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It was January 1, 2014. My birthday had passed, and I was coming upon the one-year anniversary of my divorce from Dev. It was also the first day of the New Year and the day of J. D. Salinger’s birth. Every New Year, Mumma would organize an elaborate brunch at home for close friends and family. We would drink mimosas until early afternoon and then play cards on the patio. “If you live correctly, one life is enough, beta,” she would say.
January 1 was also what Dev called National s*x Day. Before going to my parents for brunch, no matter what time we had returned home from a New Year’s Eve party the night before, Dev insisted I dress up as a sexy nurse. My body didn’t handle alcohol well, or Delhi winters, and for ten years in a row, I pleaded with Dev to let me be. “I am still hung
