It’s #SouthAsianHeritageMonth in the UK. We can be terrible at sharing our stories, often because they've not been written down, our storytelling has been oral. Which makes it feel all the more important to share how my family came to be in Scotland. All beginning in 1942.

My sisters, cousins & I are the first generation born in Scotland, but my family has been in Scotland, Glasgow specifically, since my Great Grandfather came here in the 1942 and worked as a door to door salesman. He was a widower and left his young family to make a living here.

My Grandfather was born in Jullunder, Indian & was very young when his father left. He and his siblings would have been raised by other family members, as is still the way for many today that have family that go elsewhere in hope of a better chance at earning.

Here is the briefcase my Great Grandfather used to sell brushes as he traveled around Scotland. My dad tells us he would be instructed to trade for food rather than money because of the war. He lived in the Gorbals in a small flat with other men like him.

We know very little about my great grandfather. I often wonder if he came to Scotland out of necessity or a sense of adventure, a want to see what existed outside of India. I wonder how much English he knew, did he know how to read and write? What sort of racism did he face?

When partition happened in 1947, my Grandfather and Gran were a young married couple, and I'm sure they'd had their first child, still a baby, when they had to make the journey from India to Pakistan. Google maps tells me it's a 5 day walk from Jullunder to Rahim Yar Khan.

My grandparents were the ones that looked after my great grandfather when he went back to Pakistan to visit, because of this out of all his kids he chose my Grandfather to join him in Glasgow. In 1962/1963 my Grandfather came to Glasgow.

My favourite photograph of him from 1967.

He worked as a labourer and barely had any time with his father before he died. He's buried in Glasgow now. We would go to his grave a lot when I was younger.

My Grandfather then worked as a chef at the Koh-I-Noor. He was desperate to bring his wife and 8 kids over.

In 1974 he got his citizenship. I shared the top of the certificate the other day, here it is again. He tried several times to call his family over, by the time he succeeded only his three youngest children were still minors and able to come over, along with my Gran.

My Grandparents were illiterate. I should have mentioned that. They couldn't read or write. My Grandfather told me a story of how he got lost at Cowcaddens once because he got so used to using buildings to find his way home, then one day it was dark and he couldn't see them.

My dad tells us that remembers my Grandfather coming to get them at the airport (Heathrow I think) and bringing this bag of tangerines or oranges, that's his first memory of being here. Then seeing soot covered buildings and being surprised at what Britain actually looked like.

The first house they bought was on Argyle street, and they paid £19.73 a month through the Glasgow District Council House purchase scheme. (Insane!!)

My dad & uncle worked at Shish Mahal as waiters. My aunt got a job sewing somewhere. They all worked, money was sent back home.

My dad & siblings went to school. Dad wanted to go to college & study TV engineering but a prominent community member told him not to waste his time. When my dad told us this it was the first time I've understood where his passion for us to do well and do what we love comes from.

Dad eventually got a really good job in a factory that made beds and sofas. I think at one point he was doing technical drawings and if the company hadn't gone bust then he'd have worked his way up. Dad's an artist, he draws so well, and he loves cameras. He just never admits it.

Now, my Mum and Dad got married in the funniest of ways. Dad was attacked while working at Shish Mahal. Someone threw a glass jug at him and he ended up in hospital. His pinky one one hand still can't be straightened because of it.

My Mum's aunt came to see my Dad, because community word got round, she didn't know the family. My Gran was in a panic, her son 'nearly died' and she wanted to get him married. So my Mum's aunt set him up with my Mum who was in Pakistan and within weeks it was done.

My Mum came to Glasgow 3 weeks before she got married. They got married in the living room and lived with my grandparents, my uncle and his wife and my dad's younger sister. All in a small flat. Tiny beginnings. Eventually we all arrived, families moved into separate houses.

I grew up with my Grandparents living with us for most of their lives. I was most definitely the favourite, I think it's because I reminded them so much of my Dad when he was younger so when I pushed Dad's buttons my Grandparents would step in and take my side.

My Grandfather would love walking us to the library so we could get books. I didn't realise the depth of this until I got a little older - this man that couldn't read ensuring that his grandkids had access to books whenever they wanted them, even if we couldn't afford them.

We grew up knowing Woodlands like the back our hands - Kelvingrove park was our playground, for a treat they'd take us to the Botanics. The West End is considered a bit posh these days, but growing up it was full of immigrant families that managed to buy flats in the 70s.

Glasgow was home to my Grandfather more than anyone. He LOVED being in Scotland. When they moved into their own place they would give us a little bottle of Irn Bru and a Caramel Wafer every time we went to see them.

But I definitely felt a conflict with my South Asian identity and what it meant to be Scottish. I think I definitely rejected a lot of being South Asian when I was younger - I was embarrassed by the clothes, I didn't listen to the music, I thought I had to choose.

I don't think Scotland did that to me. It was what I was seeing on screen and reading in books did that to me. I wasn't seeing myself reflected in a complex way, if at all. So it took getting older, understanding family history and the choices made, that made me appreciate it.

I didn't understand all the ways in which the South Asian experience, the Pakistani experience, had been diluted down to stereotype and the opportunity to really explore that was taken away from me. It took me till my 20's to get to a point where I could understand that.

It's taken me most of my life to come to a point where I fully understand all the parts of me. The things that are specific to my family experience - class, literacy - We are the first generation to go to university. The things that are specific to me and my own experiences.

I can see how my identity is the is collage of everything - Female, Pakistan, Scottish, Muslim, Daughter, Sister, Aunt, Writer, Friend - more and more words get added to that all the time. It's always evolving.

But I've come to a point where being South Asian is important to me, and it's important to my work - both in what I create and the conversations I have.

Being South Asian is multi-layered and complex and so specific to each individual.

I'm genuinely excited about all the South Asian voices we have the world today. We were colonised and our voices taken from us for so long, but now there's a need and ways to take control back and share our stories and our histories.

We can love them and feel conflicted about them. We can read words from our ancestors and see the poets and storytellers that never got a chance to be heard, and make sure that we uplift as many voices as we can now to ensure that doesn't happen again.

This was all very personal,& possibly of zero interest to many, but I thought I should share as part of South Asian Heritage Month. It also took me an entire day to decide if I should share a photograph of my grandfather because it/he means so much to me and I miss him immensely.

Final thing - Many of these stories weren't openly shared. We've asked my parents and even grandparents questions over the years. My Grandparents are gone now, but we still get my parents to repeat stories, more details coming out each time.

Ask the questions. Tell them the stories matter. I worry that sometimes parents from immigrant communities think they should only look forward and not share too much of the past. But they matter, they matter so much. Please, if you can, ask the questions.