The Candid Life of Meena Dave is a Desi coming of age novel that tells the story of photojournalist and nomad Meena Dave. She has no family, no permanent address, and no long-term attachments, preferring to observe the world at a distance through the lens of her camera. But Meena’s solitary life is turned upside down when she unexpectedly inherits an apartment in a Victorian brownstone in historic Back Bay, Boston.

Though Meena’s impulse is to sell it and keep moving, she decides to use her journalistic instinct to follow the story that landed her in the home of a stranger. It’s a mystery that comes with a series of hidden clues, a trio of meddling Indian aunties, and a handsome next-door neighbor. For Meena it’s a chance for newfound friendships, community, and culture she never thought possible. And a window into her past she never expected.

Excerpt

Chapter One

Meena Dave was tired, and not just from thirty-six hours of travel. She’d expected a trinket, a ring of some sort, when she’d learned about an inheritance. It should have been easy, a quick stop in Boston on her way to New York from Auckland.

“If you had responded to our initial inquiries.”

Meena heard judgement in the husky voice of the woman who sat on the other side of the large mahogany desk. The tall woman in the black, fitted pantsuit belonged in this corner office with oversize windows.

“I was in New Zealand,” Meena said. And Tasmania, Tokyo, and Nova Scotia before that. She sat taller to fight the weight of fatigue in her body. Besides most of her communication happened via email or text. She didn’t check her actual mail for months at a time.

“As I said,” Sandhya Shah continued, “you’ve wasted half of the allotted one year, but at least you’ve managed to make it within the window.”

Meena reread the paperwork. “Are you sure you have the right person? I didn’t’ know Neha Patel.” Another reason she hadn’t prioritized this when she’d picked up her mail from her Manhattan PO box three months earlier on her way from Portugal to the Pacific.

“We’ve verified your identity, and we do not make careless mistakes at Menon and Shah.”

Meena glanced at the index card in her hand. It was like the ones she’d made herself in high school when studying for the SATs. This had a single world and its definition.

engineer (noun)

3 a.: a designer or builder of engines

b.: a person who is trained in or follows as a profession a branch of engineering

c.: a person who carries through an enterprise by skillful or artful contrivance

engineer verb

2a.: a designer or builder of engines

b.: to guide the course of

“And what is this?” Meena held it up to the lawyer.

“It was part of the packet to be turned over to you along with the keys.” Sandhya tapped a manicured nail on the stack in from of Meena. “As soon as you sign the paperwork you can take possession.”

Meena skimmed the few paragraphs she could understand and glossed over the legalese.

“To review the terms . . . “

“I have to wait out the full year- well, six months now- before I can sell it,” Meena cut off the lawyer.

“And it can only be sold to one of the other four owners of the building,” Sandhya said. “No outside buyers.”

Meena resisted the urge to take her long hair out of its messy bun and brain the edges. A habit her mom had never approved of. Hannah Dave, the only mother who counted. She stared out the large windows. The sky was thick with clouds. Leaf-diving sky, her dad had called it. They’d go out in the backyard and rake the fallen leaves into heaping piles. Then Meena would take a running start and jump in, belly-first. This was why she’d avoided the state of Massachusetts since she’d left it right after high school. Too many memories.

“What if I don’t want it?” Not that Meena was reckless. An apartment in the historic area of Back Bay was not something she could turn down when she supported herself as a freelance photojournalist.

“Do you not?” The lawyer knew Meena’s hesitation was a bluff.

Meena resisted the urge to sigh. “I don’t actually have to live there.” Her life wasn’t suited to permanence. “I have a flight out in a few hours.”

Sandhya looked at Meena as in none of this was her problem. “The keys are in this envelope along with the building passcode. The utilities, including Wi-Fi, have been paid for until April, after which you can decide what you want to do next.”

Meena picked up the pen. “Needs must.” She murmured her mother’s favorite phrase and signed where the plastic tabs indicated.

Sandhya gathered the papers, gave Meena the duplicates, and stood to signal the end of the meeting.

“What if no one in the building offers to buy?”

“The you keep it until they do,” Sandhya said. “The apartment is a condominium, so you will be responsible for maintenance, utilities, and expenses even if you don’t live there.”

Meena shoved her copies of the paperwork into a large yellow envelope along with the keys and the index card. She nodded to the lawyer before lifting her heavy backpack onto one shoulder. She walked out of the building into the bustling area of Downtown crossing and headed toward Boston Common. While the city was familiar from childhood school trips, she still needed the map on her phone to guide her to the address.

It was barely ten in the morning, and Back Bay was about a twenty-minute walk. She would check it out, assess the condition of the place, and figure out her next steps. If she couldn’t do anything with it for six months, she’d let it sit. Staying her wasn’t an option. She was in between assignments, which meant scheduling editor meetings in New York to line up more gigs. More importantly, this stat was her past, and Meena didn’t look back. Ever.

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About the Author

Namrata Patel is an Indian American writer who resides in Boston. Her writing examines diaspora and dual-cultural identity among Indian Americans and explores this dynamic while also touching on the families we’re born with and those we choose. Namrata has lived in India, New Jersey, Spokane, London, and New York City and has been writing most of her adult life

Connect: http://nampatel.com/