“I see,” Meena said. “And this is part of the celebration?”
“The festival of lights.” Tanvi drew an outline with white powder. “The culmination of good over evil. Some Hindus celebrate Diwali as a season that can last multiple weeks. In Gujarat, for example, it starts with Navratri; then there are also days in between that are celebrated by different observers of different gods and goddesses. It all culminates with the Indian New Year.”
Meena knew a little about Diwali, but not much. “Is it a religious holiday?” She had been raised Catholic. Faith had been a ritual in her childhood, Easter Mass and Midnight Mass. She’d been baptized, received Communion. It was important to her parents, and she’d participated. She hadn’t set foot in a church since her parents’ funeral. What good was God if he couldn’t prevent a home explosion?
Tanvi laughed. “It’s all a mix of things. During Diwali, some people, like Sabina, fast and go to the mandir, do all the religious rituals. Uma celebrates by eating and making special food, snacks and sweets, things like that. I like the color, the lights, the community, the socializing parts of it.”
“Are most Indian holidays like that?”
“Yes,” Tanvi said. “Even Raksha Bandhan, a day a sister celebrates her brother. You tie a raakadi, a bracelet, around your brother’s wrist and do a little religious pooja. Then everyone eats and enjoys being together.”
“What if you don’t have a brother?”
Tanvi winked at her. “There’s always a cousin around. We don’t have a word for cousin in Gujarati. Everyone is brother or sister, no matter how far or distant.”
“Just like everyone is uncle or auntie,” Meena said.
“It doesn’t matter if you share blood or not. Everyone is related.”
“What did you call this?” Meena asked, gesturing to the marble.
“Rangoli,” Tanvi said. “In India they use flower petals as well as powders. In ancient Hindu epics, it was written that rangoli was used by unmarried girls as a way of praying for a good husband. Speaking of, how was dinner with Sam last week?”
Meena laughed. She admired Tanvi for her determined matchmaking.
“It was only dinner,” Meena stated. “Nothing more.”
“I used to have dinner with my husband.” Tanvi grinned. “Before he proposed.”
“You’re not funny.”
“And you’re not seeing what is right in front of you. You are both single, around the same age, well educated, and about the same level of attractiveness. Not to mention that I’ve noticed the little looks between you, the way you smile when you’re around each other.”
“Can I try?” Meena asked.
“Fine. Change the subject.” Tanvi held out the tray.
Meena took a pinch of green between the fingers of her uncased hand and gently drizzled it in the empty space, mimicking the pattern Tanvi had created. “This is very cool. The powder is so soft, like silk.” Her fingers were covered in green, and she shared the damp towel Tanvi had used to clean up between colors, then chose bright orange, a bit of gold, and white to finish the slab. “The marble is interesting. It holds the powder well.”
“It’s the same type used to build the Taj Mahal,” Tanvi said. “I had it shipped over from Agra when I went for a visit about a decade ago. Ten squares, two for each door. Then I treated it, roughed it up a little to make the texture grainy enough to hold powder.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Have you been?” Tanvi asked. “In all of your travels, did you ever go to India?”
Meena shook her head. She wondered if she would have found a sense of belonging if she’d gone. “No. I’ve been to a lot of countries in Southeast Asia but never had an assignment in India.”