“Where is your brush?”
“My hair is fine,” Meena said.
Tanvi laughed. “You do not have aunties in your life, do you?”
“I don’t understand.”
“When an auntie says she will fix your hair,” Tanvi said, “she’s not doing you a favor or being nice. She’s giving you an order.”
Meena shrugged. This wasn’t a battle she was going to pick. And not that she would ever admit it, but she did want her hair braided and out of the way. Meena went to her suitcase on the living room floor, took out her travel bag, and handed it to Sabina.
“Sit,” Sabina said.
Sabina stood behind her and brushed out and braided her hair, while Tanvi poured chai from a thermos. Sabina wasn’t gentle about it, but it felt good to have someone do this one small task for her. And it allowed Meena time to quiet the emotions threatening to escape. She wasn’t ready to admit her assumption about the notes, much less talk about it. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Sabina cleaned out the brush and threw the excess hair in the kitchen bin before washing her hands and joining them at the table.
“You have such a lovely face,” Uma said. “With your hair pulled back, your eyes really stand out. Wide and dark. There is a bit of amber in the dark brown. Very striking.”
“I will take you to my eyebrow salon.” Tanvi clapped her hands. “Just a cleanup—they’re so thick. A finely shaped brow can make up for so many beauty flaws.”
Meena touched her brow. “What flaws?”
Tanvi laughed. “You don’t have any. Yet.”
“I will text you the name of my eye cream.” Uma reached for her phone. “You’re too young for those tiny wrinkles.”
“I haven’t really been able to . . .”
“And your lips are dry,” Sabina said. “Vaseline before bed. Every night.”
Had they picked Neha apart like this? Did Meena resemble Neha? Curiosity chafed at her.
“I was wondering why there are no photos in the apartment.” Meena picked up the cup Tanvi had put in front of her and let the aroma of chai warm her. She rested her casted arm on the tabletop and crossed her legs in the chair, tucked her bare feet into the nooks of her bent knees.
“Neha wasn’t a fan of memories.” Tanvi slid a full bowl in front of Meena.
“Upma.” Sabina served the rest of them before sitting down in front of her own setting. “It’s South Indian. Makes for a hearty breakfast.” Sabina added two sugars to Meena’s chai.
“It’s my specialty,” Uma bragged. “My family is from the North, but this is my favorite.”
“You all must have photos of her,” Meena said.
Tanvi took her seat. “I’m sure we have some. I’ll look through some old albums and find a few for you.”
“Why the curiosity?” Sabina asked. “You said you didn’t know her or why she left this apartment to you.”
“I am a journalist,” Meena reminded them.
“Unlike this model here”—Uma pointed to Tanvi—“Neha did not like to have her photo taken. Not even during Diwali or Halloween. She avoided the camera.”
“Was she shy?”
Uma laughed. “More just being contrary.”
Meena let the topic drop and scooped up a spoonful from her bowl. It had a texture like grits and contained finely diced carrots, peas, and onions. Crunchy yellow lentils broke up the mushy texture. Flavors exploded in her mouth. She could normally handle heat, but she hadn’t been expecting the bite from the green chilis to hit the back of her throat first thing. She coughed and took a sip of hot chai.
“It isn’t very spicy.” Uma took another bite.
A lie. “I grew up on meat and potatoes,” Meena said.
“No seasoning?” Sabina asked.
Meena held the cup of chai with both hands, taking in the warmth. “Salt, mustard, black pepper, occasionally garlic, and lots of herbs my mom grew in the garden.”
“But what about cumin and turmeric? Cloves, asafetida. There are hundreds of spices that meld in a million different ways to flavor food,” Uma said. “Didn’t your mother cook?”
“It wasn’t a priority for her.” Meena defended her mom: “She was a botanist. Her career came first.”
“That makes sense,” Uma agreed. “I don’t cook if I can avoid it.”
Meena was glad the aunties hadn’t picked up on the past tense when she mentioned her mother.
“The trick is to marry someone who can,” Tanvi said. “My husband is very good in the kitchen. And the bedroom.”
Meena almost choked on her tea. “Congratulations.”
“Don’t encourage her,” Sabina said.
Tanvi winked at Meena. “Human sexuality is perfectly fine to discuss, even in mixed company. Or I should say especially in mixed company.”
Meena liked Tanvi. There was always a smile on her round face, and she dressed artistically, always wearing long velvet dresses and her hair adorned with chains, pins, and ribbons. Her eyes were lined, with a flare on the outer edges. Meena wondered if Neha’s patchwork style had ever clashed with Tanvi’s aesthetic, or if Neha had ever sat there with the three of them as they discussed food and sex.
“Speaking of,” Tanvi teased. “What do you think of our Sam?”
Meena put her cup down. “He’s nice.”
“Meh,” Tanvi grumbled. “Potato chips are nice. What do you think of him as a man? A single, handsome man?”
Meena ate a little more, in small bites to manage the heat level. “I didn’t notice.”
“You are a bad liar,” Tanvi observed. “Your eyes look away and your nose twitches.”
Mena dropped her spoon. Her mom used to say the same thing. A wave of longing washed over her. She breathed through it and picked up the mug.
Tanvi sighed and rested her elbow on the table. The dozen or so bracelets she wore on her wrist clinked with the movement. “Sam needs company, and I can tell that he likes you.”
Meena kept her voice casual. “As a person. Besides, he likes everybody.”
“Not so,” Sabina muttered.
Meena glanced at her, but Sabina didn’t repeat her words.