My husband’s auntie asks me, for the third time, which part of India I am from. Singapore, I tell her again and watch the answer fail to land, as though a country like Singapore could not account for a face like mine.

Another Delhi auntie leans in, a warm friendly smile on her face, and asks whether I eat idli and dosa for breakfast every day. Only as much as you have butter chicken and naan for dinner every day, I say, and then I smile. There is mild confusion around the table. I have learnt that a smile, delivered after a zinger, is disarming, especially when I am at my angriest.

My husband knows this smile. He crosses the roo kes my elbow and steers me away, gentle, practised. Later, he will say, I am sorry you had to put up with that, and he will mean it, and I will love him for it, and I will also register that there is a version of this afternoon in which I would not have needed steering away from anything.

• Tags: Arathi Devandran, Issue 45, Singapore