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“I need help holding the ladder.”

“We are not Americans , Riya. We are Indians ,” her mother snaps. “We host. We overfeed. We die of embarrassment quietly.” “I need help holding the ladder

In the kitchen, Savita Sharma is orchestrating a symphony. She measures tea leaves into a bubbling pan of milk, ginger, and cardamom. Her sari pallu is tucked securely into her waist, and her eyes track three things at once: the parathas on the tawa, the rising dough for evening snacks, and the simmering tension between her husband and son. Riya. We are Indians

From her pillow, Riya hears her mother whisper, “She needs new college shoes.” the rising dough for evening snacks