Meena liked Tanvi. There was always a smile on her round face, and she dressed artistically, always wearing long velvet dresses and her hair adorned with chains, pins, and ribbons. Her eyes were lined, with a flare on the outer edges. Meena wondered if Neha’s patchwork style had ever clashed with Tanvi’s aesthetic, or if Neha had ever sat there with the three of them as they discussed food and sex.
“Speaking of,” Tanvi teased. “What do you think of our Sam?”
Meena put her cup down. “He’s nice.”
“Meh,” Tanvi grumbled. “Potato chips are nice. What do you think of him as a man? A single, handsome man?”
Meena ate a little more, in small bites to manage the heat level. “I didn’t notice.”
“You are a bad liar,” Tanvi observed. “Your eyes look away and your nose twitches.”
Mena dropped her spoon. Her mom used to say the same thing. A wave of longing washed over her. She breathed through it and picked up the mug.
Tanvi sighed and rested her elbow on the table. The dozen or so bracelets she wore on her wrist clinked with the movement. “Sam needs company, and I can tell that he likes you.”
Meena kept her voice casual. “As a person. Besides, he likes everybody.”
“Not so,” Sabina muttered.
Meena glanced at her, but Sabina didn’t repeat her words.
“I’m sure he has friends,” Meena said.
“Yes. Dinus, Ava, and Luis.” Uma counted them out on her hand. “But he’s all work all the time. He needs a girlfriend, a woman. Sam is the type who will do well with a wife. He’s good husband material.”
“We’ve trained him well,” Tanvi added. “In all the things. Well, not all the things. But I’m sure he’s gained experience in that area as well.”
Meena wasn’t prone to blushing, but her face warmed at the idea of Sam’s level of sexual experience. Alas. Sam wasn’t one-night-stand material.
“It would be good for him to settle down,” Sabina stated. “Maybe with a nice Indian woman. It isn’t that way anymore in our culture, though it used to be.”
“We are always evolving,” Uma said. “For the better.”
“There is something to be said for shared culture, language, and tradition,” Sabina argued.
Meena sipped her chai to swallow the lump in her throat. She’d been telling herself it was OK to not know her cultural identity. Her parents, their culture, had been enough. But her connection with Neha wasn’t only biological; heritage and legacy came with knowing.
“And all those can be taught,” Uma quipped. “My daughter’s girlfriend is Ecuadorian. They swap recipes and cook for each other. They celebrate her holiday traditions and ours.”
“Sameer’s family would prefer that he stayed within our culture,” Sabina said. “The Voras have always been more conservative. His grandfather was a staunch Hindu who made his expectations known to his children and grandchildren.”
“His grandfather is dead,” Uma barked. “Besides, expectations aren’t the same as rules. He’s his own man.”
“Sam’s younger brother is married to a British Gujarati woman.” Tanvi turned to Meena. “They just had their third child. Sadly, Sam hasn’t met his niece. Maybe never will.”
“Why?”
“He’s estranged from his family,” Uma added. “So much for following tradition.”
Meena caught the glance Uma sent Sabina. They were speaking about things Meena had no context for, and she genuinely wanted to know.