Market spices always made me feel ill. The aroma would go straight to the back of my olfactory cortex, pounding the inner walls of my head.

“Don’t lie,” Mother always said, “God is watching.” I never spoke a single word. “Don’t meddle,” she said as I messed around with things that are not ought to be messed with. God is watching. “Don’t steal,” she said. God is watching. But when she turned her back to the kitchen counter I always grabbed an extra ladoo and enclosed my sticky hands around it in a warm embrace, hoping that God wasn’t watching.

“Amma,” I cried while my mother trapped me in layers upon layers of fabric. “Why must I wear these clothes? They itch and scratch. Look Amma! I can’t even raise my arms.” “We must wear them to feel a connection to our religion.” I placed my arms down as she continued to pleat fabrics and drain them on my shoulder.

It was always about God. He would get me good grades, bring me good luck, and make all my wishes come true.

“We are all disciples,” Amma recited as she did my hair and put it into its ordinary plait.

I never bothered to learn what it meant. All that mattered was that after we prayed, we got ladoos.