Our three-week trip to India was coming to an end and I still hadn’t found an answer to the question that had ostensibly prompted the trip. I decided to ask the woman who owned the Goa beach huts in which we were staying. “Do you think I’m Indian?” “No,” she replied. Oh well, never mind. At least that was out of the way.
I was adopted when I was three months old. I was born in Bristol but have never had any real idea of my heritage, other than being south Asian. And I have never cared a hoot. Mum and Dad are my mum and dad, and my younger brother (my parents’ biological son) is my brother. Who cares if I have slightly darker skin than the rest of the family?
