I learned how to hope at nineteen.

It started with a song. I did not, could not, know what was to come – the blood that would stain the streets, the fire that would fill the skies, the scars that would carve our souls – but even if I had, still I would have chosen it. Still I would have set myself on the path of rebellion.

On a windy March day in 1962, I pulled on my best and newest frock, a long navy-blue gown that Aai and I had commissioned from the local tailor. The high-waisted bust loosened into draped pleats, embroidered with silver sequins, and the sleeves went down to my elbows, pretty and modest. British styles often took some years to come to India, so the trend here had probably already gone out of fashion on their island. But I could not wear anything else, for saris or lehengas were not considered formal enough for British events.

The pointed heels were my least favourite part of the outfit, as they looked painful and felt worse. But Aai had insisted on buying them for my “promising career,” and so I reluctantly slipped on the heels and staggered out of the...

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