changes in our family. This year, my sister insisted that one of the games must involve hiding away Baba’s bottles of “stinky water”. I suggested wiping away the silent drops on Ma’s face till she would stop flinching away from our touch. My sister had learned a new word this summer, problematic. She said it reminded her of our family. I told her that all families were problematic; the only thing that made us family was our willingness to love even the ugly bits in each other. Loving did become somewhat difficult for us as we held on to each other tightly while the yelling echoed louder at night. But this was all we had in the house that we knew we would love till every single brick would fall apart. Across the street lived a boy. This summer, he was older than I was. I peaked at him while he was sprawled in his veranda, practicing his French. Whenever he would look at me, it felt as if his eyes pierced right through me, as if I were nothing more than summer mist. This summer, saffron-clad men walked into our house and eyed it with apprehension, frightening Ma and Baba, feeding their fears with lies. They chanted away rapidly, but it was all an illusion. We should know, they were meant for us after all. A glass ves- sel shattered as my sister began losing her temper; she was still new at this. The chanting grew more aggressive. Ma was already in tears. The woman from across the street tried to comfort her, said that the house had never been the same since the mur- derous fire and that it was a futile attempt to make a home out of it. At that moment, I could envision the next summer. The boy across the street would be older and well versed in French. He would seem farther away recit- ing verses in the alien language. A new Baba would