the dimly lit tailor’s shop where my mother’s salwar kameez were hand-sewn by one man.
One of the intricately patterned salwar kameez that Zahina's mother brought with her from India decades ago. Source: Supplied
My mother’s searching hands stop at a saffron-yellow and turquoise salwar kameez.
“I used to wear this one on Eid,” she says. “We strung fairy lights across the ceilings and windows to light up the terrace. My brothers and sisters and all our friends would gather there, trying to spy the first crescent moon.”
I scooped up each precious memory and held them close – clues to a life in a land I hardly know
I trace my finger along the silver threads that swirl into floral designs, like stars moving across the night sky. My mother has told me stories of her life in India before she moved to Australia in her 20s to marry my father, but the recollections have always been in fragments. I know she had a happy childhood in Mumbai as the youngest of seven children. The entire clan lived in a small room on the fourth floor of a seven-storey building – a home that radiated warmth and love. I scooped up each precious memory and held them close – clues to a life in a land I hardly know.
“After the pre-dawn suhur meal during Ramadan, we’d go on morning walks and greet neighbours and other families,” my mother tells me. “In the evenings before iftar, we’d browse the bazaars, our mouths watering at the smell of kebabs dripping with mint sauce and tandoori chicken churning on grills.”
She continues, “My ummi – your nanima – would be at home in the kitchen, making biryani or stirring vermicelli and dates in milk to make sheer khurma.”
My grandmother passed away before I was born, but my mother’s stories make it seem as if I’d met her. When I think of my grandmother, I think of her heart: the tender way she raised her children. The seeds of her love are still strong in my own mother, who always encouraged my brother and I to keep our roots. She urged us to speak Hindi at home and taught us beautiful proverbs that couldn’t be translated into English. On Eid, my mother cooked the dishes from her childhood, following old, handwritten recipes.
I was a painfully shy and quiet child. We didn’t have much of a connection to the wider Muslim community in my city; it took me a while to make friends. While fasting during Ramadan, I remember being met with intrigue at my predominantly Anglo-Australian school.
“You starve for the whole month?” one of my friends said when I informed her that Ramadan lasted a month. Everyone stopped unwrapping their sandwiches and stared at me, wide-eyed.
“It’s each day from sunrise to sunset for one month,” I explained. “Then we have a huge feast at the end, called Eid-ul-Fitr.”
I can’t imagine what it would’ve been like for my mother to leave her community, compacting her life into a few suitcases
I was glad for my friends’ curiosity and the chance to share aspects of my faith. But as I grew older, I began longing for a bigger community and friends who shared my cultural background. I eventually found them when I went to university and connected with other Muslim Australians who’d had the same experiences of isolation and discrimination as I’d had. Ramadan is a special time – it’s about community and belonging. Families and friends gather at the end of each day for iftar, bonding through food. Later, in the evenings, people pray together.
I’m in my early 20s now – the same age my mother was when she left India. I can’t imagine what it would have been like for her to leave her community, compacting her life into just a few suitcases.
After arriving in Australia, she got a job as a kitchenhand. One day, the chef accidentally poured hot water on her, scalding her hand. None of her co-workers came to her aid, and the chef blamed her. Later, she worked in a retail clothing store. She took pride in how she presented herself, wearing stylish yet practical salwar kameez. One day, her manager said: “If you want to practise your culture and way of dressing, go back to your old country. People here don’t appreciate it.” But outside of work, she continued to wear traditional clothing, holding on to the way it made her feel. 
In our living room, my mother unearths another beautiful salwar kameez: a deep fuchsia ombre one with swathes of blue, red and yellow. It’s like an intricate tapestry of her life across two continents: the vibrant warmth of her childhood in India bleeding into the cool expanse of Australia.
Full length view from behind of the richly decorated salwar kameez set. Source: Supplied
“I used to wear this as a teenager. It was one of my favourites,” my mother says.
I decide to try it on. As I slip the garment over my head, tiny mirrors threaded into the design throw pinpricks of light. The fabric shimmers, as if it’s alive. I’m awash in a sea of stars. I think of my mother’s journey, and how her memories and belongings from her life in India have nurtured her and enriched us, her children.
It’s a beautiful feeling to hold on to something that has been a part of another world. You can finally take a step back and see the constellations where the journey of your family begins and where yours comes in, intertwining.
Zahina Maghrabi is a creative writer who has been published in and has written for independent storytelling studio Moral Studios. Find Zahina on Instagram .
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