The first time I visited the motherland I understood nothing of India, except that it was my own. At four years old I had left England for the first time and thought of home as the place I got to rest my head each night. Now it was a land that bloomed with Marigolds, each flower threaded into a garland and placed over the heads of newcomers. Heritage lay in the way it moved through a floral translation to say welcome. It felt like a birthday to get to call it my own. I’d grow up to realise it was in fact, a birthright and one that I’d have to cling onto for many years to come. “The harsh reali…