The Candid Life of Meena Dave(30)

“I like London,” he said. “I spent a couple of years there working. I traveled a lot when I was based there. Spain, Belgium, Sweden.”

“I’m based there—in London,” Meena said. “Well. Sort of. I was in Seoul before that.”

“Where’s home?”

“I don’t have one.” It was a reflex answer. The truth, that her home had exploded when she was a teenager, wasn’t something people responded well to.

“I can’t imagine what that would be like,” Sam said. “I need a home. One place. I like knowing my neighborhood. The bakery, the restaurants where I’ve eaten so often they don’t even hand me a menu. I like the change of seasons outside of my window. The daily routine, the steadiness.”

“I like having to think for a few minutes when I wake up about where I am and why. The unpredictability of what’s ahead is energizing.”

They crossed through Beacon Hill and turned right on very busy Cambridge Street.

“Here we are.” Sam stopped in front of the restaurant. “Tip Tap Room.”

It was noisy, and there were large and small tables scattered throughout the big room. They followed the hostess and passed the long bar full of people, pints in hand, laughing and chatting away. As she took the menu from the server, for the first time in a while, Meena felt a little lighter, less tired from the weight of her listlessness.

“This is nice,” she said. “I’m glad we decided to go out.”

He raised his eyebrows.

She laughed. “You know what I mean.”

He laughed. “I’m glad to have dinner, not a date, with you.”

She hid her sheepish smile behind the giant menu. A trio played pop in the corner, the singer vocalizing over the din of the crowd. The air was heavy with the smell of fried food and hops. People around them laughed and joked, some singing along. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed someone’s company in such a relaxed way. Her camera was a mile away from here, and to her great surprise, she didn’t mind at all.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


In chair pose, Meena squatted and reached her arms out. She’d been practicing yoga since college because it balanced her and helped her stay strong. There weren’t many yoga poses she could do with a cast on one arm, but she liked the practice of strength and stretching. She’d never been a runner, or an athlete of any sort. Built like bones over skin, she’d been called Skeletor by childhood bullies. She liked that with yoga she could increase the strength of her small muscles and rest her noisy mind.

Yoga was an ancient Indian practice, and she wondered if she was genetically inclined to bend and flex in such ways. In the past few days, Meena had come around to the idea that it would be good to learn a little more about India. From the aunties, she’d learned some in-culture things like that Indians do not say naan bread. Naan is a type of bread like a bagel or baguette. And it’s not chai tea because chai literally means tea.

She’d even downloaded a language-learning app to see if she could pick up some Hindi words, if her tongue would form the sounds. She wasn’t in the weeds reading ancient texts, but more at the Wikipedia level of knowledge, just learning enough to get a taste. She didn’t feel Indian, if that was a thing.

A loud thud in the hall jolted her. She came out of her pose and opened the door.

“Everything OK?”

“Oh, fine.” Tanvi moved two large, flat, square marble tiles on either side of Meena’s doorframe. “It slipped, they’re heavy.”

“What are they?”

“Decorative,” Tanvi explained. “It’s for Diwali. I create the rangoli for all our entry doors. Uma secures electric votive candles on the stairwell and front porch. Sabina cooks all the food.”

Meena understood about a third of what was said. “Do you need help?”

“Let’s see how artistic you are.”

Crouching, Tanvi pushed forward a tray filled with small bowls of powder in blues, greens, reds, oranges, pinks, yellows, and white. She took a pinch of the white and made a small circle in the center of the other marble tile. It had a rim, so the powder would likely stay if it wasn’t jostled.

Meena sat next to Tanvi to watch her work. Tanvi added other colors, and an intricate design took form, a small paisley shape with little flowers surrounding it, all created with silky dust. “You have a very delicate hand. Steady.”

Tanvi beamed. The bangles on her wrist jingled as she continued to work. “Thank you. I paint, sculpt, and even have a pottery wheel. This is simply another medium.”

“I see,” Meena said. “And this is part of the celebration?”

“The festival of lights.” Tanvi drew an outline with white powder. “The culmination of good over evil. Some Hindus celebrate Diwali as a season that can last multiple weeks. In Gujarat, for example, it starts with Navratri; then there are also days in between that are celebrated by different observers of different gods and goddesses. It all culminates with the Indian New Year.”

Meena knew a little about Diwali, but not much. “Is it a religious holiday?” She had been raised Catholic. Faith had been a ritual in her childhood, Easter Mass and Midnight Mass. She’d been baptized, received Communion. It was important to her parents, and she’d participated. She hadn’t set foot in a church since her parents’ funeral. What good was God if he couldn’t prevent a home explosion?