Meena touched her brow. “What flaws?”
Tanvi laughed. “You don’t have any. Yet.”
“I will text you the name of my eye cream.” Uma reached for her phone. “You’re too young for those tiny wrinkles.”
“I haven’t really been able to . . .”
“And your lips are dry,” Sabina said. “Vaseline before bed. Every night.”
Had they picked Neha apart like this? Did Meena resemble Neha? Curiosity chafed at her.
“I was wondering why there are no photos in the apartment.” Meena picked up the cup Tanvi had put in front of her and let the aroma of chai warm her. She rested her casted arm on the tabletop and crossed her legs in the chair, tucked her bare feet into the nooks of her bent knees.
“Neha wasn’t a fan of memories.” Tanvi slid a full bowl in front of Meena.
“Upma.” Sabina served the rest of them before sitting down in front of her own setting. “It’s South Indian. Makes for a hearty breakfast.” Sabina added two sugars to Meena’s chai.
“It’s my specialty,” Uma bragged. “My family is from the North, but this is my favorite.”
“You all must have photos of her,” Meena said.
Tanvi took her seat. “I’m sure we have some. I’ll look through some old albums and find a few for you.”
“Why the curiosity?” Sabina asked. “You said you didn’t know her or why she left this apartment to you.”
“I am a journalist,” Meena reminded them.
“Unlike this model here”—Uma pointed to Tanvi—“Neha did not like to have her photo taken. Not even during Diwali or Halloween. She avoided the camera.”
“Was she shy?”
Uma laughed. “More just being contrary.”
Meena let the topic drop and scooped up a spoonful from her bowl. It had a texture like grits and contained finely diced carrots, peas, and onions. Crunchy yellow lentils broke up the mushy texture. Flavors exploded in her mouth. She could normally handle heat, but she hadn’t been expecting the bite from the green chilis to hit the back of her throat first thing. She coughed and took a sip of hot chai.
“It isn’t very spicy.” Uma took another bite.
A lie. “I grew up on meat and potatoes,” Meena said.
“No seasoning?” Sabina asked.
Meena held the cup of chai with both hands, taking in the warmth. “Salt, mustard, black pepper, occasionally garlic, and lots of herbs my mom grew in the garden.”
“But what about cumin and turmeric? Cloves, asafetida. There are hundreds of spices that meld in a million different ways to flavor food,” Uma said. “Didn’t your mother cook?”
“It wasn’t a priority for her.” Meena defended her mom: “She was a botanist. Her career came first.”
“That makes sense,” Uma agreed. “I don’t cook if I can avoid it.”
Meena was glad the aunties hadn’t picked up on the past tense when she mentioned her mother.
“The trick is to marry someone who can,” Tanvi said. “My husband is very good in the kitchen. And the bedroom.”
Meena almost choked on her tea. “Congratulations.”
“Don’t encourage her,” Sabina said.
Tanvi winked at Meena. “Human sexuality is perfectly fine to discuss, even in mixed company. Or I should say especially in mixed company.”