The unpredictable chords of the overly dramatic soundtrack from a Bollywood soap opera dominated the room. Omkar’s mother, Jarminder, was glued to the screen as usual, fully immersed in the storyline. Her figure was the very epitome of an Indian mother. Her curves softened into the subtle corpulence of middle age. A furrow of displeasure was always written across her face. Despite the overacting, these soap operas were her drug of choice. And except for the fact that it gave him temporary relief from her constant micromanagement, Omkar hated them.

Omkar was bothered by so much about his mother. He didn’t understand why they had come to America in the first place if they planned to bring so much of India with them. His mother still wore a salwar kameez every day of the week. To be fair, the silk fabric was more beautiful than what people of the Western world wore, but it was just one more thing that made fitting in impossible for the Agarwal family. Jarminder hated speaking English. Frequently, she would speak to Omkar and her husband in Punjabi and they would respond in English at home. She was as irritated with this behavior as they were irritated by her refusal to speak the language of the country that they were still trying to make into a home. It made her feel like she was losing herself.

Omkar’s father, Neeraj, also bothered him. Though he had demanded that they all learn perfect English, he too had defiantly brought his customs with him. Every day he would wake up and tediously wrap the navy blue fabric of his traditional Sikh turban into an aggressive peak. This was the image of his father that Omkar would always remember. His kara, a cast iron bracelet he wore on his right wrist, would slide across the surface of his arm as he pulled and folded the fabric of his turban across his cheekbones. In traditional Sikh form, as a sign of his acceptance of God’s will, he did not cut the hair from any part of his body. The bottom half of his face was claimed by wild black facial hair, which had long since been transforming into gray.

Omkar stood in the kitchen looking down over the street. He filled up a water glass, failing to turn off the faucet before it began to overflow onto his hands. “Dhi’āna rakhō,” his father said in their native tongue. It was a warning to be careful. Neeraj had taken it upon himself to bring Omkar’s feet onto solid ground. His son’s dreamy nature didn’t make him feel confident about his capacity to work hard enough to carve out a life for himself. The sound of Neeraj’s voice was deep and authoritative. Sometimes his father reminded Omkar of a warrior who had retired into the retail business. After all, the Sikhs had been warriors.