Sam laughed. “Hell no. They are who they are, and I liked living three thousand miles from them, still do.” He rubbed the top of her hand with his knuckles. “I grew up knowing this apartment was going to be mine. Not through my parents but my grandfather. He told me stories of his father, how this place came to be theirs. You know the cliché home is where the heart is? This was home to me, just as it was to my great-grandfather. He came to this country, by boat, in 1930, to study in a place where he probably wasn’t welcome, even with his money. I was teased for smelling like curry when I was young; I can’t imagine what my grandfather put up with.
“But he had this place, and other people like him. They all made it into a home where they belonged. In this house they were just men who came to get an education so they could go back and rebuild their own country after the British pillaged and divided it. I’m a part of something bigger when I live here.”
“It fits you. This place.”
He smiled. “It’s my home. Even though it came at a cost.”
“My father used to say hurt begets hurt,” Meena said. “Your parents played a part in this by not stepping out of the way, by making you fight for a place that was rightfully yours.”
“I didn’t earn it.”
“You can say the same about me. About the aunties, anyone who lived here after they did.”
“Using logic against me?”
Meena squeezed his hand. “You’re being too hard on yourself.”
“You’re only saying that because you want me to go out with you.”
She shrugged. “You already said yes.”
“A Valentine’s Day date,” Sam said. “Are you going to bring me flowers?”
“I’ll grab some from the giant bouquet in the hall.”
“Too easy. I want to be wooed, so I’ll tell you that my favorite flower is a buttercup.”
She laughed, and for the first time in her life, she wanted to spend more time with a man. She didn’t want instant gratification but the slow buildup, the deepening, that would grow into something more.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
A few days later, Meena was still thinking about Sam. She’d spent most of her past decade surrounded by people who all wove in and out of each other’s lives. Yes, she had a network she was a part of, but there was a common thread in their work. This was different. Sam didn’t know about things like composition or light’s many colors. Sam was grounded and knew who he was. He wasn’t restless about where he belonged. It was innate. Meena was attracted to him because he was so different from her; he was a person who was strongly rooted, who didn’t question his identity. He was someone who claimed his space even at a great cost. Sam embraced what she feared.
“The chai smells OK.” A short knock, followed by Uma coming through the door.
Tanvi followed. “At least there’s that.”
And lastly Sabina.
“I followed the instructions from the video I took of you making it,” Meena said. “If it’s not good, it’s your fault.” She had a plan. Step one, poke around. See who knew what. Step two, isolate and conquer. Meena had found The Art of War in the process of decluttering and had not only read it but also jotted down notes. The anger was still there. She was ready to find out where to direct it.
“Or maybe you don’t know how to follow instructions,” Uma muttered.
“I brought cookies.” Tanvi opened the tin as they took their seats around the table.
Meena poured from a teapot in the shape of a chicken she’d found while decluttering.
“You’ve been busy,” Sabina said. “We haven’t seen you so much lately.”
“What do you think of the living room?” Meena asked. “It’s bigger, more spacious without all the stuff.”
Sabina glanced around. “It’s better. Less things to dust.”
“I’m glad you kept this teapot.” Tanvi stroked the red beak. “I have a matching one. Neha and I bought them together at a yard sale about ten years ago.”
“Ugliest thing you own,” Uma snickered. “That’s saying a lot since you’re wearing a quilt for a dress.”
“Ignore her.” Tanvi rolled her eyes. “She’s always in a bad mood at the beginning of the semester.”
“Students complain about every assignment in the syllabus.” Uma tapped her knuckles to the table with each word.
“In a month you’ll love them all and brag about them constantly,” Tanvi said.
“Have you always wanted to teach?” Meena knew Uma the least of the three. Right now they were subjects she was investigating. She was laying plans, as Sun Tzu wrote.
“No. I went into the research side, but as a TA while getting my PhD, I liked putting a class together, the interactions and questions from students. As they learned, so did I. It grounded the theoretical. Now I balance the two. Next time, boil the chai longer. It’s not as strong as it needs to be.”
Meena ignored her. “You and Neha must have bonded over books and reading. Do your collections overlap?”
Uma snorted. “Neha was all over the place in terms of what she read. She wasn’t an academic. Though these books aren’t for show, I’ll give her that.”
“Based on the condition of a lot of the books, the dog-eared pages, crinkled covers, she definitely read them,” Meena said. “Did the two of you ever chat over books?”
“Our temperaments didn’t suit.” Uma crossed her arms and sat back in her chair.
“Two ornery people can’t be friends,” Tanvi explained. “They both need a foil to direct their crankiness toward.”
Meena changed course. “Did you always want to be an artist?”
“Always.” Tanvi’s round face lit up. “When we were little girls, we would play school together. Sabina would be the self-appointed teacher. Uma would practice spelling, and I would doodle.”
“She’s a terrible speller,” Uma griped.
“And you can’t draw a straight line without a ruler,” Tanvi said.
“I can’t spell either.” Meena wanted to defuse the sparring. “I’m happy for copyeditors.”
“We have that in common,” Tanvi said. “We’re both visual. Your medium is photography.”
If Meena was biologically linked to one of these women, she would prefer Uma. If Tanvi knew who Meena was and had kept it from her, it would cut the deepest. “I’ve never been a doodler or able to paint and draw, but I like to play with light and color.”
“You’re awfully curious this morning,” Sabina remarked.
“Simply making conversation. Isn’t that how friendship works?”
“Hmm.” Sabina tapped her own chin. “You want to know what I wanted to be when I was a little girl?”
“Sure.”