Age 8, and I learn to finally put on a kurta. I, awkward and clumsy, would put my head into the fibers first, squeal around, whining, flailing, fidgeting to place the arms. Once, I thought I’d be stuck there, in misery, forever. And once, I shouted I HATE MY LIFE just to try it out. But soon before dhuhr, through crack of door, I accidently see Grandmother. There underneath window light, her long belly cradled in a banyan, skin of wrinkles like rivers, beautiful and brown, she holds up a gray cotton, slides, so gracefully, arms in first. Oh. I skip onto the kitchen to eat an ice lolly like nothing happened. Like a smile is not pressed on my face; like I don’t wonder for the rest of every day: is this what Ms. meant going on and on about some man called Boodaw, some man and his Nearvana.