When I was 11, I had a little cry in the bathroom when I found out my mum was having another girl. It’s a really awful thing to admit because that little girl grew up to be one of my sisters, who I love. But at the time, my siblings and I desperately wanted a boy in the family.

I obviously didn’t hate girls. I was one of four, now one of five. But by 11, I already understood the assignment. Being a boy in my community was different. A son was something to celebrate. Girls, however, we came with responsibility. We were a burden. Boys came with value.

My parents kept trying until they finally got their boy. He was the last one, and of course we love him, too. Recently, when my parents were annoying me about something, probably something I’d already explained to them 15 times in broken Benglish, I looked them squarely in the eye and said: “You do realise that when you’re both doubly incontinent, it won’t be your future daughter-in-law wiping your arses? It’ll be us five daughters.”

Funnily enough, they understood that. I was joking. But not really. And I watched something dawn on their faces that looked a lot like: “Hmmm she’s probably right.”

In many South Asian communities, daughters traditionally marry into their husband’s family, while sons remain connected to, and historically often live with, their parents. That’s culture, not an Islamic requirement, despite the two often being conflated. Versions of this tradition exist across Hindu, Sikh and Muslim communities.

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