My brother and I are more Parsi than Iranian, despite mixed but equal genes. But for one day every year, we'd switch gears, renewing our ties with the country our father left as a teenager to make a life in Mumbai. Our mother, a Parsi, was debilitated by language although high on enthusiasm. She gave up, I estimate, on Persian when she confused cherries ("gilas" in Farsi) with the English "glass", ending any hope of earning brownie points from her mother-in-law. She'd stand awkwardly but amiably as my father greeted guests around the sofreh, spraying them with rose water, and showing them their reflection in a table mirror—a way to reflect on the year gone by. A bite of baklava or a mouthful of walnut and ghesei (apricot) were followed by the double hug.

Nowruz ("new day") was centred at home around the sofreh, a table with an elaborate spread. It was a sort of thanksgiving punctum, stacked with everything that nature offers you, because the festival celebrates the onset of spring and the agricultural season after a long, trying winter. Although every home customises the "table" (ours veers towards dry fruit, wine, sweets and flowers), the spread must include seven items beginning with the Farsi letter for seen: Sabzeh (wheat or barley sprouts); sir (garlic); sib (apples); sumac (berries); serkeh (vinegar) samanu (wheat germ pudding) and senjed (dried fruit from lotus tree).