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Anjali was out and about on Saturday morning, so she called her parents from her smartphone. She was in the First arrondissement, near that Gothic pile, Saint-Eustache.
Her father was a history buff and had been reading up on France ever since she’d said she wanted to live in Paris. She knew that he thought the French had folded too readily to the Germans in World War II. Anjali had read that there were lots of complicated reasons, including weak government and not enough fighting men on hand because so many potential fathers had been killed in World War I. But she tended to agree with him. He was a bit of a wise guy about it, though, and it made her laugh.
“Appa, Amma, how are you?” Anjali had to admit, she needed to hear their voices.
“Fine, cherie,” her mother said. Whatever Anjali did, her mother, too, learned a little about it and made her contribution. “What are you doing today?”
“Well, this morning I visited a Gothic church, Saint-Eustache. Took one hundred years to build, starting in 1532.”
“Oh,” her father replied darkly. She knew he was thinking that Indian culture was older—much older.
“Well, the parish dates from 1223,” she said, to defend her being in Paris. “Mozart held his mother’s funeral there.”
Her parents weren’t impressed.
“Where are you now?” her mother asked.
“I’m in the neighborhood near the church.” Anjali turned on the video feature and did a selfie. There was her nose again. “Isn’t Paris beautiful? See all the white Paris buildings behind me, with wrought-iron balconies?”
“Looks like they painted the buildings white to match their flag,” Appa said.
In spite of herself, wanting to respect her host country, which had many fine qualities, but sort of agreeing with her Appa, Anjali laughed out loud on the street. A passing Parisienne decked out in the latest style—and absolutely fabulous shoes, teal, with impossibly high heels, and teal and white polka-dotted bows on the toes—frowned at her for her public outburst.
“Listen, darling, the Gupta’s called again yesterday. Ravi’s twenty-third birthday is coming up, as you know.” Anjali heard her mother steadily building her case, fact by fact, implication by implication.
“This is their son’s future they’re concerned about, as we’re concerned about yours.”
Anjali just listened as she strolled, distracted, through the streets. People bousculer’d her in annoyance that she wasn’t going anywhere in particular, not keeping pace, but she hardly felt it.
Anjali had known Ravi from grade school on. He was cheerful, and interested in everything, if he wasn’t too busy playing tennis. He might actually be a good match for her.
“They want to know what our intentions are.” Amma means my intentions, Anjali thought.
“They have given us three months to hold the engagement party, or they will find him someone else.”
Anjali was fuming. She’d suspected this might happen, but it still enraged her.
“Anjali?” her mother sounded patient but concerned.
“We all agreed on a year! What is this three months garbage!”
“I know, darling,” Appa said. “But this is your chance. We can’t guarantee that we could find anyone else as suitable for you—most people your age are engaged or married already.”
Anjali liked Ravi. This was a grand chance to have a lover, a companion, and to create her own family. Why was she putting it at risk?
“I know,” Anjali said. “Believe me, I’m thinking about it.”
“Why don’t you come home now, darling?” her mother wheedled. “You’ve had enough time in Paris, don’t you think? We’ll have so much fun planning the wedding.”
Her father coughed. The sky was not the limit in her family.
“No, I haven’t had enough chance to write and explore,” Anjali said. “They gave me three months, I’ll take them.” She would have to write like crazy to get her screenplay into shape. She’d suggest that the writers’ group meet weekly. Though that meant buying dinner out four times a month instead of two. She would have to scale back to buying a Perrier, although even that was four euros in Le Café Livre. And only drinking water was awkward, when everyone else was eating dinner.
“Darling, please don’t waste this chance at happiness,” Amma said. Now she sounded distressed.
“I know. But I’m happy in Paris, writing. There are all different kinds of happiness.”
“Long term, darling, think long term. Think the next sixty years alone, writing, just you and your laptop.”
It did sound rather bleak, compared to having happy children around her, with Ravi’s handsome face smiling down at them in contentment. Or did she see a critical frown?
“Look, for now, just for today, I’m in Paris, I’m meeting Aasha in a little while, and tonight we’re going to a poetry—” Anjali almost said “slam” but caught herself. Her parents wouldn’t know what that was, they’d distrust it and get worried about it. And she could never say it was in the Belleville area of Paris, where Edith Piaf started her career singing on the streets. Heroine addict. Several husbands. Her father would forbid her. He’d command her to get on a plane now. So she ended her sentence with, “—festival, here in Paris.”
“India has wonderful poets,” her father said. Anjali sighed to herself. Yes, India had more culture than a person could explore in a lifetime, but so did the West, and she was here now.
They said goodbye, with longing on both ends of the connection.
Anjali felt the absence of their voices as she scurried into the Metro. But she relished her Paris freedom to think and do as she pleased.
Today Aasha and she were meeting at the Arc de Triomphe de l’Étoile. That Napoleon, Anjali thought. He couldn’t just build an arch of triumph, it had to be triumph over the stars.
