“You made it.” Tanvi reached out and took both of Meena’s hands in hers and squeezed.
Meena said her hellos and handed Sabina the pinot grigio she’d bought from the wine shop a few blocks away. People were scattered around, seated on formal furniture. Meena’s socked feet sank into the thick rug, as white as fresh snow. Sabina’s home spanned the width of the building, and the rooms were grand in their scale and decor. The bottom halves of the walls were paneled in rich, warm walnut-colored wood, and a creamy white paint coated the tops up to the crown molding. Meena would be hard pressed to find a scratch or a scuff anywhere. The seating was deep and tufted, in warm tones. The rich, dark wood tables sported gold hardware. To one side she could see a formal dining table, the chairs in creams and yellows complementing the tabletop. A crystal teardrop chandelier gave the room a sense of austerity.
Candles lay everywhere, from the large cylinder on the dining table to the pillars on the end tables. There was a hint of vanilla and clove in the air.
“Come,” said Vin, Uma’s husband. “Let me introduce you.”
Meena didn’t quite grasp all the names, but Tanvi’s son was there, as were Sabina’s son and daughter.
“My daughter couldn’t make it,” Uma said. “She’s in Boulder.”
Meena found an open spot next to Sam on the long white sofa. It was surprisingly comfortable. There was a stark difference between this home and Neha’s. Sabina’s was more like her childhood home, not in the elegant and moneyed sense, but in the pristineness of it all. Hannah Dave had not tolerated clutter or color.
Meena’s childhood home had been simple, in whites, grays, and wood. Two throw pillows, one on each end of their three-seater sofa. There hadn’t been candles, but her father would bring home fresh flowers on occasion, and the vase would be the centerpiece on their scarred and well-used coffee table.
“So you’re a famous photographer,” said Jiten, Sabina’s husband.
They complemented each other. Sabina’s style was formal, her hair tied back in a long, ruler-straight ponytail. Her red silk sari was embellished with gold embroidery around the edges. Jiten was a few inches shorter, leaner, with thinning hair. He wore a shirt and a sport coat in a way that signaled casual wealth.
“A photojournalist and not famous.” Meena clasped her hands together.
“Journalists stay in the background,” Vin pontificated. “They’re not celebrities.”
“Tell that to cable news,” Uma argued.
“My wife hates those channels.”
From there the conversation carried on, fast and chaotic, from pundits to current events to the butterfly migration and the hoped-for return of bees. Meena couldn’t keep up as people talked over each other while also having side conversations with others. Meena was pulled into a few, but she could barely focus on a topic before it changed.
“What are we having for dinner?” Tanvi found the one topic that paused the chatter.
“Malabar fish curry, dal makhni, paneer tikka, puri, jeera rice, raitu . . .” Sabina continued to list off items.
“Which is why I’m here.” Sabina’s son patted his flat stomach.
“And because it is an important holiday for us Hindus,” Sabina added.
“Don’t start.” Then he turned to Meena. “Mom’s mad because I skipped the mandir this morning.”
Meena watched the slight pursing of Sabina’s lips. Tension enveloped the room for a few moments. There was a similar stubbornness between the two. Meena’s money was on Sabina to come out on top when these two clashed.
“Is all of this traditional Diwali food?” Something compelled Meena to break the standoff between mother and son. “Like turkey for Thanksgiving?”
“No,” Uma said. “Thanksgiving is in two weeks, and we’ll have turkey then. This is just food. In abundance. Diwali is our eating holiday.”
“There are some dishes we usually eat during Diwali,” Sabina expounded. “Mathia, ladoo, mawa kachori. In India people drop in and out of each other’s homes, so these are the snacks on hand. For us this dinner is festive and a way to keep our culture going, instill these traditions in our children.”
“The menu changes depending on what we ask Sabina to make and what she feels like cooking,” Tanvi jumped in.
Meena had come to see that Sabina was the alpha in this group. They all deferred to her, even as they believed they were all equal. Meena glanced at her. This was Sabina in her element, people around her in her showcase home who would dine on her food and eventually shower her with praise.
“And this year we don’t have to cater to . . .”
“Jiten,” Sabina admonished.
“It’s OK to talk about Neha,” Uma said. “She was a part of this building. And she was difficult. Took pride in it, and I’m glad for that. She was a nonconformist.”
“And a pain,” Jiten mumbled.
“Last Diwali.” Uma explained, “Neha brought a bowl of macaroni and cheese for herself because that’s what she’d wanted on that particular day, and she didn’t care if it was a major holiday.”
“From a box,” Sabina added.
Meena gave a mental high five to Neha. Staying in the apartment, reading the notes, Meena had come to understand that Neha did what she liked. Meena could relate to that. While she wouldn’t have described herself as odd or quirky, she chose her own path on her own terms. She paused. Personality wasn’t genetic. Meena had been raised to follow convention, to be polite, to eat what was served. It wasn’t until she’d had to make her way on her own that Meena had chosen the life she had.
“There were some Indian dishes she liked.” Uma interrupted Meena’s thoughts. “Dal makhani was her favorite.”
“And Sabina auntie’s is the best in Boston,” Sam commented.