I have begun to wonder if those who deliver our eulogies are the storytellers of our lives and if our funerals are the official initiation of our legacies — the beginning of the curation of our lives into symbols by others. Death has been an incessant presence in my mind lately.

Out of all the characters in the Star Wars universe, Darth Vader was the most complex figure for me to behold. I was a child with frequent asthma attacks, and I unexpectedly resonated with him because his weakness was also his strength. He was completely reliant on his breathing apparatus to survive, yet the raspy sound of his breathing became a portent of doom, inspiring unequivocal fear among his subordinates and enemies alike. When Vader’s mask was removed, the image of his ghostly, scarred face was seared into my memory as a child.

“Get out of my country.” Those were the last words that I could remember hearing. Everything else was a blur of images and fragmented memories: the fluorescent beer signs gently hummed and looked down upon us above the entrance.

TO MY NEPHEW: You're 2 years old as I write this letter. You're beginning to burst forth with the occasional phrase and idea, mixing your words with excited gibberish.

Close to three years ago, my sister and brother-in-law got married. No matter your birthplace or practicing faith, weddings are intrinsic to being Indian.