I only started practicing henna last year, now that we only see Nanu on Skype every other weekend. It’s something that makes me feel a little more connected to her, even though she’s entire oceans away.

Though my work is nowhere close to Nanu’s, I’ve definitely gotten better. Compared to the lopsided flowers and inconsistent vines I was drawing on Priti’s ankles a few months ago, I’m practically a henna genius.

Priti shifts around on the bed for a frustratingly long time before finally settling in and holding her palm out. I take hold of her bony wrist and rest her entire hand on the old, ratty cloth I laid out on the bed.

“No shaking,” I warn her, taking hold of the tube of henna. With my eyes flickering between my laptop screen and my sister’s outstretched hand, I finally begin my work. I draw half of a flower on one side of Priti’s hand, and if I have to say so myself, it looks pretty good. The half-circle petals are slightly uneven in shape and size, but from a distance they more or less look the same.

“Can you remind me again how Sunny Apu is related to us?” Priti asks. It isn’t that we don’t like Sunny Apu—we definitely do. She’s kind of like a fun, cool cousin who is also a family friend. But ever since her wedding was announced, it’s like she might as well be our sister from the way Khala and Ammu are acting.

I frown. Trying to apply henna to my sister’s hand while explaining complicated family dynamics to her isn’t exactly ideal. But if I don’t keep talking, Priti will get so bored that she’ll definitely start shifting around again. She’s the kind of person who can rarely sit still.

“She’s Ammu’s aunt’s husband’s cousin’s daughter,” I say, drawing a curved line from one of the flower petals all the way up to the tip of Priti’s ring finger.

“Why are Bengali relationships so complicated?”

“Something I ask myself every single day,” I mumble. It comes off a little more bitter than I want it to. I’ve laced it with all of the resentment I’m feeling for Ammu and Abbu. After all, it’s not just Bengali relationships that are complicated, is it? It’s this weird, suffocating culture that tells us exactly who or what we should be. That leaves no room to be anything else.

“Apujan.” Before I know it, Priti is prying the tube of henna out of my fingers. There is a glob of henna on her hand where it’s definitely not meant to be, but I can barely see it through the sudden glaze of tears in front of my eyes.

“Sorry.” I sniff, rubbing my eyes and willing the tears to disappear into nothingness.