Meena （proper noun） Origin: Sanskrit
fish
wife of Shiva
Meena sat in the tall blue armchair next to the fireplace and shuffled the notes with one hand. She took out the others, reviewed them again. So. There it was. The confirmation of what Meena had suspected all along, that Neha was her birth mother. Her mind raced. Her hands shook as she looked at the notes again. Her chest tightened, and Meena breathed through the constriction. She needed to think, not feel. She needed to use her journalist brain, not her orphan brain.
A knock on her door startled her, and Meena stood quickly. The cast made it difficult, but she quickly stuffed everything into her backpack, ran a hand over her face, and took a calming breath before answering.
“If you would leave the door unlocked”—Uma walked inside—“it wouldn’t take you so long to get to the door.”
“We aren’t thieves,” Tanvi explained. “We are your neighbors. You don’t have to protect anything.”
“Except myself.” Her voice was curt.
Sabina raised an eyebrow.
Meena adjusted her tone. “It’s how I feel safe.”
Tanvi walked over to her and cupped her cheek. “You aren’t in danger here. We look out for one another. Care for each other.”
Meena almost leaned into her gentle affection. It took strength to force herself to step back. She hadn’t experienced tenderness in a long time, and she couldn’t think about the way Hannah Dave used to cup her cheek the same way.
“Come here, Meena,” Sabina said. “Sit at the table. I’m tired of your messy hair. I’m going to braid it so it stays out of your way.”
“It’s also good to sleep with your hair bound,” Tanvi said. “You lose less of it. I put oil in mine at night. That’s why it’s so healthy and strong. Unlike Uma here.”
“I prefer mine short.” Uma rubbed the bare back of her neck. “Less fuss.”
“How you present your hair,” Sabina lectured, “tells the world how well you take care of yourself.”
“Or it tells the world that your priority is your vanity,” Uma argued.
“Where is your brush?”
“My hair is fine,” Meena said.
Tanvi laughed. “You do not have aunties in your life, do you?”
“I don’t understand.”
“When an auntie says she will fix your hair,” Tanvi said, “she’s not doing you a favor or being nice. She’s giving you an order.”
Meena shrugged. This wasn’t a battle she was going to pick. And not that she would ever admit it, but she did want her hair braided and out of the way. Meena went to her suitcase on the living room floor, took out her travel bag, and handed it to Sabina.
“Sit,” Sabina said.
Sabina stood behind her and brushed out and braided her hair, while Tanvi poured chai from a thermos. Sabina wasn’t gentle about it, but it felt good to have someone do this one small task for her. And it allowed Meena time to quiet the emotions threatening to escape. She wasn’t ready to admit her assumption about the notes, much less talk about it. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Sabina cleaned out the brush and threw the excess hair in the kitchen bin before washing her hands and joining them at the table.
“You have such a lovely face,” Uma said. “With your hair pulled back, your eyes really stand out. Wide and dark. There is a bit of amber in the dark brown. Very striking.”
“I will take you to my eyebrow salon.” Tanvi clapped her hands. “Just a cleanup—they’re so thick. A finely shaped brow can make up for so many beauty flaws.”