The Candid Life of Meena Dave(8)

Meena added the card to the envelope with the others. As the sun rose higher, the living room filled with light and color, and she turned over the things she knew, searched for threads and meaning.

Surprised by a knock at the door, Meena answered. Three women barreled in without invitation.





CHAPTER FOUR


“Can I help you?” Meena asked.

She recognized two of the three women. They were about the same age, possibly in their fifties, though their skin was flawless in differing shades of brown. Each carried something in her hand: a container, a bouquet of flowers, or a thermos.

The woman she didn’t recognize was in jeans and a sweatshirt with a Boston University logo. Her short hair was layered at the top. The one with the flower arrangement was Tanvi from this morning. She still wore a long velvet dress with several necklaces draped around her neck, but her hair was now in a big bun with a coil of beads holding it together. The one with the thermos was the first woman she’d met, Sabina. Today she was in a long green silk shirt with leggings. She wore her hair in a braid that lay over her right shoulder. She had a small red dot on her forehead between her sharply arched eyebrows.

“Ay, why are you wearing shoes in the house?” Sabina asked. “Where are your slippers?”

“Again . . . can I help you?”

“No,” Tanvi cut her off. “We’re here to welcome you with chai and parathas. And fresh flowers, which will make you feel more at home.” She placed the big arrangement on the console table next to the door.

“Thank you”—Meena hesitated—“but I’m on my way out.”

“To go where?” the woman with the container asked.

Meena pursed her lips. She wasn’t used to answering to anyone. “The airport.”

“Leaving already?” Sabina asked.

“Only to get my suitcase.”

“Why did you leave it there?” the woman with the container said.

Meena sighed and closed the door behind her. They were settling in at the dining table by the front windows, and Meena realized they weren’t going to budge until she answered their questions.

“Take off your shoes and sit.” Tanvi waved her over. “Food and tea will give you energy for your errands.”

Meena knew that in many Asian cultures, shoes in the house were a no-no. She complied and joined them at the table.

“Chai and chitchat,” Tanvi said. “That’s how things are in the Engineer’s House.”

“Who?”

“This house,” Sabina said with obvious pride. “It has been called the Engineer’s House for almost one hundred years, named by the original residents who lived here while they studied at MIT.”

Meena thought back to the index card that had come with the deed to the house. That must be what it referred to.

“This is Uma.” Tanvi pointed to the woman in the BU sweatshirt. “She brought parathas because they’re her specialty.”

“Savory and full of flavor.” Uma glared at Tanvi while speaking.

“She’s also very opinionated. Thinks my cooking is bland. But my husband has high blood pressure,” Tanvi said.

“That’s salt, but what about all the missing spices?” Uma asked.

“Heartburn.”

Uma rolled her eyes and shook her head.

“Sabina brought chai.” Tanvi walked toward the kitchen. “She’s the boss of this building.”

“The caretaker,” Sabina clarified. “I’m responsible for the building and its families.”

“She will interrogate you and is the guilty-until-proven-innocent type,” Tanvi called out.

“That’s not true,” Sabina said.

“Once, when we were teenagers”—Uma lit a candle on the corner table next to the window—“she told me I had lost her favorite winter hat because she had lent it to me. I told her for weeks I had returned it. But she didn’t believe me. Then one day, she found it under her bed when she was cleaning.”

“I apologized,” Sabina muttered. “You never let that go.”

Meena listened to their chatter as they brought over plates and mugs from Neha’s kitchen. She took a seat and looked through the window. It was a sunny day. A few people walked past, and a couple took photos of the street. She spotted Wally running around on the small plot of grass in the front yard, sniffing the sturdy red flowers so meticulously planted against the hedgerow. Meena caught Sam’s eyes. He put his finger up to his lips, the universal sign for Don’t tell anyone I’m here. She nodded and turned her attention to the women, who were busying themselves as if they often came into this apartment to take it over.

Though she wasn’t that hungry, Meena wanted to try the flatbread Uma served her. It was like a tortilla, but smaller and green, with sesame seeds in it.

“What’s this?”

“Spinach paratha.” Uma rolled one up, dipped it in her chai, and took a bite. “Have you never tried?”

“I don’t think so,” Meena said.

“This is a Gujarati specialty,” Tanvi clarified. “Warm parathas with mango pickle and hot chai. Comfort food.”

Meena ripped the bread with both hands.

“No. Like this. Watch.” Sabina pressed the thumb of her right hand into the paratha, then used her index and middle finger to rip a piece of it off. Once she had a sizable piece in her hand, she used it to scoop up a little of the mango pickle before gracefully gliding it into her mouth.