“Ah, y’all get it!” Natasha says. “So before, when I used to get unsolicited advice, I’d snap back. But when this man spoke to me, I stopped and said, ‘So funny you would say that, because my psychiatrist and I are still trying to figure out the best Prozac dose to make me want to smile all day.’ The guy was so taken aback. I’m telling you, just pure shock on his face. So then I said, ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Is that too personal and intrusive for you? I thought you gave a shit since you came up to me out of nowhere.’”

Yes! People are laughing!

“So, look, I am still trying to figure out the best Prozac dose, but I got an old white man to shut the fuck up. Win, right?” Natasha asks.

She hears a “Total win!” and a “Screw that guy!” Someone whistles. Wait, that high-pitched loud sound can only come from . . .

Mom! Mom is whistling!

“Oh, my mom. My sweet, sweet mom,” Natasha says. “She raised me to be politer than this. To be fair, my sister is this polite. She’s the dream for every Indian auntie . . . except, well, she didn’t marry an Indian guy. Then again, she married a Jewish one, which is a total win for desi parents. I mean, my brother-in-law is susceptible to guilt trips, a mama’s boy, and can sit through really long religious ceremonies, and aren’t those all an Indian family’s dream?”

Someone says, “HIND-JEW,” which compels Zack to stand up, cup his mouth with his large hands, and yell, “HIND-JEW IN THE HOUSE!”

“Look, everyone has their place.” Natasha walks up and down the stage. “My sister and brother-in-law are the successful and beautiful ones. My brother is the chill and peace-loving one. And I’m the one aunties come up to and ask, ‘You’re still not married yet?’ or even better, I get a cheek pinch and a comforting, ‘Don’t worry—someday your life will have meaning, too.’ I think the aunties and my therapist might agree on some things. In some ways, an auntie is like a therapist, telling you unflattering stuff about yourself. It’s just that I pay my therapist while an auntie gives her opinions unsolicited.”

Natasha smirks as she remembers Mira Auntie telling her not to worry because “even Pooja has a job that doesn’t make any sense.”

“My family really keeps me in check, you know?” Natasha follows up her question with a few impressions of Mom and Dad getting mad at her for her bad grades. “I’d get in even more trouble when I’d ask my parents why they moved to America if they weren’t going to hold me to white-parent standards.”

She continues her routine, shaky in some places, stronger in others. She still has a lot of work to do in figuring out her voice. But she’s okay with that.