The First Mirror You Were Ever Handed
You didn't ask for the name. It arrived the way most things do in Indian families, casually, at a meal, from a grandmother or a bua who thought she was being affectionate. Kaali. Sawli. Kali Billi. The dark one. Sometimes it came with a laugh. Sometimes with a pinch of the cheek. The warmth of the delivery was the whole problem, because it made the name impossible to argue with. You were four, or six, or eight. You didn't yet know you were allowed to disagree with the people who fed you.
