The Candid Life of Meena Dave

by Namrata Patel

She traveled the world but didn’t know where she belonged.

Heritage. She didn’t have one. Not in the genetic sense.

She was who her parents had raised her to be.

She’d been loved. That was the only thing that mattered.

For Hannah, the time she spent getting ready was only for herself, an hour to focus on the external parts of her, from moist skin to brushed eyebrows.

He picked up Wally, then held out his hand to her as if to shake. “Vora. Sam Vora.” His face was serious. She frowned and shook his hand. It was warm, and she held on a second longer than she should have. “I don’t understand.” “Double oh seven,” he said. “And Wally is my martini. Shaken, not stirred. One olive.”

The three drew their arms down straight and moved to stand together so the edges of their boxes touched. Sam laughed next to her, and the neighbors joined him in applause. Meena leaned over and whispered, “I don’t get it.” “Neapolitan ice cream,” Sam said.

The door had been left ajar. For her. A warmth settled over her. The people inside had thought of her, knew she would be back, and had left the light on for her in the form of a slightly open door. It had been a long time since she’d been expected home.

“I need a home. One place. I like knowing my neighborhood. The bakery, the restaurants where I’ve eaten so often they don’t even hand me a menu. I like the change of seasons outside of my window. The daily routine, the steadiness.”

“I like having to think for a few minutes when I wake up about where I am and why. The unpredictability of what’s ahead is energizing.”

There is no order to life. While time is linear, we do not have to live within its confines.

It wasn’t that Meena didn’t know she was a woman of color. The world made sure it was at the forefront of her mind. She’d been called everything from exotic to dirty. What she didn’t have was a community she could turn to, one that was tied to her ethnicity.

London was familiar and unfamiliar, a feeling Meena grew accustomed to in her travels. Each city had its urban centers and its suburbs, its shops and drinking establishments, its special corners for when locals wanted to keep away from tourists. There were areas of density, areas of luxury, and areas of inequity. The ethos of each city, however, was unique.

Seoul. It was a young city built atop ancient culture.

The city was uniform, organized with precision without sacrificing the past.

It was a city of contrasts that fed off one another, the tensions not obvious.

Five women from Chicago, LA, and San Diego had moved to Seoul recently. Their jobs were remote. They’d known each other for three years after meeting online as fans of the K-pop band BTS.

We’re fans of Korea, especially BTS, but we’re expats who want to be a part of this culture.”

these women had found something they’d been missing. Permission.

Meena was amazed that these women continued to learn, to improve in ways they believed made them better. It was never too late to fix yourself.

a two-way street was what sustained friendships.

“Indian cooking,” Sabina said, “is about feel and instinct, not exact. Artful, not scientific. The more you do it, the better you get.”

respond, not to react.

He left her mostly food, while she left him a few gags, like a tuxedo T-shirt. On the back she’d written in block letters, Vora. Sam Vora.

There was no hatred or anger left in Meena’s heart for Sabina. The woman had been forced to face her past just as Meena had. There was no blame. Sabina had made the best decision for herself at seventeen, as it had been her right to do,

None of this was fair to either of them, but if they could find a way to coexist, to have an occasional cup of chai, that would be enough.

“I’m staying, Sam. I’m committing to being here. For me, but also for you. For us.” Meena moved from the chair across from him to the one next to him. “I’ve fallen for you, Sam. I like what we’re doing, building between us.” Her heart thumped faster as she put her hand on his forearm. “You are kind, intelligent, and steady. And have you looked in a mirror? You’re also attractive in an obvious way. I feel . . . um . . . I care about you.” He put his hand over hers. She could see the gold flecks in his dark-brown eyes as he leaned in. “You forgot to mention that I’m a fucking saint,” he said.

With Sam across the hall and these two in her life, she had built herself a home.

She breathed in the summer air laced with honeysuckle and roses. It was a scent she would forever know as the scent of home.