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“My mother judges the quality of my day by the number of sandesh (sweets) I eat. If I eat three, she knows I failed a test. If I eat one, she knows I’m in love. The kitchen table is our confessional. We don’t do therapy in India; we do evening snacks.”

Dinner is the only time the entire family sits in one place. The TV is turned to the 9 PM news. The dining table is a mess of chapatis, sabzi, dal, raita, and a salad that no one eats.

And if you’ll excuse me, my mother is calling me for dinner. The dal is burning, and my father is yelling for the pickle.