“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.
“I don’t think I can do that.” The movements of the fingers seemed acrobatic.
“Try.” Sabina nudged the plate closer to Meena.
Meena gave it a go and managed to tear off a large chunk. Spice, salt, and heat exploded in her mouth. It was delicious and comforting. When she ate Indian, it was usually butter chicken or tikka masala, though curry chips in London were a hangover favorite. This was very different from what was served in restaurants. “It’s delicious.”
“You must not be Indian,” Sabina said. “You have the look, but . . .”
“Let’s remember our Do No Harm Club.” Tanvi tapped Sabina’s arm. “We apologize, Meena. It’s just that everyone in the Engineer’s House is of Indian descent, and we assumed you were too. But of course, you are the one who would know best.”
“Thank you,” Meena said. “What’s a Do No Harm Club?”
“It started because whenever we read books or watched movies,” Tanvi explained, “Uma would always point out problems. So we started a club where we learn about inclusivity and belonging.”
“What is your family background?” Sabina asked.
Meena preferred to ask the questions, not answer them. “I grew up in Northampton.”
“Huh,” Uma said.
Meena changed the topic back to them. “Do you all live in the building?”
“Yes. I’m above you.” Uma pointed to the ceiling.
“I’m across the hall from Uma,” Tanvi added. “And Sabina has the top floor.”
“What do you do?” Sabina asked.
“I’m a photojournalist.”
“Fun.” Tanvi clapped her hands. “Do you have an Instagram?”
“Yes.” It was part of her work now. Most photographers had some social media presence. Meena wasn’t the best at posting, and it was never about her or her life, only her work.
Tanvi pulled out her phone. “Is it under Meena Dave?”
Meena snapped up. Tanvi had pronounced her last name “duh-veh.” “Dave,” Meena corrected. Not that hard to pronounce. A very common name, and while it wasn’t short for David, it was that easy.
“Duh-veh,” Uma said. “That’s the Gujarati version. That’s why we thought you might be Indian and that you were likely using an American version of your name.”
“I’ve only ever known it pronounced as Dave,” Meena said.
“You should ask your parents,” Uma advised. “They could have changed it a few generations ago to fit in.”
Meena’s chest tightened at the casual mention of her parents as if they were still alive.
“It’s an Irish name. At one time the name was Gaelic, and when my father’s family came over, it got changed, was shortened.” It was what her father had told her when she’d asked about their family history. She’d wanted so very much to be a part of something more than just the three of them.
“Is your ethnic background from your mother’s or your father’s side?” Sabina asked.
“Yes.” Meena didn’t know for sure, but her brown skin had to come from at least one of her birth parents. It was a fifty-fifty shot.
“And how did you know Neha?” Sabina asked.
“I didn’t,” Meena said. “I’m here because she left me this apartment.”
“I spoke to Neha’s lawyer yesterday,” Sabina said. “She did not tell me anything except to confirm your name.”
“You checked up on me?”
“I had to verify,” Sabina said. “It’s my duty.”
Maybe they knew why Neha had left the place to Meena. “Neha must have told you who I was, why she left this to me.”
Sabina’s back stiffened. “No. I tried to discuss her plans with her, but she always changed the topic. When she died, we were only told what pertained to us.”