“We all have our own preference.” Sabina took milk from the fridge. “Once you have the variations, you’ll find that perfect balance for you.”
Meena liked the idea of having her own chai recipe. “What’s the version for people who like coffee?”
“Kadak. Strong chai, brewed longer before adding milk, and then simmered for over ten minutes after,” Sabina said.
“First you boil water.” Uma turned the stove to medium heat. “I prefer a one-to-one ratio. Sabina does one and a half cups water and three-fourths cup milk, and Tanvi a quarter cup water and the rest milk.”
“I like mine jaadi.” Tanvi came back. “Fat, thick.”
“Once it is boiling, one spoon of tea for each cup. We’re making six, but I’m going to add five and a half. A teaspoon of masala, and a lot of freshly grated ginger.” Uma used a hand grater right over the pot.
Meena recorded Uma and the teapot. The water was black, with masala and flecks of ginger among the tea. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It’s aashrae,” Tanvi clarified. “Approximate.”
“Indian cooking,” Sabina said, “is about feel and instinct, not exact. Artful, not scientific. The more you do it, the better you get.”
Meena filmed each woman as she spoke. She vowed to go back over the video and write the recipe down, to practice making chai until it became as instinctual for her as it was for the aunties.
“Then you add milk.” Uma poured it into the pot of boiling tea, water, and masala. “Let it come to a boil. Once it gets to the point that it is going to boil over, you lower the heat and let it simmer. The longer you let it cook, the stronger the chai.”
Meena recorded Uma pouring the chai from the pot into mugs through a small handheld strainer. The kitchen came alive with the warm and sweet aroma.
“When it comes to sugar, it’s up to each person to add after.” Sabina added two teaspoons, stirred, and handed the mug to Meena. That she remembered that Meena liked sweet chai made Meena pause.
With plates in hand, they sat around the kitchen table. Tanvi served a slice of savory cake made of rice, lentils, shredded squash, and spices and coated with sesame seeds. It was delicious. In their designated seats, they chatted. Meena told them about Seoul and K-pop, after which Tanvi added BTS to her Spotify. They told her about parasailing in Saint Bart’s and Uma seeing piranhas while swimming.
For the next hour, Meena laughed, joked, and reveled in their shared memories. She held up her own end of the conversation, asked questions, told them about Zoe and her time in London. She’d settled into their rhythm and had forgotten her agenda to question them about the names of Neha’s relatives.
“When do you get back on the road?” Sabina asked.
The abrupt question startled Meena. “I don’t have anything immediate. I’ve pitched a few stories to editors in New York.” And she didn’t feel in a rush. It felt strange to be in this position where her career wasn’t the most important thing in her life.
“Does that mean you’re going to stay?” Sabina asked. “Keep the apartment?”
That put Meena’s back up. She wanted to give Sabina the benefit of the doubt, but whenever she mentioned Meena leaving, her tone came across as suggesting Why are you still here? “Yes. I plan to make this my base.”
Sabina pursed her lips. “Why the change?”
“Don’t interrogate her,” Tanvi said. “I told you, Meena isn’t going to cut and run. She’s part of this building now.”
Meena appreciated Tanvi’s defense. “I know you don’t know me well. And it’s true I’ve been going back and forth about keeping the apartment. But yes, I’m going to stay. You’ll see.”