Mother’s Day lands on my mum’s birthday this year, which gives it extra poignancy. She’s been dead for 6 years now, and never got to see my wife become a mum, which was her dying wish, if you can have such a thing. (I imagine not dying is high on most people’s wish lists, as they turn to face the great beyond.)

There was a strange atmosphere in the car when I got back in, clutching my A-level results. So much so that I think I opened a window to let it out. But it wouldn’t shift, like a bad smell on a country road, even when my mum and sister turned around and talked over each other.

“And… where are you from?” they’d ask, slowly, hands clasped between their knees, crouching slightly as if talking to a child or, I suspected, someone they weren’t sure spoke good English.

When I was 15, I was obsessed with the film ‘Bad Boys’. It was one of those VHS tapes we wore out to the point of no return. No amount of fiddling with tracking settings was going to restore the picture. Already, when it arrived mysteriously via one of my sister’s friends, its sound was a little dodgy.

So, I was born in Wolverhampton in 1982 – on time, after a short labour, and with a minimal amount of fuss, I’m told. If I could have rinsed myself off and gathered up my belongings, I would have.

The white sheets billowed and filled the room with a flash of light, before being stretched across the carpet, as men moved furniture out of the living room and into the garage. Everyone knew what to do, except for me.

Anyone brown is an uncle or aunty in Indian culture. Even when they’re not. Like my Aunty Pinky, the only (other) Asian in the village. Or the man who ran the chip shop, who I think was actually Greek. Or my Uncle Tony, who’s really my second cousin. Or was, rather.

I was never really sure my mum was proud of me. My life, to my parents, seemed completely chaotic. I guess that’s because it wasn’t anchored by those things that signified stability to them: a house, a car, a job that could be described in a word or two. (“Something to do with computers?”)

It’s the question black and brown people hear all the time. “But… where are you really from?” I used to say – sheepishly – Telford, after first proffering the more upmarket Shrewsbury. No one ever believed that.

It pains me to admit anything in common with Margaret Thatcher, but like the former Prime Minister I am the child of shopkeepers. And this is where I grew up, above what is now a Costcutters. In its time, it was ‘Maid Marian’. My little corner shop of the world.

If you’ve ever wondered why fireworks ‘go on a bit’ – the pets have just recovered, the baby’s gone back down, and… BANG! That’s Diwali.

It’s a bit morbid to mark the anniversary of my mum’s death – today would be the third – but I use the time to celebrate and investigate her life.

When we were growing up, our granny stayed with us for months at a time. Not speaking any English, though curiously addicted to English-language soaps, her ears pricked whenever we talked about going out, and we’d find her by the door ready to go before we were.

It’s been exactly a year since my mum passed away. So, today I decided to see where her life started - here in Britain, at least - and visit the Port of Tilbury. That’s where my mum, her brother and her mum landed after a 21-day journey from Bombay that spanned three continents, two oceans, and one Christmas Day.