My mother liked order.  

She was a teacher, the kind who felt timetables weren’t just for classrooms. In Lahore, where the heat hung in the air and the electricity came and went as it pleased, my mother carved out her own pocket of control. She ruled our summers with hand-drawn charts taped to our bedroom walls - chores, reading lists, summer activities - it was all mapped out.  

But there was one ritual that didn’t appear in the calendar, yet happened every June without fail.  

On a Sunday afternoon early in the month, ignoring the suffocating heat, my mother trudged into a tiny room in the back of our one-story 1960s bungalow. The door, typically locked, would be opened for a day to air out the smell of moth-balls and dust.  

Then came the real work. Trunks were dragged out one by one, metal sandooqs and battered brown suitcases carrying fabrics and formal dresses for women collected over decades. Most had been gathered by my Nani during her travels as the wife of a Brigadier to Iran, Jordan, India and Turkey.  

Each suitcase carried a rich array of fabrics - saris with gold elephants threaded to its pallus, tissue shalwars with all shades of purple and long skirts for women (lenghas) made from jamawar with motifs etched in gold. My mother would gently lay each one across her bed, holding them up to the light to check for any signs of damage. Sometimes she’d make a quiet comment about where the dress was bought or who it was meant for. Other times, she worked in silence.  

To me, a child running in and out of the store room, hoping to find an ancient toy or a half torn teddy I’d forgotten in there, all of this felt boring. The fabrics meant nothing more than potential trips to the tailor.  

After six years of living in London, and my wedding approaching, all I could think about was that store room- the smell of mothballs, the weight of all that it carried.  

My mother went back into that store room, as she had done every summer, in June 2024 and brought out a jamawar gharara with hand embroidered zari and resham motifs. Its dupatta was wide and intricate with dabka and aari embroidery. It was what my Nani had made for her wedding and it seemed only fitting that I wore it at mine.  

Somewhere between London and Lahore, I started to care for the smell of mothballs and the feel of old jamawar. I wore it just as it was.