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Chapter 19

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Before she had left Mumbai, at her parent’s urging, Anjali had agreed to call them first thing every Saturday morning. For her it was nine o’clock; for them, it was three and a half hours later. She longed to hear their voices and yet dreaded what they would say. She used her laptop in her chambre de bonne to call with video.

“Amma, Appa, how are you?” she said. Anjali addressed them with the Tamil names for Mom and Dad, as a nod to her Pondicherry roots.

“Darling! How are you?” Her mother’s voice was shrill with excitement. Her parents looked like themselves on her laptop’s screen, except with huge noses. Anjali assumed that her laptop was making the most of her nose, too.

“I’m fine. I’m in my flat, a little small, but good. I love Paris.”

“Oh, a little different from Mumbai?” her father’s voice boomed. He didn’t sound happy. He might as well have said, Don’t love it too much, we expect you back.

“The Gupta’s called yesterday,” her mother said.

Anjali felt pursued.

“We said you would be back soon.” And ready to marry their son.

“I won’t be back for a year, Amma, don’t mislead them. And they know that. We all agreed.”

“It’s too bad you didn’t have your engagement finalized before you left,” her mother said. “But I guess it’s no problem, everything’s fine.” That meant she was stressed. “But you don’t need a year, six months should be enough.”

Anjali had been afraid they would do that—start whittling.

“I have to take this chance,” Anjali said, “to see if I can do it, write the screenplay of my dreams. We said a year. You agreed before I left. Don’t—”

“No worries. Everything’s fine.” They peered at her through the computer, all nose, wishing her home and married, she knew it.

“Well, I’m going to this great historic library to write in a little while,” Anjali said. “It was built in the 1550s. It has a stone circular staircase, gilded beams, turrets, diamond-paned windows, and Wifi!”

Her parents didn’t smile under their big noses.

“I loved taking you to the Taj Mahal,” her father said. “Remember that trip, when you were little?” India has lots of history, too, he was saying. More history than Europe.

“Yes, Appa, it was nice. Well, I have to go. Lots of scenes to write. Then I’m meeting Aasha at the Eiffel Tower. You know what’s funny? I work in the Montparnasse Tower, and Parisians say it’s better to look at the city from the top of that than from the Tour Eiffel for many reasons. Because you can see the Tour Eiffel, which you can’t when you’re standing on it. Because the Tour Montparnasse is cheaper to get in, and the line is not as long. And the extra bonus—when you’re in the Montparnasse Tower, you don’t have to look at it!”

“Write down your first impressions of Paris and send them to me,” her mother said. Of the two, she was the most interested in her writing.

“Okay. Well...”

“Anjali! Don’t go just yet. Show us around your apartment,” her mother said.

“Sure.” Anjali manipulated the laptop to show them the shower, bed, sink, window.

“It’s small...” Her mother sounded doubtful. “Show me the inside of your fridge!”

“Amma!”

“Go ahead, you can show me.”

Anjali opened the door to the two-foot-high fridge.

“See, there’s a container of dal I made yesterday, and rice, and some chicken masala, and a package of rotis. Nowhere near as good as you make, Amma!” It might be a reason to go home, as a matter of fact. Frozen rotis just stunk compared to her mother’s laboriously homemade ones. Anjali didn’t have time to do all that.

“What’s that on the door?” Amma croaked.

Anjali was horrified at what she had mistakenly shown her mother. An opened bottle of white wine.

“Have you been drinking?” Mummie’s terror was evident.

“I had a friend over, and we each had one glass.”

“Was that Aasha?”

Yes, it was, but Anjali couldn’t ruin things with Aasha’s parents.

“No, a new friend. A girl.”

“Is she Indian? From a good family? Who is she?”

“Don’t worry.”

“You aren’t safe if you’re out drinking, and neither is your friend.”

“She stayed over with me. Everything’s fine.”

“Be very careful, Anjali.”

“Yes, I will be.”

“Take care of yourself,” Appa said, his deep voice resonating with concern.

“Great, Appa, I will. Ciao, you guys!”

Her parents echoed her, and Anjali disconnected.

That night, after a whirlwind day of writing and sightseeing, including taking a selfie with the Mona Lisa in Le Louvre, Anjali sat on her bed with the table/desk pulled over to her, her dinner of hurriedly reheated dal and thawed-out rotis, and wept with homesickness.

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