“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.