You're fat. Your flabby little not so little actually, stomach rolls over your sari's petticoat. Pathetic. You're ugly. Your eye bags are stripping away your youthful happy-go-lucky femininity which was an era long gone as your stretch marks remind you. You're naive. Your hands are shedding their skin, bruised and burned because the kitchen is now engraved into your body. It's these hands with which you sign your children's papers so they can go on field trips and become people of their own, hands with which I once used to forge my own parent's signatures because I wanted to control my "destiny"—always written by someone else. You're unwanted. I believed in Bollywood movies. I believed in a romanticized future, where a language barrier in a foreign country would mean they would laugh at my cute accent. Instead, they just laugh at you. They insult you and you can't even understand them. Your mannerisms aren't quirky, they're d...