“I have a few pitches to put together, story ideas.”
Tanvi sat in her designated chair next to Meena. “Is that how it works? You come up with an idea and see if someone will want it?”
“Sometimes,” Meena said. “In the beginning, yeah. I’ve worked consistently for a long time, so I have editors who call me for assignments too. Freelancing is a little bit of everything. I’ve been off the road for a bit, so I need to generate something for myself.”
“It seems risky.”
“I suppose. There are good months and lean months. You make money to ride out the periods when there isn’t a lot that comes through.”
“And you never wanted a steady job?”
Meena shook her head. The idea of staying in one place had never been a consideration. Until now. “Apple tart?” Meena held out the bag.
“Maybe a small piece.” Tanvi glanced around the living room. “It looks so different. You can see the history when it’s not overwhelmed with everything Neha had stuffed in here.”
“What do you think it was like? For your grandfather.”
Tanvi brushed her hand over the wood flooring. “I’ve heard stories from my parents. They were all men, so I imagine there was a lot of ego, testosterone, and fumbling around.”
Meena laughed.
“They brought spices with them,” Tanvi said. “A suitcase of clothes and another with dal, marchu, turmeric, coriander, and other things they would need to sustain themselves. They were all vegetarian, and in the 1930s, I don’t imagine Newbury Street was full of vegan restaurants like it is now. They had to learn to cook—my grandfather excelled in that. He was the one who fed everyone. I’m sure there was a lot of chatting, a lot of planning, bragging.”
“Do you think they liked being here?”
Tanvi smiled. “I’d like to believe that. They were ambitious, and wanted to study in America, build something here, a home for those who came and went and a legacy of their own for us. My father often spoke about living under the British rule. He posited that one advantage was that they learned how to navigate white culture, they assimilated with clothing, language, and social norms. That made it better for them, I think.”
Meena listened to Tanvi recount stories she’d heard. Almost a hundred years wasn’t a long time when it came to the origin of the earth, yet it made a huge difference in terms of the way life was now. The people who’d lived here were who she’d come from. She stroked the floor with her bare feet and wondered if her great-grandfather had ever stood in this space. If he hadn’t been here, she wouldn’t exist.
She’d lived her life leaving the past behind, never considering the value of knowing where she’d come from, which people had had to come together with others to make it possible for her to exist. That her roots were not just a birth mother and father, but went beyond that for generations, centuries. She’d believed she’d been untethered, yet the invisible strands of genetics would always be here, and she had the opportunity to learn about them, to live in a place they’d built. Doubly so between Sabina and Neha. Meena belonged here.
“It’s nice that you have this,” Meena said.
“Yeah.” Tanvi gave her a soft smile. “I’m sure they weren’t all great. Uma could likely tell you about the problematic parts, but the very fact that they came here, left what they knew for the unknown in a time when they were likely the only Asian Indian people here, there is something to be proud of, not just for those of us in this house, but for our immigrant story.”
Meena handed Tanvi the rest of the apple tart. “Thank you for sharing with me.”
Tanvi took it. “I guess sometimes a second breakfast is a good thing. But I will let you get on with your day. I’m going to shop. I might even pick up a housewarming present for you.”